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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781477283363 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 12/03/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 220 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
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FAT HEAD
By David G. Weaver
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 David G. WeaverAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-8338-7
Chapter One
The stubby fingered, grubby, dark brown fist slid forward slowly. Thwup! Click! The green striped, yellow taw struck the carnelian red sphere rocketing it out of the circle scratched into the sandy clay of the driveway."You fudged! Put that bloodsie back!" yelled sandy haired Matt Cogswell. There was anger in his voice and in his pale blue eyes as he glared at the shooter.
"Din't needah," George Wigfall denied, his black eyes equally as expressive, his thick lips a straight line, his jaws clenched.
"Did too fudge. I seen ya," Matt argued loudly.
"Din't needah. Mah han' was raht dere on da ring."
"Did too. See. Right there's yore knuckle print," Matt stormed, pointing to a slight dimple in the soft earth just inside the 30 inch, stick-scratched circle.
"Aw, dat's jus' wheah Ah put mah han' down aftah Ah shot. You know dat. You allus gits mad whenevah Ah wins."
George always had difficulty enunciating words that began with "th" or ended with "er" "ing" or "th". They came out sounding like, "dat, dese, goin', comin', wid, aftah" and so forth.
A smile twisted George's round-moon, dark-walnut face as he stared up at his friend. He picked up the blood red marble and dropped it into a dirty Bull Durham sack, adding it to the dozen or so already there.
"Yeah," Matt complained, "and you always keep my brand new aggies and chunk your old, chipped up ones in the ring. How come you never have any good 'uns? You always put in them old pieces of junk."
"Dat's cause Ah hits 'em so hard dem cheap ol' things you buys jus' flah ta pieces, dat's all." George's grin now showed a line of strong white teeth.
"Boys!" Elsie Cogswell shouted from the front porch of the brown clapboard house on the slight hill behind them. "Y'all stop that arguing and come up here right this minute. You hurry up now, else your dinner'll get cold."
"Whatchu think she got for ouah sumpin-ta-eat today?" George asked as he scooped up his shooter taw and the two remaining marbles in the ring.
"Civvy beans, I reckon. I saw a pile of 'em in the sink this morning."
"Ummm, dat's good. Ah likes dem li'l ole baby beans 'n rahce. Dey's special good da way yoah ma fixes 'em wid bacon and stuff. Come on! Ah'm gittin' hongriah and hongriah bah d' minit." He trotted off toward the rear of the single story house.
"Wait up!" Matt yelled as he raced to catch up, one overall strap flopping loosely, bare feet kicking up spurts of dusty soil.
They scrambled up the wooden stairs and slammed through the screen door. Even before the door banged shut, they were perched on wooden stools at a table improvised by bridging a wide board across empty orange crates.
On the porch table were two plates heaped with fresh, green lima beans atop mounds of snowy white rice. Beside each plate was a tall glass of sweetened iced tea. In the center of the board was a tin plate that held four slabs of orange-yellow corn bread.
As soon as he was seated, George clasped his hands together and bowed his head in silent prayer. A moment later he raised his face and reached for the spoon beside his plate.
"Aren't y'all gonna wash those filthy hands 'fore you eat?" Mrs. Cogswell's harsh voice and frowning face were belied by the twinkle in her gray-blue eyes and the tilt at the corners of her generous mouth. "Get right in this here kitchen and scrub the dirt off those grimy paws. Hop to it!"
The boys dutifully tromped into the house and went to the sink. Matt reached out and twisted the handle atop the single tap.
As the cold water gushed out, George let it splash over his hands and wrists then wiped his palms across a cake of yellow-brown Octagon laundry soap that rested in a cracked saucer on the sloping, wooden drain board. He rubbed his hands together, working up a lather, then held them under the water again to rinse the suds off.
Matt shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he impatiently waited his turn. He grinned at his buddy while trying to move the black boy's stocky body away from the sink by shoving his hip into George's flank.
Each boy made a single swipe at the flour sack towel that dangled from a nail at the end of the drain board. Then they hurried back out to their table, moisture still glistening on their hands and forearms.
Elsie smiled covertly as she turned back into the house to prepare the table for her husband. Rick should be home soon. It was a few minutes past twelve and, unless some emergency popped up, he was usually there by ten after. As she ladled the food into china bowls, she glanced out through the open door at the boys bolting down their food as if they were preparing to dash off on an extremely important mission and couldn't afford to waste a second of their precious time.
* * *
That's the way it had been most of the summer. The two boys were inseparable. Ever since Matt had brought the frightened negro boy home one noon, they had been as one. Each morning, George's father—tall, lanky, reddish-haired, light-skinned Henry Wigfall—brought his son with him on his way to work. Everyone called Henry Wigfall, "Red". Henry's wife, Missy, was serving a sentence in the county jail for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.
Missy, like so many of the women in the negro tenement known as Dewey Hill, earned money by preparing noon meals for the laborers at Reid's Fertilizer Mill. The women usually were a convivial group but, when Missy sold one of her 10 cent, half-moon-shaped, sweet potato pies to a worker, Beulah Evans came at her with a length of board. Beulah spouted obscenities and screamed that Missy was trying to steal away her customer. In defense, Missy grabbed up her icepick and poked it at the charging Beulah. The steel struck home. Blood spurted from a hole in Beulah's left shoulder.
Two of the lunching workmen leaped to their feet and grabbed hold of Missy while others tended to the wounded woman. The shouts, screams and curses attracted the attention of the foreman, John Gant. Gant came out of his little office and took charge. First he yelled to Junior Bivens to get his Ford and drive Beulah to Dr. Wild's office in North Charleston. Then he herded Missy into his office and went directly to the telephone and told the operator to connect him with the county police.
* * *
With school out for summer vacation and no woman in the home, Red Wigfall didn't want to leave his son alone amid idlers and gamblers on "the hill". He brought George along with him to work, warned the boy of the dangers at the warehouse plant, cautioned him to be careful, and then left the lad alone to wander the dock area until the end of the workday. That's how Matt happened to come upon George.
* * *
The very dark skinned youngster was wading in the shallows off the end of the wharf when Matt came out of the warehouse and turned the corner of the brick-red terra cotta tile building. He spotted the negro boy immediately but decided to wait and watch. He squatted on the sandy beach and watched the stranger move stealthily through the shin-deep shallows. The black boy appeared to be intent on something in the water.
At last Matt's curiosity overcame him. "Watcha doing?" he shouted to the boy in the water.
"Crabbin'" the negro lad replied without raising his eyes.
"You ain't got no line, nor net, nor nothing. How you 'spect to catch any crabs 'thout a net?" Matt queried as he sat down on the cool sand and began to roll up his pants legs.
"Don' need none. Got me a stickah," came the reply.
"Sticker? What's a sticker?"
The dark hand held up a short length of stiff baling wire. One end was a four inch section bent at right angle to the shaft. The other end, about 20 inches away, was folded into a handle of loops of the wire.
Matt waded out to the black boy and examined the wire device closely. "How's it work?" he asked.
"Alls you gotta do is sneak up on a crab and slam da point of yore stickah in 'im. Watch. Ah'll show ya," the boy said as he began to stalk a blue crab sidling along on the bottom near the water's edge. He slid his feet along the sandy bottom, gliding forward, hardly making a ripple. When he was within range of his prey, he struck. The wire flashed through an arc and plunged into the water. A moment later he triumphantly lifted a large male blue crab impaled on the end of his sticker.
Matt was amazed. He hurried over to his new found friend.
"Alls you gotta do is pop da stickah raht t'rough his shell an' he ain't gonna go nowheah," the grinning black face said.
"Can I try?" Matt pleaded.
"Sho. Dere's a old she crab raht ovah dere," the negro boy said, pointing to a grey-brown shape scuttling along near a clump of dead sedge. "Sneak up on ha and nail ha." He handed Matt the device.
Matt moved slowly toward his intended victim, got close and stabbed the wire probe into the water. He disgustedly watched the brown shape scoot away to safety in deeper water. "Missed her, darn it!" he exclaimed.
"Don' mattah. Take practice," the black boy encouraged. "Ain't as easy as it look. Try'n fine anothah one. You kin do it."
After searching for a few more minutes, Matt spotted another crab near the edge of the marsh and sneaked up on his quarry carefully. This time he was successful, plunging the wire tip through one end of the crab's back shell. In triumph he lifted the prize from the water and grinned at the other boy. "Hey!" he shouted. "I reckon I could catch a lotta crabs this way. What's your name, anyway?"
"Real name's Gawge but 'most everbody call me Fathead."
"Fathead? That's a funny name."
"Yeah. Reckon it is. But dat's what dey calls me."
"Whatcha doing up here? You live in the Degnalls?"
"Naw. Mah pa's Red Wigfall. He work heah and Ah cum wid him when he cum to work."
"Whatcha gonna do with them crabs?" Matt wanted to know.
"Take 'em home and boil 'em, Ah reckon."
Matt glanced up into the brilliant blue sky. The sun was almost at its zenith. "Where you gonna get yore dinner, George?" he asked.
"Ain't gonna have no dinnah 'til Ah gets home dis evenin'," the black boy replied in a low voice.
"Ain't you hungry?"
"Sho Ah'm hongry, but dat don't make no nevah mind. I gotta wait for mah pa to get off work den we go home and fix sumpin ta eat."
"Wanna come home with me? My ma'll fix you something to eat, I bet."
"Ah don' know. Mah pa'd beat da stuffin' outta me if he fine out Ah was to beg some food off'n white folks."
"You ain't beggin'. You ain't even askin'. I'm invitin' you."
"Well, seein' as how you put it datta way, Ah reckon it'll be all raht. But I don't wanna be no bothah."
"Aw, come on. Won't be no bother," Matt insisted as he started off up the dirt road toward the housing area near the huge, long-legged water tank. "Bring them crabs with you. Maybe my ma'll fix 'em for us."
They trotted the quarter mile to the brown house under the century old live oaks on the low hill. As he burst through the back door, Matt shouted, "Ma, I'm home. What's for dinner?"
Elsie Cogswell appeared in the doorway, her arms wrapped in her apron. She stared at the young black stranger who waited, shuffling his feet in the sand of the backyard.
"Who you got with you, Matthew/" Elsie asked.
"That's George, Ma. He ain't got nothing to eat."
"Hello, George," Elsie said as she examined the chunky youngster from head to toe. "Where do you live?"
"Dewey Hill, ma'am," George murmured, staring down at his bare feet.
"That's quite a ways from here, George," Elsie commented.
"Yas'm."
"Can George stay for dinner with us, Ma?" Matt begged.
"Well," Elsie hesitated, "I reckon I could fix up a plate for him. He'll have to eat out here on the porch, though. That all right with you, George?"
"Yas'm. Dat's jus' fine." The round moon face broke into a happy grin.
"Can I eat out here too, Ma?" Matt pleaded.
Seeing the intense look on her son's face, Elsie simply shrugged her shoulders and nodded before turning back into the kitchen.
* * *
That's the way it had begun. Now, as the end of the school vacation neared, Elsie wondered what was to become of Matt's little black friend. All summer long the boys had played together. They spent the week days fishing, crabbing, shrimping, exploring, playing rough and tumble games in the deep clover of the back yard and just having fun. And they were always bickering good naturedly with each other. But now, what was going to happen to George when school reopened?
Matt, of course, would be returning to school in North Charleston, three miles down the highway toward the big city at the mouth of the river. Would Red Wigfall send his son to the negro elementary school at Liberty Hill? That was the only school for black kids in the area. Or would the boy be left to fend for himself? So many colored folks didn't bother to send their children to school at all. School started in early September and Missy wouldn't be released from prison until mid October.
Elsie's mind was whirling when she heard the front screen door slam shut then heard Rick's heavy footsteps in the central hall. She hurried to greet her husband.
Richard Cogswell tossed his sweat stained, gray felt hat onto a doily-covered, three legged table in the hall. He gave his wife a quick peck on her cheek then stomped down the hall to the bathroom.
Elsie turned back to the dining room. The sounds of running water and muffled grunts told her Rick was scrubbing up for dinner. A couple minutes later he appeared in the archway from the hall. Elsie waited behind a straight backed chair until he was seated, then she too sat down.
They spoke very little as they consumed the principle meal of the day. Finally Rick pushed away his empty plate and grinned across the table at his wife. "Got anything for desert?" he asked.
"I still have a sliver of that pecan pie left. Hid it up in the dish cabinet so the boy wouldn't find it," Elsie said as she got up and headed for the kitchen.
A minute later there was the rattle of dishes and the thud of a drawer being shut. Then the wife came back, bringing a clean fork and a wedge of pie on a small plate. She placed the dessert before him then stood behind his chair, leaning over his shoulders, her arms dangling in front of his chest as he ate the last of the pie with lip smacking delight.
At last Rick twisted around on his chair and looked up into his wife's face. "Something bothering you, gal?" he asked. "You look like you got a weight on your mind. What's wrong?"
"Oh, I've just been thinking about Matt's little friend. What's gonna happen to the boy when school starts up next month. I can't have him hanging around here all day long, you know. And I hate to think of him wandering around the docks all alone while his pa's at work."
"Yeah. That is something to study on, I reckon. Maybe I better have a talk with his pappy. I'll just ask Red what he's gonna do when school starts. He hasn't said much about the boy 'cept he's mighty grateful for you taking the youngster under your wing these past weeks."
"Least a body could do," Elsie huffed. "Don't matter the boy's black. He's well behaved and no trouble at all. Besides, Matt wouldn't a had anybody to play with at all if George hadn't happened along. I'm right pleased I could do something for the boy."
"You did a lot more'n any of the other white folks 'round here would a done," Rick agreed. He pulled her face down and kissed her. "But then that's just the kind of a fine woman you are." He got up out of his chair and pulled her close, sliding his hands along her body as he kissed her again. This time he poked his tongue out against her closed lips.
"Oh you," she complained. Then, giggling, she added, "You better get on back to work before the boys find out what a nasty old man you really are."
"Where are the boys anyway?" he asked, glancing out through the kitchen door at the vacant porch.
"Oh, they gobbled down their dinner and dashed out of here long ago. Matt said something about going down to the docks and watching 'em load a ship or something."
"Well, that should keep them busy for a while," the man said, nodding. Then he asked, "What're you planning for supper? I was thinking me and the boy might go down to the docks after supper and catch a few trout. Tide's high at 6:30, you know."
"I can fry up a batch of potatoes, I guess. Won't take too long and y'all can get down to the river long 'fore dark."
"Sounds good to me," he said. Then he kissed her again, patting her fanny before turning away. He slapped the battered old felt hat onto his head and stomped out onto the front porch. At the screen door he paused and looked back. "Mighty fine woman indeed," he said, before stepping out into the shade of the giant live oaks.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from FAT HEAD by David G. Weaver Copyright © 2012 by David G. Weaver. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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