Herndon was a big beefy razor-cut blond wearing a yellow sport shirt, dark slacks, and pointy-toed shoes. He stepped toward Daddy, big paw outstretched. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Perkins. Say, what a great house you have here! You know, I’ve seen a lot of the Midwest, but Detroit is—”
“How old are you, son?” Daddy asked. There was nothing but interest in his voice. He was relaxed there in his chair, head tipped back, the hard planes of his face benign. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.
“Twenty-four,” Herndon said, dropping his untouched hand.
“Daddy—” Libby began.
“Did you know,” Daddy said, “that Elizabeth just turned fifteen?”
Herndon grinned crookedly. “Well, we hadn’t really—”
Libby threw an imploring look at Ma as Daddy said in a whiplike voice, “Fifteen years old! What kind of skunk did your folks raise you to be, courtin’ a fifteen-year-old little girl?”
Herndon held up both hands. “Courting? I’m not—”
Daddy leaped to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. “Get out!” he shrieked, face purpling. His fury demanded more oxygen than his ruined lungs could possibly provide; he exhaled in hard puffs between phrases. “Get out! Get out of my house! You son of a bitch! Get out!”
Libby began to cry. Herndon, twice Daddy’s size and well under half his age, took one step back, gave Libby an unreadable glance, then turned and strode out of the house.
My sister’s round face was wet and white. “Thanks an awful lot!” she shouted to the room at large, then ran away into the living room.
My big brother Bill stared grimly into his lap. Uncle Dan looked levelly at me. My heart pounded as if I was the object of my daddy’s wrath instead of a bystander. Ma had risen and now, as Libby’s footsteps echoed up the stairs, she went to Daddy and put her strong arms around his thin shoulders. “Now sit down, Lewis,” she said brusquely. “Sit down and rest and take some supper.”
“Son of a bitch,” Daddy muttered, the words punctuated by puffs. But he sat.
Ma looked all right, but in her own way she was as upset as Daddy, as indicated by the fact that she clean forgot about grace. “Come on, let’s eat,” she said, spearing her chicken. “Libby will just have to take hers cold.”
“I surely do look forward to these Wednesday night suppers with your family, Ben,” Uncle Dan said dryly.
“Daddy’s been real poorly lately,” I said. “And that dopey sister of mine must have a death wish or something, dropping that guy on Daddy like that. I mean, she ain’t even officially allowed to single-date yet. You really think he’s twenty-four, Uncle?”
“Was once, anyway. I have a feeling he’s been a lot of things. In a lot of places.”
The humid July evening was darkening the porch, which opened on three sides to our heavily treed front yard. I sat on the stone railing, facing Uncle Dan, who was half visible on the big oak glider. He was a thin, wiry man who looked younger than his sixty-two years, with a full head of neatly trimmed, graying auburn hair and a narrow unlined face highlighted by remote gray eyes. As usual he wore a light, neatly tailored suit with shiny black wing tips and a narrow black tie. His Panama hat sat on the glider next to him and a Camel cigarette smoldered between his fingers.
I was jumpy as hell, the Big Question sitting fat in my mouth. Uncle Dan knew that, and was enjoying the suspense. We both looked toward the driveway as Bill’s ’58 Fairlane Town Sedan backed along the side of the house and then took off up the street. “Where’s he off to?” Uncle Dan asked idly. “His shift doesn’t start till midnight.”
“Probably gone to see Marybeth first,” I mumbled.
“He’s been at Ford’s what, eight years now,” Uncle Dan observed. “Think you’ll be able to hang on that long, Ben?”
It took a moment for what he said to register. I stood, fists clenched, heart pounding. “Really, Uncle? When?”
“Monday week, afternoons, at the Rouge.”
“Doing what?” Please, no sweeping floors.
“Hanging doors on Fairlanes and Galaxies.”
I whooped. “Great! Beats sweeping floors.”
My uncle inhaled on his cigarette. “Lot of good men sweep floors at the Rouge. I did it myself, for awhile.”
“Hey, it don’t matter! This is great! Now I can quit the freakin’ grocery store and make some serious dough!”
“Sit down,” he said softly. I complied. My uncle leaned forward. “You remember our deal. You’re going to pass your courses next year and you’re going to graduate high school. You’re not a punk kid any more, you’re a grown man, and you’ve got obligations.”
“Yes sir, Uncle Dan,” I said, toning down the excitement.
“I hear you’re flunking anything, I’ll get you fired out of Ford’s. Hear?”
I wondered if he could really do that. Uncle Dan had seniority to burn, but was only a foreman. There was, on the other hand, a lot about him I did not know. That none of us, Daddy included, ever knew. “Yes, sir. And I’ll pay you back for the car loan, right off the top.”
“No hurry,” he said, leaning back on the glider.
“Evening, Ben!” called a female voice from behind me.
I turned. “Oh, hi, Miz Wilder,” I called back.
“Lovely evening,” she said, smiling at us, strolling by alone in the gloom of the big trees.
“Sure is.”
Uncle Dan was sitting up straight, peering past me. “Neighbor lady?” he asked softly.
“Lives up at the corner of Bentler.”
“Mm. Nice. Miss or Missus?”
“Missus.”
I caught him looking at me closely. After a moment he said, “Your mother was telling me about your new girlfriend. Debbie?”
I scowled. “Debbie Miller. She’s not my girlfriend, just a sophomore chick who lives in the house back of us. Been hanging around here, and Mama’s been egging her on, but there’s nothing there. I’m playing the field,” I ended bravely.
Uncle Dan’s distant eyes were on me again, making me feel distinctly uncomfortable. I wished that I could smoke; it would have helped at moments like that. “Think I’ll mosey along home,” he said, as he stood and put on his Panama, “before Act Two starts.”
That was fine with me. It was pushing eight o’clock; Silent Service was coming on. I walked with Uncle Dan down the brick steps and across the narrow lawn to the curb, where his brand-new Thunderbird convertible, the most expensive car Ford built, was parked behind my brand-new second-hand ’51 Deluxe Tudor sedan. “What do you mean, Act Two?” I asked as we walked.
“Libby and her new, uh, beau,” he said. He crushed out his cigarette, opened the door and got inside.
“Oh, I think Daddy done killed that thing dead,” I grinned.
“I don’t,” my uncle answered, face bleak in the fading light. “I saw them together in there.”
I had no idea what he meant. “Whatever happens, it won’t affect me none,” I said with bravado that was entirely felt.
“May you be so lucky, Ben.” He started the T-Bird, waved, and pulled away up Bennett Street, motor purring, tires humming, taillights glowing red in the gathering darkness.
Three mornings later, I hoofed barefoot into the kitchen, tugging my blue National Foods uniform shirt down over my head. “Mama, I threw my newer work pants down the chute the other day. You washed ’em yet?”
She glanced at me over her shoulder as she rinsed off a breakfast bowl in the sink. “I finished the wash yesterday, Benjy. Those pants weren’t in there.”