BOO!
“And, Katherine, I could feel the car drop from something that had the weight of a mule,” my Uncle Buddy said to my mother, with his eyebrows raised. He had red skin and white hair and beard. His wire-framed thicklened eyeglasses made his eyes look as big as a mule’s. At my young age, he was grotesque.
“They say it’s a 300-hundred-pound woman ghost who hangs around that branch by Piney Grove church, Katherine. I think she comes out the graveyard. My car could barely move once she got in my back seat,” Uncle said, frightening me with his large eyes. His car was parked in our yard, and I was afraid to leave the house. From his smirky smile, I could tell he got a kick out of scaring the hell out of his niece and nephews.
“I wanted to run, Katherine, but I was afraid she would take my car,” he said.
“Buddy, why don’t you stop that lying?” Mom asked, smiling. “You know damn well there’s no ghost in that branch.” Whether he was lying or not, it made no different to me.
Whenever I traveled through any branch or creek, near a church or not, I was frightened to death. And for some unknown reason, out in the southern part of North Carolina where I lived, it was almost impossible to get to a church without traveling through a branch or a creek. Creeks were spooky enough, ghost stories or not, especially at night. Leach Creek, the creek down from our house, made some of the queerest noises-like a million little creatures, crying, yelling, crawling, running, breaking limbs from trees or whatever. Now I was afraid of being smashed to death by an over-sized woman whom I wouldn’t be able to see. Mom would say, “Don’t worry about the dead. They can’t hurt you. It’s the living that you have to worry about.”
Uncle Buddy, my mom’s brother, would tell ghost stories whenever he visited us. Sometimes, Mom’s other brother, Uncle Kent, would confirm the 300-pound woman ghost story. “Sis, I had a hard time getting through that branch,” he said, smiling. When he saw my hands grab Mom’s dress, he knew his ghost story was making an impression. “That damn ghost wouldn’t let me go.” Hearing the same story twice left me no doubt there was a 300-pound woman ghost, wandering around somewhere in the branch near Piney Grove church. I was afraid.
But when my older brothers and sister pretended to no longer be afraid of ghosts and claimed there was no Santa Claus, Uncle Buddy seemed not to be having any more fun with them. However, that didn’t last very long. One Christmas Eve, when all of us children were left at home alone, the older kids said, “Oh, don’t let Mom and Dad fool you, there’s no Santa Claus.” But before the word “Claus” was out, we heard “Ho, Ho, Ho!” coming from our bedroom window. Wide-eyed, mouths agape, we stared at the window. Standing there, peeping in, was a big-eyed, white-bearded, red-suited old man. After screaming at the top of our lungs, every one of us vanished into closets and under beds. We remained in hiding until our parents returned home. We were afraid Santa Claus had come to harm us because my brothers denied his existence.
“Mom, Santa Claus was at our window!” we all yelled, gasping for breath. “Well, you must have been bad,” Mom suggested.
“Not me, Mommy. It was them,” I said, pointing my fi nger at my brothers and sister. No one ever said there was no Santa for a long time. By the age of eight or nine, I was no longer afraid of ghosts, Santa the Bogey Man, but was scared to death of Mr. Allen, a real human being. He had stabbed and killed my cousin Bill with a screwdriver when Bill had accidentally or unintentionally slammed down the hood of the car on him. Bill was the fi rst real person I had known to be killed. The incident had occurred at the Rainbow Inn, and from that time on, I feared nightclubs and the Allens. Not only was I just afraid of one Allen but of everyone who resembled the family: small eyes, big forehead and pursed lips. They were easily recognizable. I loved going to a candy store but feared going to one in their neighborhood. I had always been excited about new cars, especially Chevrolets, but their new black-and-white one parked in their yard repulsed me. Whenever I saw any black-and-white Chevrolet I thought of the Allens. I knew I would never buy one of those cars. I was happy that I didn’t have to ride the same school bus as the Allens. I probably would have been frightened to death. I often wondered if everyone else in the world felt the same way as I did about them, but no way was I going to ask anyone.
“If your teacher wants to feed you, then you can go to school every day,” my mother admonished when I complained that I would fall behind if I only went to school when it rained so that I could pick cotton with her and the rest of my North Carolina share-cropper family. “You’ll catch up,” my mother retorted. “You’re smart. All of my children are smart.”
The only classmate who would tolerate my saggy wet shoes and the musty smell of my soaked pants and jacket was Mary. “You can sit here, Bobby,” she said the fi rst day I saw her. “And share my book with me.” She added as she slid over and spread out her geography book. My parents just couldn’t afford to buy my books, and Mary was eager to share hers with me.
“What’s your favorite country?” she asked. “I don’t know. The United States, I guess.”
“No, I mean of the ones we’ve studied in geography. I used to love Ireland the best. I dreamed of going there. Then I loved Scotland, then Holland, the Netherlands, after I read Hans Brinker and His Silver Skates. ” I had never thought of having a favorite country. The U.S.A. was enough for me, and maybe too much at times.
“When I grow up, I want to travel all around the world. Then I want to become a teacher. What do you want to be when you grow up?” “I want to get a good job in New York City and come back to Piney Grove in a shiny new suit with lots of money in my pockets, and I’ll give all the kids a dollar each to buy candy and ice cream.”
“Oh, you’re so good, Bobby,” Mary said. When she smiled her eyes were slits and she had the most perfect teeth I had ever seen. “And you’re smart too,” she added. “I remember when we were doing square roots and the teacher put the square root of forty-eight on the board, and you raised your hand until I thought it would go out of joint. Then when you got to the board you wrote the square root of forty-eight equals the square of 16 times 3, which equals 4 times the square of 3. You found it and simplifi ed it. I would have never thought of it and no one else did either. You’re smart, Bobby. And those wonderful pictures you drew on the board.” When I was eight years old, Mary was my closest friend. She encouraged me and brought me up-to-date in my schoolwork, and I thought about her twenty-four hours a day. All I talked about at home was Mary, Mary, Mary. My family was getting annoyed with me and told me to shut up about Mary. Sometime they teased me in a sing-song way, “Bobby loves Mary! Bobby loves Mary! Bobby’s got a girl friend.”
One day when Mom brought me to the country store for candy and ice cream, I saw the Allen’s car, the black and white Chevrolet, and there was Mary. My eyes widened like I’d seen a ghost. Mary and Allens? How can that be?
Mary came running up to me, “Bobby, Bobby, I want you to meet my dad.”
A tall, dark man bent down and shook my hand. “Hello, Bobby, Mary has told me a lot about you.” Then he saw Mom and said, “Hello, Katherine, how are you and Roy?”
“We’re fi ne, thanks, Allen,” my mother answered. “Bobby talks about Mary all the time. She’s his best friend at school.” I held my head down. Then Mr. Allen said, “May I buy Bobby an icecream cone? I’m getting one for Mary.”
My mother smiled and nodded. I’ll never forget that smile and nod. It said so much to an eight-year-old. “I’m going to have a strawberry. What’s yours, Bobby?”
“Chocolate,” I said in a low voice. Soon Mary and I were hand in hand running, down to the pond to watch the ducks, leaving her dad and my mom talking.
I don’t really know what happened between my cousin and the Allen who stabbed him. I know the townspeople weren’t kindly toward the Allens, and, in about a year, they moved up north. I never saw Mary again, but I’ve never stopped thinking about her and the way her eyes were mere slits when she smiled and showed her perfect teeth. And I’ll never forget the day that my eyes were wide open. I hope I keep them that way forever.