“That’s what a job and a few bucks’ll do for you, isn’t it, Punk-Man?” Uncle Bert laughed.
“Yeah, buddy,” said Punky, lifting Uncle Bert’s toupee and kissing him on the head.
“Hey, leave my hair alone, fat boy.”
“You’re a fat boy, you old goat,” Punky replied as he plopped the toupee back in place. He gathered up his jacket, his lunch box, and his cowboy hat and set them by the door. Then he tapped Aunt Queenie on the shoulder and repeated, “Clock.”
“Well, I declare,” said Aunt Queenie, handing him his red plastic plate.
I sipped my orange juice and studied my aunt. I couldn’t get used to seeing her in a sweatshirt and blue jeans, and I’d been totally surprised the night before when she wrote out that check.
“Delrita,” she said, “why don’t you come with us today?”
“No, thanks.”
“Come on. Come with us. You hole up in your room so much you’re turning into a mole.”
How could I tell her that I liked being a mole? I was snug and safe in my room, and I enjoyed working on Herkimer. The world around me had shifted crazily, like ashes in the wind, but the little swan gave me a sense of control.
“You’d get a kick out of watching Punky,” Uncle Bert said. “Running isn’t his style, but he can throw a mean basketball.”
“Come on, D.J. Pleeeaaaase come,” said Punky. His eyes were bright with excitement, and he had egg around his mouth.
“Well, all right,” I said, tousling his hair.
“Hey, rascal. Leave my hair alone.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’ve got to look nice for Susie.”
“Yeah, Susie. My girl. ”
The athletic field resembled an anthill, with all the ants running around in red sweatshirts. Punky jumped out of the car and hustled across the field, dragging Uncle Bert with him.
“Want to hug with me?” asked Aunt Queenie. “I’m assigned to the track.”
“I think I’ll watch Punky.”
“Suit yourself.”
Punky was clowning around with Barney near a basketball goal. When he spied me, he punched Barney on the arm and pointed at me, saying, “My girl.”
“My wife.”
“My girl, dummy.”
“You’re the dummy,” said Barney, and the two collapsed in a fit of giggles.
A whistle blew and Boss yelled, “Fall in line for the free throw.”
When Punky’s turn came, Uncle Bert boomed, “Hit it, Punk-Man!”
Punky flashed him a thumbs-up sign. He took his own sweet time, bouncing the ball, testing it, clutching it to his chest to ponder his aim. He was hamming it up, and his eyes gleamed with the joy of it. When at last he flung the ball in a graceful arch, and sank it without touching the rim, the audience cheered.
“My fwiend,” said Barney, slapping him on the back.
Punky clasped his hands over his head like a champion, then pranced over to Uncle Bert. “Give me five!”
“Good job, Punk-Man,” said Uncle Bert, shaking Punky’s hand and hugging him at the same time.
I squeezed into their huddle, feeling a little glow of warmth for Punky.
“See that, D.J.?”
“Sure did. You’re pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” echoed Uncle Bert. “He’s better than a Harlem Globetrotter!”
Barney also sank a basket, and the crowd cheered him as they had Punky.
Connie was the next player, but she missed the basket by a good two feet. Her teammates clapped her on the back anyway, saying, “Nice try.”
“Yeah,” said Connie. “Nice try.”
I noticed Frankie alone on the sidelines, watching the free throws from his wheelchair, and I drifted over and spoke to him.
“I know you,” he said in his squeaky voice.
“Yes. I came to the workshop with Punky.”
“Punky’s nice. He gave me a present.”
“Oh? What was it?”
“A clown,” replied Frankie. Slowly he reached a twisted hand into his pocket and dug out one of the clowns I’d carved.
“Delrita Velveeta,” said someone behind me, and I knew immediately it was Tree. “Glad to see you could make it.”
His cheeks were rosy from the cool air, and the red of his jacket made his moptop orange. “Hi, Frankie. Whatcha got there?” he asked, kneeling beside the wheelchair.
“A clown,” said Frankie, handing it to him.
“Hey, that’s neat. Hand-carved.”
“Punky gave it to me,” Frankie said.
Tree looked at me questioningly. “Does your Uncle Bert carve? He’s good.”
“Uncle Bert didn’t do it. I did.”
“You did? Wow! What else have you carved?”
“More clowns. Animals. I’m working on a swan.”
“Does Avanelle know you can do that?”
I shook my head and stared at my tennis shoes. “No, she got mad before I had a chance to tell her.”
“Girls,” snorted Tree, as if it were a dirty word. He gave the clown back to Frankie, took my arm, and led me to the bleachers.
I sat down, still tingling from where his hand had touched my arm. For some reason, it was suddenly too warm, and I shrugged out of my jacket.
“You’ve got to understand something about Avanelle,” Tree said, straddling a bleacher. “She’s got a couple of real bad hang-ups—about us being on welfare, and about Dad. She’s not like me. I just go with the flow. She thought it was the end of the world, being embarrassed in front of those air-headed girls.”
“I didn’t deliberately show them the letter. It slipped out of a book, and they grabbed it.”
“I figured it had to be something like that. I told Avanelle that Birdie let the cat out of the bag about Dad a long time ago.”
“And?”
“She didn’t believe me. She thinks I’m holding up for you because I like you.”
I felt the heat rise to my face. Was Tree trying to tell me he liked me, or did he mean that Avanelle thought he liked me?
Tree laughed and chucked me under the chin. “Cheer up. Avanelle’s hardheaded, but she won’t stay mad forever.”
After Uncle Bert and Aunt Queenie went to bed, I stayed in the family room, using the encyclopedia to write a science report on frogs. At around eleven, I turned off the lights and went down the hall.
Punky was curled up in bed, sound asleep and snoring up a storm. His lunch box was hidden under the covers, and when I went over to switch off the TV set, I saw horn bones behind it.
In the bathroom, with Walt’s swan as my guide, I began to work on Herkimer. My thoughts drifted away to Tree and Frankie at the athletic field. Tree was so big and healthy, and Frankie was so small and frail. I was glad Punky had given him the clown.
Slowly, the idea came to me of giving Herkimer to Avanelle. He could be my peace offering.
I was so intent on my work I didn’t notice Aunt Queenie had come to the doorway. “Delrita?” she said, and I nearly fell off the toilet seat.
“Oh, you’re carving. I thought you might be sick.” She looked younger in her nightgown, with her hair loose and no makeup. As she moved toward me, wood shavings clung to her fuzzy slippers.
“I’ll clean up the mess,” I said quickly.
Aunt Queenie tossed a stray lock of hair over her shoulder and asked, “What are you making?” She turned my swan over and over in her hands before holding him up to Walt’s.
In comparison, Herkimer looked horribly imperfect, and I blurted out, “That one came from Silver Dollar City.”
“Ah, yes. Whittlin’ Walt, the master woodcarver.” Aunt Queenie handed Herkimer back and studied my face. “You’ve got the makings of a master in you,” she said, “but why are you hiding in the bathroom in the middle of the night?”
“Privacy, I guess, and it’s easy to sweep up the shavings.”
“Well, I declare. From now on, young lady, you can carve in the family room. Bert has an old tarp we’ll
lay down to protect the carpet. We can’t have you hiding your light under a bushel.”
Tears came to my eyes as I looked up at her, unable to speak.
Placing a hand on my shoulder, Aunt Queenie said gently, “Your swan reminds me of Punky. They both started out with the basic ingredients, but it took a special touch for them to spread their wings and fly.”
Punky sat in front of the TV, breaking some crayons, while I sat cross-legged on the tarp, putting the finishing touches on Herkimer. I smiled to myself.
Less than a week before, I’d never have dreamed of whittling in Aunt Queenie’s favorite room.
For six nights, I’d been poring over Herkimer in the family room, and I felt a little shiver of delight at knowing he was the best piece I’d ever done.
The pole lamp behind me cast just the right light, and as I brushed the little swan with a coat of walnut stain, I imagined I saw a smile in his wooden eyes. He wasn’t perfect by a long shot, but still there was good detail on the feathers of his outstretched wings. His neck was graceful, not much bigger around than a matchstick and, best of all, not broken.
I knew Dad would have been proud of me. I only hoped that Herkimer would break the ice with Avanelle so we could be friends again.
Aunt Queenie came in from the dining room and stood beside me. “Delrita, that’s lovely,” she said, bending down for a closer look. “Bert,” she called over her shoulder, “come see this.”
Uncle Bert came in carrying his rolled-up newspaper. Thumping it against his leg, he teased, “You’re turning into quite a little chiseler.”
Not wanting to be left out, Punky got up and joined us, saying, “Pretty bird.”
I looked up, feeling proud but bashful at their admiring faces.
Uncle Bert helped me fold up the tarp and put away my things. “You’ve got a real talent, hon,” he said softly. “Wish your mom and dad could see.”
“Me, too.” I carried the little swan to my room, set him on the dresser, then got ready for bed. Before turning out the light, I blew a kiss at the God’s eye and Herkimer—and prayed that Avanelle would understand just how much of me had gone into the gift.
Herkimer was missing when I awoke, and in his place was a handful of broken crayons. Punky! I dashed through the house, but everyone had already gone to the athletic field.
I threw on some clothes, and sneakers without socks, and grabbed my jacket. Brushing my hair on the run, I jogged across town to the athletic field.
Punky was in line to shoot baskets, and when he saw me, he grinned and called, “Hi, pretty girl. Play ball?”
“Not now,” I said, panting. “Where’s your lunch box?”
“Susie,” he replied, pointing in the general direction.
I ran off, shading my eyes as I scanned the runners on the track. The big red bows in Susie’s blond hair singled her out from the other runners, and I dashed to the finish line to catch her. Boss and Aunt Queenie were cheering everybody, but I kept my eyes on Susie.
A few yards from the home stretch, she stumbled and fell, raking her palms across the cinders.
Boss ran and helped her up, but when she looked at her bloody hands, she burst into tears. “I’m going to heaven, Boss! I’m going to heaven!”
“No, no, you’ll be fine.”
“Oh, I’m going to heaven!” she wailed at the sky.
“Susie,” shouted Boss, “you’re going to heaven, but not today.”
“Not today?”
“Not today.”
The tears stopped, as if by magic, and Boss guided Susie to a bench where there was a first-aid kit, and began to clean her wounds.
When he was finished, Susie stood up and headed straight for Frankie, who was sitting on the sidelines in his wheelchair, guarding Punky’s lunch box in his lap.
Susie reached into the lunch box, picked up Herkimer, and said, “Look, Frankie. See my pretty bird? Punky gave him to me. I like Punky. He’s my boyfwiend.”
My heart sank. Herkimer was just as gone as if he’d soared over the rooftops.
TWENTY-ONE
The Rock
I was going into school by the back way when I saw Tree perched on the wall with Cindi Martin. Cindi had one of those new, crinkly permanents in her long sandy hair, and big gold hoops dangled from her ears. The hairdo, together with her denim miniskirt and pink turtleneck sweater, made her look about sixteen.
When she laughed at something Tree said, I felt a stab of jealousy.
Tree’s eyes met mine, and he said, “Delrita Velveeta, over here.”
Cindi smiled at me and jumped down, saying, “I’ll talk to you later, Tree.”
I walked toward him, feeling awkward.
“Cindi kept the seat warm for you,” Tree said, patting the wall. As I boosted myself up, he asked, “How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“Well, you look grouchier than Avanelle, and she’s been growling around the house like an old bear. Why don’t you two try to patch things up?”
I picked at my fingernails and tried to ignore Wanda McGee and the boy next to us, who were kissing. Was it possible that Avanelle was as unhappy as I?
“Cool it, Mike,” Tree warned when he saw my PE teacher. “Cooper is on the prowl.”
As the teacher breezed past and gave Wanda and Mike a dirty look, Wanda muttered under her breath, “Old maid.”
“That old maid,” Tree whispered in my ear, “is one of the chaperones for the sock hop.”
His closeness sent a shiver sliding all the way down my backbone, and I thought I might fall off the wall.
“Want to go?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.
“What? Where?”
“The sock hop a week from Friday. Want to go with me?”
Either that wall was moving or I was, and I dug the heels of my sneakers into the bricks.
“We can go with Mike and Wanda. His mom will drive us there and back.”
I just sat there, dumb as a post.
“Yes or no, or would you rather not be seen with a jailbird’s son?”
I whipped around to look at him and saw that he was teasing. “Yes. I mean yes, I’ll go. Not yes, I don’t want to be seen with you.”
“Good. We’ll pick you up around seven.”
Thoughts of Tree chased around in my head as I chased around looking for his sister. I had to talk to her now, before I lost my nerve. She wasn’t in the hallway or her first-hour classroom, and I finally found her reading in the library. I drew a deep breath and walked over to her table. “Avanelle, I—uh—we—need to talk.”
She marked her place with her finger, then looked up at me and waited.
“I’m really sorry about that day in the locker room,” I said, sitting down across from her. “The letter just fell out.”
She didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t read the look in her eyes.
I tried again. “Maybe we could—uh—do something together this afternoon. Get a Coke or something?”
“I can’t. I’m going to Miss Myrtle’s after school.”
I stood up, feeling like a fool. Nothing had changed with Avanelle, and I certainly wasn’t going to force my friendship down her throat.
After school, I flopped on the couch in the family room to watch music videos on MTV.
“Why the sudden interest in dancing?” Aunt Queenie asked after I’d lain there about an hour.
“There’s a sock hop next Friday. Tree asked me to go. If that’s all right with you.”
“Well, I declare,” she said, grinning. “If you need lessons, just ask Bert. He’s another Fred Astaire.”
Uncle Bert gave me a crash course in dancing, and Aunt Queenie took me shopping to buy a new outfit for the sock hop.
I pawed eagerly through the racks, for once passing over the greens for a blue that matched my eyes, and picked out a soft sweater and a swirly skirt that didn’t draw attention to my pipe-cleaner legs.
On the day of the dance, I hurried home from school to shower and was
h my hair. Leaning toward the mirror, curling iron in hand, I couldn’t stop smiling. In fact, I’d been smiling so much lately my face hurt.
I showed up for supper in my bathrobe, but my stomach was doing flip-flops, and I couldn’t eat.
At six o‘clock, I put on my new clothes and let Aunt Queenie make up my face.
When she was finished, she said, “I declare, Delrita, you look beautiful,” and I glowed inside, knowing she was right.
At last I was ready, and I went to the family room to wait.
Punky tried unsuccessfully to whistle and finally just said, “Pretty girl!”
“Trezane Shackleford better carry a stick to beat the boys off,” said Uncle Bert.
But seven o‘clock came and went without Tree. Then seven-thirty. The grandfather clock ticked away the minutes while my aunt and uncle and I waited with smile-frozen faces.
Punky knew something was wrong. He sat down, beside me and said, “I love you, D.J. You love me?”
I only nodded, afraid of the tears that were threatening to break loose. At seven forty-five, I scurried to my room so no one would see me cry.
Tree had played a cruel trick on me, to get even for Avanelle. I crawled into bed to stop the numbing coldness creeping over me. Salty tears dammed up against my nose and trickled into my mouth.
This was my fault, I thought angrily, for allowing Tree and Avanelle to get too close to me. I should have known better. I was the rock, cracked and crumbling, not the tree after all.
Eventually, the phone ringing in the hall disturbed my twilight zone, and I heard Aunt Queenie’s muffled voice.
A moment later, she came into my room. “Delrita, honey,” she said, “there’s a call for you.”
“Is it Tree?” I hoped fervently that he’d have a logical explanation. Maybe he’d been hit by a train or his house had burned down.
“I don’t think so, but it’s a boy.”
I climbed out of bed and went to the phone. “Hello?”
“Delveeta,” said a male voice, and my hand tensed on the receiver. Whoever this was didn’t even know my correct name.