This is the fourth section of Chapter 12 from “Dirty Billy,” posted here without further comment.
After waiting at the back garden gate for a good thirty minutes, I supposed my city grampa had fallen asleep reading the Atlanta Constitution in his rocking chair by the fishpond. I slipped through the gate, tippytoed down one of the tall rows of white corn, gave his rocker a big shake from behind, and let out my best Tarzan yell. But instead of jerking awake and coming up after me, he fell forward out of the rocker and tumbled face-first down into the pond. I was in there with him in a flash, but it was no use. He was already gone stiff, and he floated in the water like he was still sitting in his rocker. I got down under him and tried to shove him up and over the side, but he weighed over two hundred pounds and I couldn’t even budge him. I climbed out of the pond, raced back up through the gate and the alleyway, up the middle of the street and the front steps to the church, and busted into the sanctuary right in the middle of the collection. I froze sopping wet and muddy about halfway down the aisle and let out a scream people said could’ve waked the dead. But it didn’t wake my PaPa Thompson. He stayed dead, dead, dead.
Once I’d quit my crying and screaming and told my daddy what happened, I didn’t go back to the fishpond with them. I ran back down Dill Avenue faster than I’d ever run before, turned the corner at Sylvan Road, cut through the Campbell coal yard and up through the backwoods to the cave, where, fortunately, my friend Billy had left a half pack of Pall Malls. I dug up and unwrapped the cigar box and found the secret PaPa wanted me to keep — a black book, one like you use to keep addresses and telephone numbers, only fatter. It was filled with men’s names, yearly dates, and sums of money, all written down in my grampa’s tight little handwriting. I went through it page by page and recognized at least half the names. Some were deacons at Capitol View Methodist Church (Old Man Anderson), others were fathers of kids in my class (Lester, Strickland, Blackwelter), some were from right on Dill Avenue (Troop, McAllister, Flowers, Thurman). Alderman Clapton was there, right along with Albert Thompson. My father wasn’t there and neither was Billy’s. Some men had listings for only two or three years, others had four, five, six, or more. There were no yearly dates prior to 1927, and no dates later than 1947. Mr. A. J. Hudson had the most listing, twenty years’ worth. My PaPa Thompson had nineteen, with his yearly dates ending in 1946. Lots of notes were in the margins and at the ends of pages: died, moved to Detroit, joined army, dropped out, died, sent to prison, killed in Winecoff fire, suicide, disabled, blackballed, killed/Germany, killed/France, killed/ Pearl Harbor. Exactly twenty of the names, including Hudson’s, had big red dots beside them. I read the whole thing twice through, smoked the entire half pack of Pall Malls, and still had no idea what the book was about or what the red dots meant. Then, instead of putting it back in the oilcloth and the box, I jammed it down the back of my shorts and headed home.
This is the fourth section of Chapter 12 from “Dirty Billy,” posted here without further comment.
After waiting at the back garden gate for a good thirty minutes, I supposed my city grampa had fallen asleep reading the Atlanta Constitution in his rocking chair by the fishpond. I slipped through the gate, tippytoed down one of the tall rows of white corn, gave his rocker a big shake from behind, and let out my best Tarzan yell. But instead of jerking awake and coming up after me, he fell forward out of the rocker and tumbled face-first down into the pond. I was in there with him in a flash, but it was no use. He was already gone stiff, and he floated in the water like he was still sitting in his rocker. I got down under him and tried to shove him up and over the side, but he weighed over two hundred pounds and I couldn’t even budge him. I climbed out of the pond, raced back up through the gate and the alleyway, up the middle of the street and the front steps to the church, and busted into the sanctuary right in the middle of the collection. I froze sopping wet and muddy about halfway down the aisle and let out a scream people said could’ve waked the dead. But it didn’t wake my PaPa Thompson. He stayed dead, dead, dead.
Once I’d quit my crying and screaming and told my daddy what happened, I didn’t go back to the fishpond with them. I ran back down Dill Avenue faster than I’d ever run before, turned the corner at Sylvan Road, cut through the Campbell coal yard and up through the backwoods to the cave, where, fortunately, my friend Billy had left a half pack of Pall Malls. I dug up and unwrapped the cigar box and found the secret PaPa wanted me to keep — a black book, one like you use to keep addresses and telephone numbers, only fatter. It was filled with men’s names, yearly dates, and sums of money, all written down in my grampa’s tight little handwriting. I went through it page by page and recognized at least half the names. Some were deacons at Capitol View Methodist Church (Old Man Anderson), others were fathers of kids in my class (Lester, Strickland, Blackwelter), some were from right on Dill Avenue (Troop, McAllister, Flowers, Thurman). Alderman Clapton was there, right along with Albert Thompson. My father wasn’t there and neither was Billy’s. Some men had listings for only two or three years, others had four, five, six, or more. There were no yearly dates prior to 1927, and no dates later than 1947. Mr. A. J. Hudson had the most listing, twenty years’ worth. My PaPa Thompson had nineteen, with his yearly dates ending in 1946. Lots of notes were in the margins and at the ends of pages: died, moved to Detroit, joined army, dropped out, died, sent to prison, killed in Winecoff fire, suicide, disabled, blackballed, killed/Germany, killed/France, killed/ Pearl Harbor. Exactly twenty of the names, including Hudson’s, had big red dots beside them. I read the whole thing twice through, smoked the entire half pack of Pall Malls, and still had no idea what the book was about or what the red dots meant. Then, instead of putting it back in the oilcloth and the box, I jammed it down the back of my shorts and headed home.