Tales from a Free-Range Childhood Page 7

  I pushed on the inside of the door. It did not budge. It was a little, undersized closet that had no doorknobs or normal latches. No, all it had was a little spring latch that snapped locked on the outside when you pushed—or, in my case, pulled—the door shut. There was no access to the latch from the inside. I was caught!

  I thought about what to do. Then, very politely—yes, very politely—I knocked three times on the inside of the closet door.

  Mama heard the sound. “What was that?” she asked Daddy.

  “What was what?” he responded. He honestly had not heard the knocking.

  Before she answered him, I knocked again, three times.

  Daddy heard clearly this time. “Well,” he drawled, “it sounds like we’ve got a little rat in the closet! That’s exactly what it sounds like.”

  Mama started to smile, though I could not figure out why. “How about that?” She looked at Daddy. “A little rat in the closet. Well, we surely do not want rats in our closet. What do you think we should do about it?”

  Daddy was thinking about it. I could see him through the crack of the door. “We could mix up some poison and slide it under the door on a piece of bread. But if he is a smart little rat, he would never eat poisoned bread.

  “I know what let’s do,” he went on. “I will go get my big gun and shoot through the door!”

  With that, I started screaming and banging on the door at the same time. “Nooo! Nooo! It’s me! It’s me. It’s not a little rat. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”

  Mama came over to the outside of the door. She did not open it. She simply squatted down by the outside of the door and asked, “What’s your name, little rat? Do you have a name?”

  “Donald Douglas Davis is my name. You ought to know that! You gave it to me. Please let me out of here!”

  Mama seemed to turn back toward Daddy and asked, “Donald Douglas Davis . . . ummm . . . Do we know anyone by that name?”

  Daddy chuckled. “Not that I can remember right now. Stay here, I’m going to get my big gun!”

  Through the years, I have wondered: was it legally child abuse for the two of them to sit there on the outside of that little closet door and laugh their heads off for a full ten minutes while I screamed and banged for my life on the inside of that closet door? It seemed like it lasted for an hour.

  At last, Mama came over and opened the closet door. I was so exhausted and hyperventilated that I purely rolled, gasping, out into the kitchen floor, sobbing all the time, “I’m not a little rat, I’m not a little rat.”

  There was no punishment. I guess that everyone in charge thought there had been enough suffering for everyone.

  After that day, two memorable things did happen.

  The next time my aunt Pat came for a visit, my mama told her, “Pat, I want to thank you again for that lovely little bottle of perfume you brought me from Harrods. I have enjoyed it so much!”

  With that, Aunt Pat questioned, “You mean that you have opened it?”

  “Opened it?” Mama corrected, “Why, I have used every drop of it. And I have never had a bottle of perfume that gave me as much pleasure as that one!”

  And that Christmas, even though I was only eight years old, I got the big chemistry set for Christmas . . . with a promise that I would play only with it and not touch another single thing in our house.

  Chapter 8

  RESPONSIBLE

  My grandmother had her first heart attack when she was in her fifties. All through my growing-up years, she had a series of heart attacks until “Grandma had a heart attack” was not an event of new crisis but almost part of the norm.

  Each time she had a heart attack, part of the recuperation included spending a week or more at our house in town before she returned home to Rush Fork. This was almost like a party, as it meant suspension of normal household routine and rules. It was a treat to have Grandma in recovery with us.

  The only problem with having our grandmother at our house she caused for herself. She was supposed to do something that the doctor called “rest,” and she did not know the meaning of the word. We would leave her at home while we went to school and Mama and Daddy went to work. When we got home each afternoon, Grandma would have washed the clothes, cleaned the house, and cooked supper for the family. She could not bring herself to rest.

  One day, Daddy told us that he had an idea that would help Grandma. He told us all about it at the supper table. “I have been thinking. It is so hard for Zephie to get any rest around here when we are all gone to work and to school. I have been thinking that if we got a television set, she could sit on the sofa in the living room and watch television, and she would get better more quickly.”

  We all knew that Daddy had been thinking about the television set for a long time. He was the one who wanted it, but Grandma was his excuse to be able to justify getting it at last.

  He must have made a trip to Massie Furniture the next day because, at our next night’s supper, we got the new chapter in the unfolding television story: “Tomorrow, it is coming!”

  “What’s coming?” Mama was not easily cooperating.

  “Our new television set. The arrangements are all made. While we are gone to school and work tomorrow, two men from Massie’s will come and bring the television set. Zephie, you must be on the lookout and let them in. They will put our new television set in the living room and hook everything up so we can try it out tomorrow night.”

  I could hardly sleep that night. The next day, I could not pay attention in school. No one in our family had a television set. I had never actually seen one turned on except in the window at Massie Furniture Company. Now, we were going to have one.

  When we got home that day, we all knew it had happened. The moment Mama turned in the driveway, we could see it: the big silvery television antenna that was attached to the chimney on the top of our house.

  “I hope that Santa Claus doesn’t get hung up in that thing!” Joe worried.

  Mama just laughed. “We will all have to get used to it, including Santa Claus.”

  We almost ran inside the house to see. Grandma was sitting calmly in the living room watching the television set. Mama and Joe and I joined her and carefully studied the big, square piece of furniture with the glass television-screen front. We watched and watched the television, not yet able to imagine what would happen when it actually got turned on. That would have to happen when Daddy got home, as none of the rest of us had any idea how to start up the thing.

  Daddy got home and began to explain the television set to us like he was an expert. He walked us around the house and pointed out the arms and extensions on the silvery antenna. He showed us how the double wire came from the antenna down the side of the house and under the window into the living room. He showed us how the antenna wire was attached to the back and told us that the pictures would come invisibly through the air and then down the wire to appear on our own television. Then he told us that we would not have to wait; we would come into the living room and turn on the television set right after supper that very night.

  I could not eat. I could not swallow. The excitement was too great. Finally, we declared ourselves fed and the family, including Grandma, adjourned to the living room. Daddy gave us all instructions about what to do so that the television could be turned on: “Everybody get a seat. Sit where you can see the screen, but don’t get too close to that thing or it will put your eyes out.” He turned all the lights off in the living room except for one lamp in the back of the room.

  “Now I can’t see.” Joe voiced his concern. “It’s too dark to see the television set.”

  “Hang on,” Daddy returned. “You will be surprised!”

  He picked up the plug and plugged in the television. (He had told us earlier that you had to unplug the television when it was not turned on so that if lightning hit the antenna it would not ruin the television.) We only got one channel: Channel 13, Asheville, North Carolina, ABC.

  When he turned it on, we heard
a humming sound. Then a bright spot appeared in the center of the screen and broadened into a horizontal line, and in no time we saw a picture on the screen.

  The program was called John Daly and the News, and it was boring. Mr. John Daly was telling about President Eisenhower playing golf with somebody. I was disappointed in television.

  All of a sudden, there was a break in the news program, and there appeared on the screen a little cartoon beaver holding a toothbrush. The little beaver had enormous teeth, and, while brushing his teeth with the toothbrush, he began to sing:

  Brusha, brusha, brusha, get the new Ipana,

  Brusha, brusha, brusha, it’s dandy for your tee-eeth!

  Now, this was something worth watching! Joe and I danced around the room while the beaver, who was now identified as “Bucky,” finished his tooth-brushing song.

  “Now, that was good!” I offered.

  “That is what’s called a ‘commercial.’ They are just trying to make us buy something,” Mama filled us in.

  I couldn’t figure out why we did not go straight in the bathroom, throw away our half-used Colgate, and head to the store to get Ipana toothpaste.

  Pretty soon, the news program came to an end. There was another wonderful commercial with a little character called “Speedy Alka-Seltzer” singing about, “Plop-plop, fizz-fizz . . .” I loved television.

  All of a sudden, the program changed, and we saw a big man in a shiny suit holding a microphone. He was standing in the middle of what looked like a boxing ring and was surrounded by a horde of screaming people. “Welcome,” the man shouted into the microphone, “welcome to Champions of Texas Wrestling!” We were simply hypnotized.

  The announcer told us that the upcoming match was to be between two wrestlers called “the Little Swede” and “the Swamp Monster.” He went on to tell us that the Swamp Monster was so ugly that a law had been passed that he had to wear a mask to appear in public or he would scare people to death! Out came the masked wrestler, and the entire audience booed.

  Then the Little Swede was brought out. He was not so little after all, especially in the belly. He had long, stringy blond hair and wore trunks that looked like they were made out of spotted leopard skin. The audience all cheered wildly.

  A bell rang, and the wrestling match began.

  In no time, it was obvious to me that the Swamp Monster was a cheater. Every time the referee was not watching, the Swamp Monster would grab the Little Swede around the neck from behind. While he held him around the neck with one fat arm, with his other hand he bored his knuckles into the Little Swede’s eyes and tried to blind him.

  All of a sudden, Grandma jumped up from the sofa and started poking the television screen with her finger. “Cheater! Cheater! Cheater!” she screamed. “Catch him, stop him, don’t let him do that!” She was hollering at the referee right through the television set.

  Now, Mama jumped up. She ran across the room and jerked the cord out of the outlet in the wall. The screen collapsed in blackness until only a point of fading light glowed in the center. All was in quietness.

  Mama looked sternly at Grandma. “Sit down, Mother! Sit down right now and behave yourself. We got this television to help you rest, not to fire you up and get you more out of sorts than ever. If you do not want us to take it back to the store, you will have to stop acting younger than the children and behave yourself.”

  Grandma slinked back to the sofa like a disciplined dog. She sat quietly, then almost begged, “Turn it back on. I won’t do anything.”

  Through the rest of the Texas wrestling show, Grandma sat beside me. Her breathing was heavy, and I could hear her quietly whispering to herself, “Cheater, cheater, cheater.”

  A few days later, it was Saturday. Mama and Daddy were going to Asheville, and Joe and I were left to stay with Grandma. As soon as they were gone, the three of us unanimously headed to the living room and plugged in the television set. When it came on, we were all thrilled. It was Saturday-morning cartoons. There were Betty Boop and Popeye. Best of all were episodes of The Little Rascals and The Three Stooges. Grandma joined us as we acted like Moe, Curly, and Larry on our own after the show came to an end. We had a good time, but even with that, cartoons were still not as good at Texas wrestling.

  Grandma had been with us for two weeks when the day came for Mama to take her back to the doctor’s office for her checkup. Joe and I were not considered old enough to leave at home alone, especially with the unguarded television set, so we were popped into the car to go along for the ride.

  The doctor’s office was in the Medical Arts Pharmacy Building, a new building located just across the street from the Haywood County Hospital. The bottom level was the big, new drugstore, with the doctors’ offices being the occupants of the second floor.

  As soon as Mama pulled into the parking lot, we began to hear her plan: “Boys, I know that there is nothing for you to do in the doctor’s office but get bored. And I don’t want to leave you bored in the waiting room when I go back in there with your grandmother to talk with the doctor. That would be dangerous.

  “So here is my idea. You boys go out there to the corner where the red light is, wait until all of the traffic is stopped, cross the street very carefully, and play in the big yard of the hospital until I come out there to get you. There are lots of trees, and there is wonderful shade over there. The dogwoods are blooming, and it will be a nicer place for you to spend time than being stuck over here in the doctor’s office.”

  We thought it was a wonderful idea. Springtime was no time to be stuck indoors anywhere, especially in a stuffy old doctor’s office.

  As soon as we got out of the car, Joe and I were both ready to go. Joe got the first idea: “We could play Texas wrestling.”

  Mama was quick. “Absolutely not! Play does not mean horseplay. You boys sit under the trees and play quietly and safely. No Texas wrestling!”

  Mama got Grandma out of the car, and they started toward the building. My brother and I headed down toward the protected crossing of the traffic light.

  Just before we were out of Mama’s sight, she gave us one last word: “Remember, Donald, you are the oldest. So you are responsible for your brother! Be careful and play calmly. We do not need another member of this family in the hospital.” And we were gone.

  Those horrible words “You are responsible” were left hanging in the air as Joe and I crossed the street, and he was making sure that I did not accidentally forget them.

  “You’re responsible, you’re responsible, you’re responsible,” he grinned as he chanted over and over again. I already wanted to wring his little neck.

  As soon as we arrived at the big lawn of the hospital, my brother proceeded to torment me. He would climb to the top of the highest tree, crawl out on a limb, and act like he was going to fall out, all the while calling to me, “If I fall, it will be your fault. You are responsible!”

  I almost cried, begging him to come back down. He came down from the tree and immediately proceeded to run around and around and in and out through the cars in the little hospital parking lot. I should have anticipated his words: “If I get run over, it will be your fault! You are responsible!” He was willing to suffer pain just to get me in trouble. Texas wrestling would have been a whole lot calmer than this.

  I desperately tried to figure out what to do. Suddenly, I had an idea. “Joe! Let’s play tag. I know a good, new version that we have never played. Want to try it out?”

  His curiosity got the best of him, and he agreed. “What kind of tag is it?”

  I was thinking as fast as I could. “It’s called ‘Texas Wrestling Tag.’ Do you see all of the dogwood trees that are in bloom?” He nodded his head in assent. “Well, those trees are the safety zones. If you are touching one of them, it is like you are on base. But they are only safety zones while the other person counts to ten. When the other person counts to ten, you have to let go and try to make it to another dogwood before you get tagged. If you get tagged, then you
are ‘it’ and you have to do the chasing.

  “Now, you are the Little Swede, and I am the Swamp Monster. See if you can catch me before I get to a dogwood tree, and you will win the first round of the wrestling match.”

  He agreed. I let Joe easily catch me. That would get him interested in staying in the game. In fact, I let him catch me two or three times in a row so he would think he was good at this. Pretty soon, however, I was running hard, getting away, and always catching him.

  He was holding on to a dogwood tree, puffing and panting, and I was counting to ten. On ten, he let go and began to run toward another far-off dogwood tree. I was hot on his trail. As he neared his goal, I yelled, “Swamp Monster’s coming!” and growled at him like an enraged wild animal. He could not resist. He looked back, still running full speed toward the dogwood tree.

  When he hit the tree, he had almost turned his head back around. So it was the side of his face that took the major part of the impact. His face hit the rough tree trunk a glancing blow, and he fell to the ground. When I got to him, he did not look normal. One side of his face was as it had always been. The other side looked like bloody, fresh hamburger meat.

  Joe was crying, “You’re responsible, you’re responsible. This is all your fault!”

  I begged him, “Don’t cry. It will be all right. Don’t cry! The Little Swede isn’t supposed to cry!” Every time I uttered the words “Don’t cry,” his volume doubled.

  Some people we did not know were coming toward their car from the hospital. When they heard Joe squalling, they came over to see what was going on. They took one look at him, and the woman said to the man, “We better get this child some help. It seems like nobody is responsible for him!”

  They disappeared back into the hospital. In no time, a man and woman, both dressed in white, came running. The man was pushing a wheelchair. They picked Joe up, put him in the wheelchair, and hauled him away. All I could do was follow. He kept crying, “That is my brother. He is responsible!”