The Tricycle

The dinette table in Aunt Dee's kitchen was full of all my favorite food, steam still coming off the big bowl of black-eyed peas. A lump of fatback the size of a door knob oozed good old hog grease to flavor the peas. When Aunt Dee set the iron skillet of brown-crusty corn bread on a hot pad right in front of me, I wanted to grab a hunk and slather it with butter right that minute. 

A smiling Aunt Dee read my mind. "No, Jim Boy, you can't touch the corn bread till your Uncle Joe gets here. This is his dinner break." 

I looked around the kitchen, still hot from the oven, the room filled with good smells, like the crispy fried okra that was better than popcorn. In the summer heat, my legs were sticking to the red plastic covering on the dinette chair. But I didn't care.  I loved being at Aunt Dee's house on the farm. 

She told us that morning as she stood at the stove, peas in the pot, potatoes boiling, "After we eat, we'll walk down to the creek and wade. Would you like that?"

"Oh yay," I shouted. "Yes, yes!"

My sister Karen in her flowered sun dress, sat across from me, hands tucked under her bottom to keep from grabbing a spoonful of fluffy mashed potatoes. "I love your mashed potatoes, Aunt Dee. Why don't you teach our mama to cook like you do?" Our favorite aunt just smiled. 

Squirming on the sticky chair seat, I said to no one in particular, "Hurry up, Uncle Joe, I'm dying of hunger!" My sister and Aunt Dee both laughed.

"I think I hear him now," said Aunt Dee. Then the front door slammed, the sound of his boots clomping on the pine wood floor.

Uncle Joe laid his Stetson hat and a big pistol on the sink counter, the odor of cigar wiping out the good smell of food with fumes that made my eyes water. Rings of sweat circled the arm holes of his tan deputy sheriff's uniform. His big silver badge flashed as he clomped to the table. Pulling out a chair so hard, the chrome legs slid from under the table with a loud thump. 

"Hey, y'all," he said, grabbing a plate. "Dee, pour me some of that buttermilk."

Aunt Dee jumped up from her seat at the table, hurrying to get her husband the buttermilk he demanded. "Let's eat," he said in his big booming voice.

Why didn't he say "please" to Aunt Dee? Why didn't we bless our food before we ate?  Our mama had some rules. The big man at the table sort of scared me, so I didn't say anything.  Karen, not sure what to do, waited a minute, then grabbed the bowl of mashed potatoes.

"Joe, we had a letter from Joe Jr today. Now the war's over the Marines will be sending him back to the states. I've worried myself sick about him being in the thick of fighting over in the Philippines."

"That's good," he said. "We need the boy back on the farm."

"What kind of morning you been having?" asked Aunt Dee.

Waving his fork in excitement, Uncle Joe, said, "I wish you could have seen that nigger I knocked off a coal truck this morning. I told that nigger he didn't have no business up there. Nigger just cowered down and didn't move."

"Was he trying to catch a ride?" asked Aunt Dee.

"Hell, no, I'm pretty sure the bastard was stealing coal. So I knocked the shit out him with my billy stick."

"Joe, maybe we don't need to talk about this anymore in from of the kids."

"They're old enough to learn what it's like out there," he bellowed. "When I got back in my cruiser, he was still a laying there in the gravel beside the truck, nigger blood all over his nappy head."

Uncle Joe seemed satisfied that his morning had gone so well.  He drank his buttermilk in big gulps and shoveled Aunt Dee's good food in his mouth, chomping loudly. Our mama would have made him leave the table.

Karen stopped eating, turning pale. I couldn't take another bite either.

Wiping his empty plate with the last bit of corn bread, Uncle Joe noticed that Karen and I didn't eat very much. "What's wrong with you kids? If you don't start eating, we'll have to feed you to the hogs."

Both of us looked to Aunt Dee, hoping she'd protect us. But she just sat there.

When Uncle Joe scooted his chair back and got up to leave, he stuffed the big pistol back in the holster on his belt. I could see sweat stains on the head band of his hat as he slammed it on his head.

If I was upset about the ugly things he said at the table, my day was about to get worse.

"Come on, boy, I want you to ride in the cruiser with me this afternoon. I'll show you what it's like to be a deputy sheriff."

Screwing up my courage, I said, "I can't go today.  Aunt Dee is taking us to the creek to wade."

"She can take you tomorrow, boy. Go pee and let's get going."

I looked to my aunt and my sister for help. They just looked blank. Guess they're afraid of him, too. So, hanging my head, I followed him to the cruiser.

He drove for a while on county roads I'd never been on before. His police radio buzzed with static. A couple of times, I heard gravel ping under the cruiser. The smoke from his cigar was making me feel sick, but I was afraid to say anything

Finally, Uncle Joe said, "What's a matter with you, boy?  Cat got your tongue?"

"My name is Jim," I whispered.

"What's that you said?"

Louder, I said, "My name is Jim."

"I know your name, boy!"

When a garbled voice came over the radio, Uncle Joe picked up the microphone to respond. "Roger, I'm on my way."

"Hey, I got a call to make. This old nigger woman passed a bad check. We'll go shake her up a little."

He seemed almost happy when he parked the cruiser in front of a run-down old house with a sagging porch. "Open up, this is the law," he shouted. A thin little dark-skinned woman peeped out the door in answer to his loud banging. 

Uncle Joe berated the woman, waving his pistol in the air. I could see her crying, trying to explain that she'd take the money to the bank just as soon as her son got off work. I heard her say she was sorry. It was just a mistake. But he kept on yelling.

I couldn't stand it any longer.  Getting out of the cruiser, I yelled, "Stop it, Uncle Joe, just stop it!"

Uncle Joe, red in the face, screamed. "Get back in the car, boy! Right now!"

He was so mad, he drove away in a rush, spewing mud and gravel as he turned around in the dirt yard.

He didn't say anything for a long time.  Maybe he felt bad about the scene I witnessed. I don't know. Then he turned to me, "Hey, boy, I'm gonna take you to the hardware store and buy you a tricycle.  You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I guess so."

When my daddy came to the farm a few days later to take me and Karen back to the city, he loaded the big red tricycle in the car trunk. "That's really a nice tricycle," he said.

I didn't say anything. But Karen talked for twenty miles about the dogs, the horse and wading in the creek. "We had so much fun," she said. Then added, "when Uncle Joe wasn't there."

Daddy just nodded.

I ran to mama for a hug when we got back to our little house on Wilson Road in Birmingham. "How's my little man?" she said with a huge smile. "I hear Uncle Joe bought you a nice big tricycle."

"I hate that tricycle," I said.

"Jim Boy, you know our rule. We don't say we hate anything. You can say you don't like something, but never ever use the word hate."

"I'm sorry, Mama, but I really, really HATE that tricycle."

by Sandra Plant