it’s not gonna hurt you to wait, is it?” replied Wesley.
“It’s not gonna hurt me? Lordamercy, Wesley. It’s killin’ me. You got no feelings, you know that? That’s your trouble, boy.”
“The time will come, Freeman. I promise it.”
*
The time came two days later, on a Friday. It came on a day screaming from the splendor of its blueness, burning with a fever of early summer oozing from the spring ground, and suffocating us with the smell of crushed grass.
On that day, Wesley ended our waiting.
On that day, Wesley caused a riot.
*
It happened at midmorning recess. Shirley Weems was a thin, pale girl who was Wesley’s age but two years behind him in her class in school. One of my older sisters, Amy, who had studied nursing, said Shirley and her brothers and sisters were suffering from a lack of vitamins, or something. They were undernourished and their bodies could not react as quickly as they should. “Never, never, never, never make fun of them,” Amy had warned us. “They’re the poorest people in Emery.” And they were. Poverty had left the Weems family totally, completely defeated. Shirley wore washed-out gingham dresses, colorless and dead. Scabs were always on her arms and mouth. Once, the county nurse had found lice in her hair and Shirley was herded out from the rest of us standing at attention in the auditorium, and her head was powdered until it turned white. She stood very still in one corner of the auditorium and tears rolled off her empty face. Dupree had started giggling and pointing and Freeman gave him a bullet shot in the kidneys. Dupree complained loudly, accusing Freeman of “picking” on him. Wesley quickly embraced the argument, saying it was Shirley, not Dupree, who was being picked on. Mrs. Simmons agreed with Wesley; she led Shirley out of the auditorium, away from the careless indignity of being an example to those who did not exercise proper hygiene. After that, Wesley was teased miserably by the Highway 17 Gang about being Shirley’s boyfriend, but it never bothered him. He never replied to any of the taunting, and occasionally he would sneak something out of the lunchroom and give it to Lynn to give to Shirley.
The Weems children did not eat in the lunchroom.
The Weems children did not eat lunch.
*
And on this screaming, burning, spring-summer day, Shirley Weems was standing alone at recess when Dupree and Sonny and five or six others began to circle her and sing:
“Shirley, Shirley, I been thinkin’,
What would keep your feet from stinkin’…
A barrel of water and a cake of soap,
Put ’em in and let ’em soak…”
Walter Weems, who was eight and a first-grader for the second year, rushed up to Dupree and kicked him. “Quit it,” he yelled, his voice a shrill bird’s cry. “Leave Sister alone. Leave her alone.”
Dupree whirled and slapped Walter viciously across the face. Walter fell and rolled over the hard clay of the outside basketball court.
“Damn you, Dupree Hixon!”
It was Wesley, from in front of the canning plant. His voice was guttural, an animal’s voice, an explosion of agony. Freeman knew what would happen; if Wesley resorted to foul language, it always ended in a fight. Freeman reached for him, but Wesley ripped away and bolted the distance separating him from Dupree. Sonny stepped in front of Dupree, cutting off Wesley’s rush.
“What’d you think you’re gonna do, hick?” snapped Sonny.
Wesley cried from deep in his chest, caught the larger Sonny by his shirt, and lifted him off the ground. He threw Sonny to one side and hit Dupree three times before Dupree could lift his arms. Wayne Heath circled quickly behind Wesley and kicked him in the lower back and Wesley fell forward as someone else hit him on the ear.
I tackled Wayne and turned him, grabbed his hair, and bit into his shoulder. Wayne jerked and fell, tossing his head wildly. I was on him like a tick. He bucked and rolled, and I bit deeper.
“Bite a plug
“It’s not gonna hurt me? Lordamercy, Wesley. It’s killin’ me. You got no feelings, you know that? That’s your trouble, boy.”
“The time will come, Freeman. I promise it.”
*
The time came two days later, on a Friday. It came on a day screaming from the splendor of its blueness, burning with a fever of early summer oozing from the spring ground, and suffocating us with the smell of crushed grass.
On that day, Wesley ended our waiting.
On that day, Wesley caused a riot.
*
It happened at midmorning recess. Shirley Weems was a thin, pale girl who was Wesley’s age but two years behind him in her class in school. One of my older sisters, Amy, who had studied nursing, said Shirley and her brothers and sisters were suffering from a lack of vitamins, or something. They were undernourished and their bodies could not react as quickly as they should. “Never, never, never, never make fun of them,” Amy had warned us. “They’re the poorest people in Emery.” And they were. Poverty had left the Weems family totally, completely defeated. Shirley wore washed-out gingham dresses, colorless and dead. Scabs were always on her arms and mouth. Once, the county nurse had found lice in her hair and Shirley was herded out from the rest of us standing at attention in the auditorium, and her head was powdered until it turned white. She stood very still in one corner of the auditorium and tears rolled off her empty face. Dupree had started giggling and pointing and Freeman gave him a bullet shot in the kidneys. Dupree complained loudly, accusing Freeman of “picking” on him. Wesley quickly embraced the argument, saying it was Shirley, not Dupree, who was being picked on. Mrs. Simmons agreed with Wesley; she led Shirley out of the auditorium, away from the careless indignity of being an example to those who did not exercise proper hygiene. After that, Wesley was teased miserably by the Highway 17 Gang about being Shirley’s boyfriend, but it never bothered him. He never replied to any of the taunting, and occasionally he would sneak something out of the lunchroom and give it to Lynn to give to Shirley.
The Weems children did not eat in the lunchroom.
The Weems children did not eat lunch.
*
And on this screaming, burning, spring-summer day, Shirley Weems was standing alone at recess when Dupree and Sonny and five or six others began to circle her and sing:
“Shirley, Shirley, I been thinkin’,
What would keep your feet from stinkin’…
A barrel of water and a cake of soap,
Put ’em in and let ’em soak…”
Walter Weems, who was eight and a first-grader for the second year, rushed up to Dupree and kicked him. “Quit it,” he yelled, his voice a shrill bird’s cry. “Leave Sister alone. Leave her alone.”
Dupree whirled and slapped Walter viciously across the face. Walter fell and rolled over the hard clay of the outside basketball court.
“Damn you, Dupree Hixon!”
It was Wesley, from in front of the canning plant. His voice was guttural, an animal’s voice, an explosion of agony. Freeman knew what would happen; if Wesley resorted to foul language, it always ended in a fight. Freeman reached for him, but Wesley ripped away and bolted the distance separating him from Dupree. Sonny stepped in front of Dupree, cutting off Wesley’s rush.
“What’d you think you’re gonna do, hick?” snapped Sonny.
Wesley cried from deep in his chest, caught the larger Sonny by his shirt, and lifted him off the ground. He threw Sonny to one side and hit Dupree three times before Dupree could lift his arms. Wayne Heath circled quickly behind Wesley and kicked him in the lower back and Wesley fell forward as someone else hit him on the ear.
I tackled Wayne and turned him, grabbed his hair, and bit into his shoulder. Wayne jerked and fell, tossing his head wildly. I was on him like a tick. He bucked and rolled, and I bit deeper.
“Bite a plug
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