Scribes’ Tribe Scribblings

Tar bubbled up from the pavement on those sultry, summer Ozark days. Grape Nehis and orange Popsicles were the pleasures of choice to cool our parched throats. We begged for just a few more minutes under the sprinkler where the glistening droplets soothed our sun-baked limbs—our feet bathed in mud oozing between our toes like little pigs in a wallow. Days, just like these, I learned about love and respect and patience.

“You got cooties,” I yelled.

“No way! You’re the girl. You’re the cootie,” five-year-old Billy said. “You’re a brat,” I countered.

“Shut up!”

“Make me.”

Then a push and a punch followed, and one of us started crying.

“You kids stop your fussing and get up here on the porch.” Grandma stood at the screen door, saggy arm raised above her eyes, shielding them from the searing sun. She had a yellow apron tied around her ample middle and a hairnet covered unruly gray hair.

We stopped in mid-punch and marched up the steps like obedient soldiers. She disappeared inside the house, but we knew not to start the fight over. We heard banging, then scooting noises coming from the kitchen. My brother looked at me, a question in his eyes. It was up to me, the older sister by two years, to know the answers. I was afraid to speak. She had big ears, really big ears, so I shrugged.

The rickety screen door squeaked open, and Grandma pushed out two kitchen chairs, the chrome ones with yellow vinyl upholstery.

“Get in them chairs, and don’t move,” she directed. “No, get up. Turn that chair around, so it faces the other one.” Her frown landed on me.

“Yes, ma’am.” I hopped up and did as told.

“Put them closer together, and then sit down, both of you.” A slight smile tugged at the edges of her mouth, but she forced it back.

My brother and I sat facing each other, knee-to-scabby knee, and Grandma went back in the house. Minutes ticked away, and she didn’t return. A bead of perspiration collected between my shoulder blades, rolled down my back, and caught in the waistband of my shorts. A sweat-bee landed on my arm. I pretended not to notice, but fear took over. I smacked and missed. My brother giggled, and I shot him the death-look.

“Shhhh!” I said. My legs were stuck tight to the plastic chair. I peeled one thigh from the seat and stifled a scream. Tears welled in my eyes. My skin felt like it was on fire. I yanked up the other leg and placed my hands under them as a buffer from the wretched plastic.

Billy squeezed his eyes into a squint and stuck out his tongue.

“You’re going to get us in trouble.” I hissed.

“I told you kids to stop fussing, and I meant it.” Grandma threw open the door, and it whacked the porch wall, sending a nest of wasps into a tizzy. She had a splintered bushel basket wedged under one arm. Two green lard buckets dangled from the other. She placed them at our feet.

The basket contained fresh black-eyed peas—still in the hulls. We had helped pick them that morning, after the dew burned off. She pulled a paper grocery sack from her apron pocket, shook it open, and placed it opposite the basket.

“Peas in the buckets and hulls in the sack. One word from either of you, and I’ll blister your butts.” She started to turn, but caught herself in mid-step. “If I find one pea on the porch, I’ll get your goat.”

We had never pushed her that far, so didn’t have a clue what happened if she got our goats.

She shuffled into the kitchen. Before long we heard her singing the sweet melody of “Amazing Grace.” My brother and I sat for a few minutes staring at the enormous basket. We had shelled peas before, as a lark. Grandma watched soap operas every afternoon and snapped beans or shelled peas while a Secret Storm gathered over The Edge of Night. While she watched, my brother and I sat cross-legged at her feet and shelled peas—maybe ten or fifteen—grew bored, and then scurried outside before the commercials came on, and she figured out we were gone. Now we had thousands of them to shell, all by ourselves.

I jerked up the sack and shoved it under my legs.

“Hey,” my brother mouthed. “Where’m I ‘posed to put the hulls?”

I pointed to the basket. The logic being that as we worked, the basket would empty and make room for the hulls.

I grabbed a handful of green fuzzy pods, dropped them in my lap, and bent over the lard bucket. My legs felt better, but sweat streamed down my back. My shorts were soaked, and my ponytail felt glued to my neck. I pulled the stringy thing on the end of a pod and zipped open the shell. Perfectly shaped orbs lay side by side. I aimed at the lead pea with my marble-flicking thumb and let loose. Six chubby peas rolled into the bucket. I tossed the empty pod in the basket.

Billy caught on, and soon we had an assembly line going. Zip. Flick. Toss. Zip. Flick. Toss. The empty hulls stacked up and the lard buckets filled, but the basket still contained thousands of pods.

Somewhere about the tenth lapful the sweat bee returned and landed on my knee. I prayed for it to leave. When that didn’t work I smacked it hard, and my leg jerked. My blue sneaker kicked the lard bucket, tipping it over. Tiny flawless peas rolled out like ants on an assault mission.

Billy’s hand flew to his mouth, and a small gurgle escaped. He glanced at the door, his face twisted with fear. Then he turned his glare on me.

Time stood still. I forgot about the sweat and the bees. The porch slanted toward the yard, so water couldn’t collect against the house when it rained. I watched in horror as the peas gathered in formation. In unison, they began to roll their black eyes at me. Each floor board they crossed gave them momentum. Grandma launched into “Onward Christian Soldiers.” The peas marched toward the steps.

Billy sprang from his chair and barreled into the house. “Grandma, I have to go bathroom,” he shouted. “And I need you to tie my shoe when I get done. Oh, and can I have a drink of water?”

I leaped up, grocery sack stuck tight to my legs. Peas bounced down the steps. I shoved my bucket under the porch board and collected as fast as I could. My heart pounded in my ears. When I had grabbed all the peas on the porch, except a few dawdlers, I bent around to salvage a pile that had come to rest on the bottom step. A few more and I would be home-free. I turned around, intent on gathering the renegades, and came nose-to-toe with Grandma’s white tennis shoes, the ones with the beet stains she wore on canning days. My goat was got.

My eyes traveled up two stubby support-hosed legs, to her cornflower blue dress, and over the tattered apron. I stopped at the two out-stretched, liver-spotted hands holding three glasses of frosty lemonade. I sucked in my breath and continued the trip to her face. Her left brow hiked up a notch, and the skin at her temple twitched.

“Lost a few peas, did you?” Her mouth showed no expression.

“Uh. Yes… I mean… Yes, ma’am.” Not taking my eyes from her, I continued to claw at the porch.

Billy skidded to a halt at the door. His eyes locked on my face. A squeak escaped his lips.

Grandma whirled around, sending her dress into a dancing frenzy.

“Did you know anything about this?” Her toe tapped an insistent beat, like some primordial drum pounding out the call of our native ancestors. Peas bounced with wicked abandon.

Billy lowered his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“So the bathroom was just a trick.”

“Uh huh.” His chin quivered.

“The two of you are in cahoots?” she asked.

Neither one of us spoke.

“Who spilled them?” Her shoe landed on two plump peas and blasted them across the porch where they did a mighty fine jump shot into the fern pot. Two points for Grandma.

As if rehearsed, we both replied, “I did.”

I paused a split-second, while I gathered courage. “No. Grandma, it was my fault.” My lips had betrayed me.

Billy looked cross-eyed through the screen, but didn’t say a word. His shoulders slumped with relief.

Grandma shuffled over to the sagging porch swing, the one under the front room window, and eased down. It groaned a fearsome complaint. Silence gathered around us. We heard the rumble of a freight train in the distance. Storm clouds festered on the horizon. I willed myself to disappear. Grandma stared straight ahead. Then she raised a glass to her lips and took a sip of lemonade.

My brother and I stayed where we were; neither had the nerve to make the first move. The stragglers rolled across the porch. My eyes followed their path and watched in terror as they tumbled past the bucket and down the steps.

Grandma took another sip, eyes focused on the approaching storm.

“Come over here, both of you.”

Billy looked at me for guidance. I inched up the steps and across the porch, careful not to squish any peas. He hesitated, then pushed open the door and mimicked my footsteps.

Grandma handed us each a glass of lemonade and motioned for us to sit down—one on either side of her. The scent of her lilac cologne mingled with the musty smell of cooked beets.

The three of us sat while the storm passed. It was over as quickly as it had started. The clean scent of rain lingered. Grandma pushed off the porch floor with her shoe and ever so gently we began to swing.

–Tricia Sanders