The Escape of Bobby Ray Hammer A Novel of a '50s Family Page 4

  "What? A week and two days? That's too long. There's things I can't afford to miss. I'm still going to football practice. I know that." I'm leaning forward in my chair now, and he bends over his desk so I can smell his bad breath, but he's still looking just over my head.

  "Not anymore, you're not."

  I stand up because I'm going to hit that sonofabitch, but Mama has hold of my arm. He just can't do this to me. It's like he's taking away my future. Why's he trying to hurt me? I didn't do anything to him.

  "You're not playing football this year, son. Football is a privilege and you just relinquished yours." And damn if he doesn't sound real sorry, like there's just nothing he can do about it.

  So I'm walking around his desk, trying to get to him, and he's walking to the far side. But Mama turns me around, pushes me toward the door, and she's not through talking to him yet either, and her finger is in his face. That gives Clyde something else to look at besides the wall over her head, so his eyes just bounce with the tip of her finger.

  "'Dealt with accordingly,' huh. Let me tell you something, Mr. Sonnett. I'm going to the Board about you. You get this here kid out of school and he'll find other interests and before you know it, the last thing he'll want to do is go to school. You'll hear from me again about this."

  CHAPTER 7: Charles Resurrected

  Even Mama has her limitations. So Papa has me for work during the day, and he's just pleased as punch about that. If he works me for the next week like he has these last two days, I may not live to go back to school. He thinks this is the way it's going to be when I graduate. He keeps going on about it. I was thinking of talking to him about me going to Fresno to look for work after I graduate, but I don't think he'll take it very well. I'm ashamed to tell him I've been thinking about college a little lately. My grades don't say I'm cut out for it. He keeps talking about us having a partnership here on the farm. How can I turn him down on that? With me full-time, he can rent more ground, maybe buy another little piece of dirt. But I took this Iowa Test a couple of weeks ago. For the first time I really tried on that thing. I was just making believe I had an answer for everything, just like I was Mr. Wood. He does know everything. My homeroom teacher was mad at me when my scores came back, wanted to know who I copied off of.

  I have a hay hook in each hand, staring across the flatbed at Papa. He hollers for Delbert, our hired hand, to stop the truck, and then he comes up close. "You've got to watch Delbert because he won't work if he's not watched. He likes to drive the truck because he's lazy." Papa is acting like I don't know anything about Delbert and him having worked for us almost ten years. Then Papa smiles like he's told me a secret.

  But I can't concentrate on hauling hay. I want to know if that was really Lenny's car I saw the other day. I want to ask Papa about it, whether it was totaled or not, but I just don't have the nerve. And I'm thinking about my Chevy coming out of the shop today, since it's Friday, and wondering if Papa will let me go get it before they close. He knows I'm worried about it but won't tell me.

  I jump down beside the truck in the hay stubble, stick a hook in each end of a bale and throw it up on the bed where Papa stacks it. God, it's hot. The truck starts again, slow now, and I walk along to the next bale, boots crunching in the hay stubble, stick a hook in each end and throw it on the moving flatbed. Wipe a little salty sweat that's stinging my eye. We've been doing this all day, and as afternoon wears on, my arms tire, particularly when the stack gets tall and I have to lift the bales over my head. But that's okay because I've been doing this for years, ever since we lost Lenny. Before that, I used to drive the truck, and I'd hear Lenny and Papa talking and laughing. Usually, Lenny, he was making plans for the future. He talked a lot about college and playing baseball and how someday he'd play in the majors for the New York Yankees. I don't understand why Papa was always talking to Lenny about things he was going to do when he left home, and won't even listen to a word about me leaving. After getting kicked off the football team, no sense in me thinking about college or anything else except dirt farming. I always knew I could never play college football, but I was thinking about college anyway, thinking about just going to learn something.

  Papa whistles for Delbert to stop the flatbed, and then we all stand beside it taking turns at the mason jar of ice tea Mama fixed for us. It still has a little ice on top but the tea's flavor is a little thin because she fills it with ice before she fills it with tea.

  "When you going to let me take my turn at those hooks?" Delbert asks Papa. He's sucking on a piece of straw like it's a toothpick, chews the end of it into a brush. He stinks real bad like he doesn't take regular baths.

  Papa studies him a minute. "How about tomorrow?" he says. "There'll be enough to go around through tomorrow. Bobby Ray and me've got a good system going, him on the ground, me stacking bales. How you doing, Bobby Ray?"

  "I'm okay."

  "He's better with his muscles than his fists, so let's give him another chance to be tough. He wasn't so tough the other day."

  Delbert backs off a little, Papa saying that. Delbert gives me a wink. He's always wearing a cowboy hat. His wife is a Texan, and she likes cowboy hats, so he says. When he winked at me, he dipped his head a little so the brim would hide his eyes from Papa. He clears his throat, then spits off to the side. I'm wishing I didn't have to share the tea jar with him.

  But I feel like I should say something back to Papa, him saying that in front of Delbert. But I can't think of anything that won't make Papa mad. That is the trick. Saying something to give me a little room without making Papa mad again. I'm just not smart enough to figure it all out. But then I haven't ever been too smart when it comes to talking. When I was in the fifth grade, I was having trouble paying attention in class and when the teacher would ask questions, she didn't always like my answers. And my grades were bad enough that they gave me this mentally retarded test. At first I didn't know if it was to see if I was a moron or if it was to make me a moron. I just knew the teacher was mad at me because I couldn't learn everything she was teaching. She used to beat me on the back with a ruler. I took the test with two other kids I knew were morons, so the sweat was pouring off me. She didn't seem too happy about the results. I heard the principal in her office scolding her. She took me out of the moron class and was real nice to me for two weeks. Seems like everything I do now is a struggle to keep from being a moron. Papa saying what he did and me not saying anything back doesn't help.

  We go back to loading hay, and my arms are stiff from waiting around. I know Lenny didn't have any trouble with talking. He had an answer for everything. He didn't always worry about making Papa mad either. I bet he would have been okay in college too. He didn't worry about anything but baseball. He was tall and thin, must have been a foot taller than I am now, and no pitcher could keep him off the bases. He played third base, and the coach even let him play on the varsity when he was a freshman. He was that good. The coach used to brag that in four years, no one ever hit one past Lenny at third. I wasn't cut out for baseball. Not enough hand-to-eye coordination, Lenny used to say. So when I went to high school, I knew that football was the game for me, because the story was, hit and be hit. I figured I could handle that. But now Clyde has taken care of football.

  The flatbed is full, so Papa grabs my hand and pulls me up to the top of the hay. We sit with our feet hanging off the edge, staring across the field into the distance as Delbert drives us back in. Papa looks over at me and laughs. "That damn black eye of yours may never go away. You know that?" He slaps me on the shoulder.

  I just smile and look at my dangling feet, slap my thigh with my gloves.

  "You've got to get madder than hell when you fight. You know that? I don't think a lot of fighting but when you've got to fight, you've got to get mad. What was it you fought over, anyway? Huh?"

  I don't know why he asks me questions like that. He knows I don't want to answer before he asks. I wish I could be mad at him so he'd quit it, but instead, I get this big grin o
n my face that won't go away. It's like my mouth has feelings all its own, and I don't even have a say in what it does. So I sit here grinning and hating it, but I can control my voice so I don't say anything.

  "Come on, tell me, Bobby Ray. A girl, wasn't it?"

  Since my mouth is working on its own, I turn my head, look away toward Chowchilla, try to see the floodlight poles where the game will be played tonight. The game Papa won't let me go to; the game Clyde won't let me play in.

  "Okay, let's just say it was a girl anyway. I can tell the cat's got your tongue like when you were a little kid. God, I didn't think you were ever going to learn to talk."

  I know he's lying now because Mama always says I was an early talker.

  "I've got a little experience on this one, because I had a fight over a girl once, once or twice. And don't you tell your mama either cause it wasn't over her. I wasn't old enough to be serious about girls, but I was old enough to get mad over them. It was back in Oklahoma, back before the dust bowl days. I know you don't want to hear about it, so I won't tell you, but listen to this, because it's true. If you're going to fight over anything, particularly a girl, you better be mad at the sonofabitch or you'll get your ass kicked every time."

  Papa gets quiet a minute and if he would keep his mouth shut, I'd like it sitting high up here. I look out over the neighbor's farms through the haze in the distance that sometimes hides the mountains.

  "You like this farming, don't you, huh?" he tells me.

  "Ya. It's okay."

  "Well, it won't be long now before you'll be with me full-time. I know schoolwork is a crock of shit, but a man needs it in the world today. Even the gin manager will look down his nose at you if you don't have that high school diploma. So I guess there's some use in you still trying to finish. If it was up to me, you'd been working full-time two years ago. You're looking forward to it too. I can tell. You want to, don't you? Huh?"

  He's never asked me a straight question like that before and I think maybe this is my chance. "I was thinking about trying to get a job, maybe in Fresno or someplace."

  "Shit. You want what? I don't know what pull big cities have for you young people." He takes off his hat, wipes sweat off the band. "You don't want that. You'll be working for wages. Nobody can have anything working for wages, always be doing somebody's dirty work. Getting laid off and looking for work." And he says it like it's a order. "I need you, barely holding this farm together as it is with you working after school and weekends. No telling what'll happen to all of us if you up and leave. I always thought I could depend on you."

  I guess I never thought about the family needing me. "But, Papa," and I know I shouldn't say this, but it's something that's been eating on me a long time, "Lenny was going to leave and you never said no to him."

  Now I see tears in his eyes. "Well, I never would've thought I'd live to see the day when you'd blame me for Lenny's mistakes." He shakes his head real slow. "I'm going to overlook it this time. You're young and don't know any better about some things."

  We sit here for a while feeling the sway of the big hay load as the flatbed goes across the borders. When he starts talking again, it's real low at first. "I see old man Grissom's out watering that stub cotton he's raised again this year. You've got an opportunity here with me to learn good farming, not what that sorry sonofabitch does and calls farming. But I can teach you how to make it in this business." And now he's heating up again. "You go off somewhere else, I can't help you. If you do, don't come running back for help."

  "I didn't say I was going to do it. I'm just thinking about it."

  "You don't want to do that, Bobby Ray. Use your head, for christsake."

  When we get back to the barn, instead of unloading the hay, Papa jumps off the stack, walks a ways, then turns back and says, "Come on. We better get to town if you're going to pick up that car of yours before Pistoresi closes shop."

  We live only five miles out in the country, so it doesn't take long. Robertson Boulevard runs straight into town, lined with palm trees all the way. Chowchilla is like that. Lots of unusual things about this place. Almost everything in town is right on Main Street too. I guess that's to be expected for a little town of three thousand.

  Papa drops me off at Pistoresi Chevrolet, on the corner of Fifth Street and Robertson. We call Robertson "Main Street" when it gets into town. Papa heads back to the farm, and I watch the backend of that old pickup drive away with the license plate hanging on with a piece of bailing wire, and I hear the sound of tools clanging inside Pistoresi's. The big doors are open to the service shop so I just walk on in, but then I back up a little because I see something that scares me. Someone actually. But I can't see too good because the sun's so bright out here. There's my car, standing like it's ready to roll out. But a tall blond kid is polishing a fender on my car. I know him and it scares me. I see a dead man.

  I know I've been acting a little strange lately. I never fought a friend before and never been kicked out of school. Always had trouble but never been kicked out. My head starts throbbing, and I walk back up Robertson a block or two. Walk through the park.

  I'm hearing things, like people shouting and off in the distance, gun shots. But it's just someone pounding a hammer. I stop at the park and watch kids ride a merry-go-round. I'm sweating again and notice how bad I smell from hauling hay all day. I stand in the shade of a tree for a minute, look up at the sun coming through green leaves. I feel some better. On the other side of the park, I see a bunch of people at a picnic table, but they've just finished so they're folding up their blankets and getting ready to go home. But I'm still afraid. That blond guy I saw was Charles Kunze rubbing down a fender on my '55 Chevy. I saw a dead man.

  Finally I get up the courage to walk back. Hey, there's Larry Pistoresi standing talking to Charles. I feel good about that because Larry, he's a real person. Maybe it's not even Charles, just someone who looks like Charles. But that curly hair gives him away, and him being so tall. He's not as thin as he used to be. He was always making a fuss over me because we both liked football. They finished talking, so Larry walks off, giving me a wave hello. I'm hoping Charles won't recognize me. It's been a long time. I try to walk past him when he looks my way.

  "Let me guess," he says. "I've got it. Bobby Hammer. That you? Never would have recognized you if you didn't look so much like your sister." Then he laughs and wants to shake my hand, even slaps me on the shoulder. "I'm kidding, Bobby. You really gave me a start," and now he looks serious. "I thought for sure you were Lenny. I guess four years hasn't been enough. Seems longer than that."

  "Been four and a half but seems like a lifetime."

  "How long you been out of school?" he wants to know.

  I wipe a little sweat off my own upper lip. He seems familiar, just like he used to be. Seems stupid, me thinking he was dead.

  "I graduate this year," I tell him, looking up. I don't have to look up at many people. I don't look him in the eyes. I know he's lying about me looking like Lenny. We didn't even look enough alike to be brothers.

  "I would have guessed you've been out a couple of years. Damn. You really grew up, Bobby." And then he gets a real sad look in his eyes, shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have come back. I thought four years would be enough. Some people won't be too happy to see me. Do people talk about what happened anymore?"

  "Never did. At least, not to me. I hadn't seen you in so long, I though you were dead."

  "Me? Dead? I like that. People thinking I'm a dead man. But where did you get an idea like that?"

  "I was little then. I didn't and still don't understand what happened to Lenny."

  "Just as well. I know because I was there. I'm not surprised they won't talk. Some don't want the truth told. I don't talk about it either. But I might tell you someday, Bobby. You might understand."

  "Since he was my brother, I figure somebody should tell me."

  "Fair enough. Someday. We'll see about that. But now look at this." And he is po
inting at my face. "You bought yourself a brand new shiner, looks like maybe two shiners. Out having yourself a hell of a good time, I bet, and had to pay a price for it." He's talking while working, using long strokes with a red cloth to finishing buffing my back fender.

  "Having enough fun to get kicked out of school," I say.

  "So they got you, did they? Well they're always after somebody. That brother of yours was the one who could get away with it. School wasn't much of a match for him. Your brother and I used to raise some real hell around here. No one raises hell like that anymore. Didn't matter what he did, whether it was playing baseball or playing with the girls, Lenny did it right. And him getting into an accident like that." He stops polishing for a second. "Hey, how do you like the candy apple finish on this Chevy? Doesn't it just frost your balls? Goddamn, with that white tuck and roll, straight out of Mexico. What're you here for anyway, Bobby?"

  "Came to pick up my car," I tell him. "Where you been, Charles? You been gone a long time."

  "Mountain View."

  I guess I look a little confused.

  "Bay area. South of San Francisco. Had a job for my uncle painting houses."

  "That sounds like good work," I tell him. Now, I am real interested because I might be able to do something like that. A job painting houses could get me out of here.

  "Sounds-like is about it. The money sounds good too."

  "But what could be wrong with painting houses? Probably don't even need a lot of education to paint houses. And living on the coast is big- time stuff."

  "Costs a lot to live there. I've walked under enough ladders to have four lifetimes of bad luck."

  "But could you make it? Was it enough money to live on?"

  "I did all right."

  "Why'd you have to give up a good job like that and come back to Chowchilla?"

  He laughs at me. "Have to come back to Chowchilla? I came back for Chowchilla, Bobby. That and a few people I missed. Still miss that brother of yours." He looks sad again for a minute. "Which machine is yours?"