but never overly so. Wouldn’t want to give him the wrong idea.
Coming up to the grave, I press Woody’s arms down to her sides and say, “Hey, there.”
“Mornin’, Shen,” Bootie says, thrusting his shovel into the dirt. He’s towheaded with a cleft in his chin that I’ve always wanted to stick my finger in to see how deep it’d go. First knuckle, I bet. “Haven’t seen you in forever.” Bootie looks more plumped out in the body than the last time I saw him but none of it’s chub. His bare chest is smooth, but the hair under his arms matches his brown eyes and he’s still got the most luscious smile. Like a gooey dessert. “Where ya gonna sit on parade day?”
“In the park with Beezy,” I say. “Like always.”
After Woody and I have led the Parade of Perpetual Princesses most of the way down Main, we peel off so we can join Beezy and the rest of the Negroes. The parade doesn’t go through Mudville so they got to watch it as it winds past Buffalo Park. Even though we are light-skinned, Woody and me are always nicely tanned by this time of the year. We also wear straw hats that cast shadows upon our faces so we do not stick out like two whitefish in that sea of brown bodies. (We have to be careful not to get noticed by Grampa, who does not in any way, shape, or form approve of us associating with Beezy or any of the other coloreds in a social way.)
When the parade turns the corner and heads our way, I tell Beezy every year beneath the shade of that big maple, “Here comes the high school band.”
Tittering from her folding chair, Beezy will say, “I’m blind, child, not deaf.”
“You’re blind? Really? How come nobody told me?” I’ll say in mock surprise, because she’s got one of those great booming kinds of laughs that you would never suspect could come out of somebody so small. “Next up are six baton twirlers whose sparkly uniforms are a mite skimpy on top and riding up in the back, especially Dot Halloran’s. (Never have been able to stand Dot, not sure why.) “Right behind them are Joe Morton and Cal Whitcomb dressed up like Uncle Sams and waving to everybody. After them, the float with Grampa in that Confederate uniform is coming. He’s sitting on top in that golden horseshoe throne.” I always spit into the grass once he passes by. “There’s six black horses makin’ a mess all over the street behind him.”
Beezy will sniff the air at that point and remark, “Always thought those animals were a lot smarter than folks give ’em credit for,” and that never fails to crack me up ’cause I think Grampa stinks, too.
“Whose body ya diggin’ that hole for?” I ask Bootie, narrowing it down to a Caucasian since Stonewall Jackson Cemetery doesn’t allow coloreds. They got to start their trip to the Promised Land over at Evergreen.
“This here is Mr. Minnow’s grave,” Bootie replies with a respectful bow of his head.
“ Clive Minnow?” I may sound surprised, but I’m really not. I’ve been wondering why I haven’t seen our neighbor around lately. Usually when I’m doing some afternoon reading, he’ll appear in his adjoining woods with his metal-detecting device. Of course, Papa told me to stay away from him. They do not get along because you got to walk on eggshells around His Honor and Clive wasn’t light on his feet.
“Are you absolutely positive it’s Mr. Clive Minnow that you’ll be buryin’ here?” I ask, recalling how the last time I saw him, he didn’t look fatally sick. He had been complaining of stomachaches off and on, but that wasn’t unusual. A few years ago when Clive was convinced that he had gotten a brain tumor, I got worried because I’d seen a man on the Dr. Ben Casey television show get the same thing and he expired during the first fifteen minutes. But when I told Mama, she wasn’t upset one bit.
“He’s all right, Shenny. It’s not a brain tumor, just a headache,” she said, handing me a bottle of aspirins from the
Coming up to the grave, I press Woody’s arms down to her sides and say, “Hey, there.”
“Mornin’, Shen,” Bootie says, thrusting his shovel into the dirt. He’s towheaded with a cleft in his chin that I’ve always wanted to stick my finger in to see how deep it’d go. First knuckle, I bet. “Haven’t seen you in forever.” Bootie looks more plumped out in the body than the last time I saw him but none of it’s chub. His bare chest is smooth, but the hair under his arms matches his brown eyes and he’s still got the most luscious smile. Like a gooey dessert. “Where ya gonna sit on parade day?”
“In the park with Beezy,” I say. “Like always.”
After Woody and I have led the Parade of Perpetual Princesses most of the way down Main, we peel off so we can join Beezy and the rest of the Negroes. The parade doesn’t go through Mudville so they got to watch it as it winds past Buffalo Park. Even though we are light-skinned, Woody and me are always nicely tanned by this time of the year. We also wear straw hats that cast shadows upon our faces so we do not stick out like two whitefish in that sea of brown bodies. (We have to be careful not to get noticed by Grampa, who does not in any way, shape, or form approve of us associating with Beezy or any of the other coloreds in a social way.)
When the parade turns the corner and heads our way, I tell Beezy every year beneath the shade of that big maple, “Here comes the high school band.”
Tittering from her folding chair, Beezy will say, “I’m blind, child, not deaf.”
“You’re blind? Really? How come nobody told me?” I’ll say in mock surprise, because she’s got one of those great booming kinds of laughs that you would never suspect could come out of somebody so small. “Next up are six baton twirlers whose sparkly uniforms are a mite skimpy on top and riding up in the back, especially Dot Halloran’s. (Never have been able to stand Dot, not sure why.) “Right behind them are Joe Morton and Cal Whitcomb dressed up like Uncle Sams and waving to everybody. After them, the float with Grampa in that Confederate uniform is coming. He’s sitting on top in that golden horseshoe throne.” I always spit into the grass once he passes by. “There’s six black horses makin’ a mess all over the street behind him.”
Beezy will sniff the air at that point and remark, “Always thought those animals were a lot smarter than folks give ’em credit for,” and that never fails to crack me up ’cause I think Grampa stinks, too.
“Whose body ya diggin’ that hole for?” I ask Bootie, narrowing it down to a Caucasian since Stonewall Jackson Cemetery doesn’t allow coloreds. They got to start their trip to the Promised Land over at Evergreen.
“This here is Mr. Minnow’s grave,” Bootie replies with a respectful bow of his head.
“ Clive Minnow?” I may sound surprised, but I’m really not. I’ve been wondering why I haven’t seen our neighbor around lately. Usually when I’m doing some afternoon reading, he’ll appear in his adjoining woods with his metal-detecting device. Of course, Papa told me to stay away from him. They do not get along because you got to walk on eggshells around His Honor and Clive wasn’t light on his feet.
“Are you absolutely positive it’s Mr. Clive Minnow that you’ll be buryin’ here?” I ask, recalling how the last time I saw him, he didn’t look fatally sick. He had been complaining of stomachaches off and on, but that wasn’t unusual. A few years ago when Clive was convinced that he had gotten a brain tumor, I got worried because I’d seen a man on the Dr. Ben Casey television show get the same thing and he expired during the first fifteen minutes. But when I told Mama, she wasn’t upset one bit.
“He’s all right, Shenny. It’s not a brain tumor, just a headache,” she said, handing me a bottle of aspirins from the
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