Fireflies In December Part 5

Chapter 6.

Gemma started talking a lot more after the day we went to town, but she wouldn't speak a word about her parents, wouldn't even say their names. Momma, Daddy, and I had agreed to follow suit so we didn't upset her, but it was really for our sake, too. We were all still pretty sore inside from the tragedy.

It was as if Daddy's words to Walt Blevins had rea.s.sured Gemma that we really did want her. Now, I couldn't speak for Momma any more than Daddy could, but for Gemma, knowing that Daddy accepted her meant something. Anyway, she already knew that I I wanted her. wanted her.

As for Momma, she wasn't around to hear what Daddy had said, and neither of us thought to tell her. She wasn't having the easiest time with the whole thing, and I figured why bother bringing it up to her. Momma was just having a hard time adjusting, Daddy told me one evening after I'd asked him about it.

"You got to understand, Jessilyn. Momma needs company, and not too many people in this town will keep company with someone who sees colored people the same as white people. Your momma, she don't think nothin' bad about Gemma. It's other people that make it seem that way."

"Those other people are wrong."

"Sure enough, but sayin' so don't change them none, and Momma knows she'll lose friends over this."

"Momma always told me if people don't want to be my friend, then they probably ain't worth havin' as friends."

Daddy gave me a puzzled look, like he was having one of those rare moments when he didn't know what to say. Then he answered, "When you live in a small town, pickin's are slim. You find friends where you can. Your momma already lost a friend in Gemma's momma. She don't want to lose no more."

For a minute I chewed on my fingernails, even though I knew Momma would scold me for it later, and then I said, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do people hate us now?"

Daddy shook his head slowly. "People don't hate us, Jessilyn. Not all of them. There are different kinds of people in this world. It's true some of them are full of hate, but others are just scared, is all. Some of 'em don't understand us, and people can be afraid of things they don't understand. And others . . . they don't like being looked down on, so they go along with other people's thinkin' so to keep themselves from trouble."

"Trouble like we're havin'?" I asked.

"Sure enough. Trouble like that."

"Seems cowardly to me," I said, "not standin' up for some-thin' or somebody."

"You can't go tryin' to figure other people, baby. People have all sorts of reasons why they are what they are. Some people are scared because life's been so hard on 'em."

"But they're still wrong."

"Don't give us the right to be hateful to 'em. They're wrong-that I can say, but I can't say I know all that goes on in their hearts, can I? So best I can do is pray for 'em. Leave 'em to G.o.d."

I was tired, and I laid my head back, looked out at the star-dotted sky, and sighed. "Sometimes I don't know what G.o.d expects us to do."

Daddy didn't say anything for a minute or so, and then he reached up and caught a firefly as it glowed beside him. "See this light?" he asked me when the firefly lit up his hand.

"Yes'r."

"That light is bright enough to light up a little speck of the night sky so a man can see it a ways away. That's what G.o.d expects us to do. We're to be lights in the dark, cold days that are this world. Like fireflies in December."

Then Daddy opened his hand, and we both sat and watched the insect crawl around for a moment before taking off into the dimness.

"Ain't much lightin' one of them can do, Daddy," I said.

"Not by himself. But give him some company, and you'd get a good piece of light."

"Don't look to me like we got much company in this town."

He leaned over and patted my knee softly. "It's got to start somewhere, Jessilyn. It's got to start somewhere."

Down the road a piece from our farm lived an old lady most people just called Miss Cleta. She was known countywide for her baked goods, most particularly her cinnamon buns that dripped with white icing. She'd been a widow ever since I'd known her, but there were pictures of her husband, Sully, all over the house. There wasn't a room that didn't have Sully looking over it. He was the handsomest and kindest of men, Miss Cleta always said. She would show me the furniture he'd made-even though I'd seen it dozens of times-and insist I sit in his handmade rocker in the front room because it was the most comfortable chair anyone could ever rest their backside in.

Miss Cleta lived in a big two-story house with a long porch and window boxes. It was her house that inspired me to vow that someday I would have a house with window boxes. Most days that I would pa.s.s by, she'd be sitting on one of Sully's porch rockers knitting or st.i.tching. Through her old eyes, she'd watch her hands form perfect knits and purls, her face pressed up close to her work. But she never failed to put it down and invite me up for a treat.

Miss Cleta would always invite Gemma in too, when we were together. Color didn't matter any to her. In fact, she'd told Gemma that her momma's great-grandmother had been colored, and that just showed that we're all connected somewhere, somehow. "There weren't but two people at the start of life, anyhow," she'd said. "That's about as close a relation as we can get."

Gemma and I were walking by her house one morning when Miss Cleta called, "Yoo-hoo."

"Hey there, Miss Cleta," I called back with a wave. "Nice mornin'."

"Nice as they come. Not much to make it better but a little sweet and some lemonade."

Gemma and I glanced at each other and smiled. We'd been hoping for this.

"Come on up here and set awhile," she said. "I could use the company, and I'll never finish that rhubarb pie on my own."

Gemma and I looked toward the windowsill where a golden pie rested, and Gemma put an elbow into my side.

"I know," I whispered. "Rhubarb's your favorite."

Gemma, Miss Cleta, and I sat on the porch together, warm as toast but enjoying every bit of that pie. Even Miss Cleta's lemonade was better than most with its slices of strawberries floating inside. And to make it better than anything else, she'd wet the top of the gla.s.s and dip it in sugar. Miss Cleta and Sully had never had any children, which I'd always thought a real shame. A child could have had quite a life in a house like that, I figured.

"You been entertainin' yourselves this summer?" Miss Cleta asked. "Ain't but so much to do in the heat."

"We get on all right," I said after a sip of lemonade. "Ain't much to do, you're right."

"When I was your age, I used to like pickin' berries."

"We got a good crop of blackberries up on the south hill," I told her. "Gemma and me picked some last Friday and had them with cream."

Between bites of pie, Miss Cleta and I talked on about this and that, but Gemma sat quiet the whole time. I didn't think much of it. I figured it was because she was enjoying her rhubarb pie. It was only while Miss Cleta and I were talking about fis.h.i.+ng bait that Gemma's reason for being silent came out.

"You can find good worms in my garden," Miss Cleta said. "Come on over and dig them out if you want."

"Momma would wallop me for diggin' around your flowers."

"Not if I say you can. It won't hurt my flowers none." Miss Cleta stopped rocking her chair. "What about you, Miss Gemma? You like fis.h.i.+n'?"

Gemma stared at her lap for a few seconds before she finally said, "My momma and daddy died."

I swallowed my gulp of lemonade hard and looked up in disbelief.

Miss Cleta nodded several times. Then she said, "I know that, darlin'." She leaned over and put one worn hand on Gemma's knee. "I cried for you, sure enough."

Gemma hopped up with a sob and buried her face in Miss Cleta's yellow ap.r.o.n. That was the first time I saw Gemma cry about her momma and daddy.

"It's okay, baby," Miss Cleta said, smoothing Gemma's hair and rocking her from side to side. "You go on and cry. Ain't nothin' wrong with that."

It wasn't long before I started to taste salty tears too, but mine were quiet. I tried to take another bite of pie, but it stuck in my throat. I put my plate down on the small wicker table and wiped my eyes as secretively as I could. I hated crying, but I figured it was for a good cause. I knew that if I'd lost my momma and daddy, I'd have cried buckets, and I knew it would do Gemma some good.

Gemma and I walked home that day in silence. She spent most of her time sniffling and wiping her nose on the back of her hand. I spent my time kicking a pebble along the path in front of me.

That night at suppertime, Gemma stayed in our room, tired out from all the crying, and went to bed early. Daddy had made another bed for my room, so Gemma had a nice bed to crawl into just a few feet away from mine. I left her there after asking her a few times if she was sure she wasn't hungry.

Luke came to supper that night as he usually did, so I made sure to pretty myself up as best I could before I went downstairs. I'd taken to wearing a dress to supper on nights when Luke was coming, and I'd learned to do a much better braid.

"What went on with Gemma today?" Momma asked as she scooped peas onto her plate. "Is she sick?"

"Maybe she's sick in a sort of way," I said. I took as few peas as I could without looking like I hated them, which I did, and pa.s.sed them on to Luke with a smile. "We stopped by Miss Cleta's today, and Gemma had a good cry on her."

"She had a good cry on Miss Cleta?" Daddy asked.

"Right on her ap.r.o.n."

"About her momma and daddy?" Luke asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Poor thing," Momma said, her voice shaky with sadness. Momma could work up tears faster than anyone I'd ever seen.

"About time," Daddy said. "Ain't right not to grieve properly." "Well, she grieved, all right," I said. "I think she's plumb tuckered out after it. That's why she's in bed."

"Well, if she's gonna pick a person to cry on," Daddy said, "Miss Cleta's a good one for it. That's one kind soul."

"I'm worried she'll go hungry," Momma said, looking up at the ceiling like she could see Gemma through the floor. "It ain't good for a girl to go without a hot supper."

"We had rhubarb pie at Miss Cleta's," I told her. "Gemma had two pieces and two gla.s.ses of lemonade. She's had food, sure enough."

"Rhubarb pie and lemonade don't take the place of ham and collard greens."

I didn't argue with Momma. She was pretty determined about the importance of good eating, and I knew I wouldn't convince her of anything. Instead I turned my attention to Luke. "Goin' fis.h.i.+n' on Sat.u.r.day mornin'?"

"Plan to. Early as I can get my eyes open. Barter's Lake is jumpin' with ba.s.s, so I hear."

"Usually is," Daddy said.

"I got my boat ready to go out on the water. Patched it up last night, so I'm lookin' forward to it."

I pushed my peas around my plate and sighed. "I ain't been fis.h.i.+n' in a while. Daddy used to take me, but we ain't gone in weeks."

"We can go fis.h.i.+n' if you want, Jessilyn. I just need to make me a new pole." Daddy gave Luke a hearty smile. "Last pole I had sits at the bottom of the pond. I tossed it in the water when I lost my catfish, mad as a snake."

"Don't go bringin' up your temper, Harley La.s.siter," Momma said, pointing her fork at him. "You've lost more poles in that creek because of it. There must be about twenty of them in there."

"Just try bein' this close," Daddy told her, pinching two fingers almost shut, "without catchin' the biggest catfish in the South. See how long you keep your temper."

"And that's another thing. Every time I hear about this catfish that you keep losin', it gets bigger and bigger."

"It was five feet long, sure as I'm born."

"Five feet long! It started out two feet and grew to five feet in three sightin's of it."

"Maybe it ain't the same catfish. Maybe I'm seein' the whole family at different times."

Momma sputtered and got up to refill the water pitcher. "Harley La.s.siter, you're more full of it than Tom Bodine's cow field!"

Luke and I shared a smile, and Daddy took one look at us and laughed in his big, loud way. "I always know how to get her goat. Don't I, Jessilyn?"

Luke smiled at me again and said, "Come on with me if you want, Jessie. You can bring Gemma too. I've got room in my boat. You'd have to get up before the sun, though."

My heart started to beat like crazy, and I looked at Momma and Daddy with pleading eyes. "Can we go? I'll still get my ch.o.r.es done. I promise."

Momma and Daddy exchanged a glance before Daddy said, "Well, Jessie . . . much as I hate someone takin' my place as your fis.h.i.+n' partner, I do have other things to do besides fis.h.i.+n'."

"I'll watch out for them like my own sisters," Luke rea.s.sured them.

I wasn't too happy about being likened to his sister, but I figured it was worth putting up with to go fis.h.i.+ng with him. I just said, "So I can go?"

"You can go," Daddy said, tossing his napkin onto the table. "Providin' you don't catch my giant catfish. That's for me to do."

Momma shook her head and poured more water into Luke's gla.s.s. "It's more likely they'll catch some of your old fis.h.i.+n' rods, Harley."

"There likely ain't any left. The giant catfish family probably ate them."

"Enough catfish talk," Momma said.

"All right," Daddy said, winking at me while Momma wasn't looking. "No more catfish talk."

Momma said, "Good" and sat down and went back to eating the rest of her greens.

"'Course, I'll show you all someday when I catch that seven-foot catfish."

Momma must have kicked Daddy under the table just then because he let out a yelp and rubbed his s.h.i.+n.

I wasn't too worried about finding out what happened. I was too busy thinking about Sat.u.r.day morning and my fis.h.i.+ng trip.