Sunday Wild Child

By Ethel Cook-Wilson

Summer Wild Child captures the point of view of the mother as well as that of the daughter in this homespun tale of small town Florida life of the 40s and early 50s. It depicts a powerful, but disturbing picture of poverty, racism and juvenile cruelty. On the other hand, it showcases the strength of will to overcome those conditions through perseverance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ethel Cook-Wilson
• Release date: Mar 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370633722

Ethel Cook-Wilson

Cook-Wilson grew up in Florida but spent many years in Northern California until her retirement. She participates in writing groups in Volusia County and is a member of the Florida Writers Association. One of her short stories is featured in the 2016 anthology of that organization. She has published several works of fiction and one non-fiction. Julian Carleton-I am not just another George, Tales from the Bluebird of Happiness Trailer Park and Sunday Wild child are three of her recent publications.

Book preview

Sunday Wild Child

Ethel Cook-Wilson

Prologue

As we held our long skirts above our knees, the waves at Saint Augustine Beach rolled in and turned into frilly lace at the feet of me and my older sister Bonnie Blithe. Good thing Mama and Papa aren’t here, I said.

She nodded agreement, as her usual shy smile changed to a wide, beaming one. I know, Merlie. Hard to believe we’re doing this, isn’t it?

Our attendance at the Florida Campmeeting without our South Georgia fundamentalist parents came as a shocking but pleasing surprise. In all likelihood they figured we could be trusted since we’d been coming to the church gathering every year since birth, but always with them.

Even in their absence total freedom to run amok didn’t exist. We were part of a group of young women that a bevy of Argus-eye chaperones kept close watch over. But during this end-of-session outing, while others engaged in horseshoe toss and sack races in a clearing beyond the dunes, Bonnie Blithe and I snuck away to play in the water. We were somewhat older than the other girls, and since in less than two months I would be entering as a freshman at Women’s College in Monroe County, Georgia, and Bonnie Blithe would start her second year there, we received a little more slack.

One of the chaperones kind of gave us a head-nod of approval when she saw where we headed to. Our years of participation in the planned functions without even one moral failure swayed her in our favor, I figured.

We strolled along the pretty white sand a bit farther and came upon a sight we didn’t expect. Bonnie Blithe fixated on a flock of seabirds. I saw something more interesting.

Look, Bonnie Blithe. I nudged her and called her attention to a group of workers who busied themselves lifting large rocks to put against the sand, as if to hold it in place. He’s got his eye on you, my sister.

Ahh, hush, Merlie, Bonnie Blithe said in her soft, unsure way. But her interest was piqued. He is the most handsome boy I’ve laid eyes on.

He really was staring in our direction as he wiped sweat from his face with his shirt.

He’s got chest muscles, Merlie, she said and collapsed in a silly giggle against me. What’s to say he’s not eyeballing you?

While putting his shirt back on his body where it belonged he moved toward us and away from the work crew. We saw his mouth moving, but the waves, breeze, and the birds made it hard to hear. We cupped our hands to our ears to let him know such. That drew him to where we stood.

As he got closer his warning reached us. Don’t turn your back to the water. It’s real sneaky. Don’t want it to sweep y’all from here to the other side of the world.

We twirled around to face the beautiful, magical water again. After a few more steps, he stood next to Bonnie Blithe. His tanned, slightly etched face beamed beneath a shock of sun-steaked dark hair. My sister stood frozen, almost statue-like. I knew her through and through. Of all our brothers and sisters, we were closest to each other.

Bonnie Blithe’s eyes radiated surprise. She probably felt he’d be more interested in me, since I still held my dress higher above my knees than was necessary to avoid it getting wet. She had lowered hers and the tail of it swished about in the water.

A man called out to the stranger and beckoned him back to the project. He dismissed him with a backward gesture of his hand. The man mumbled that he’d lose his job. Our visitor didn’t even flinch. I thought, what manly defiance.

Ladies, Elijah James Hanford. Florida born and bred. Came into the world with a set of gills rather than lungs. He brushed his long dark hair away from his sky blue eyes.

Bonnie Blithe and I laughed and told our names in return. We got lost in our conversation with this rough-hewn man, who had a confidence about him we didn’t see in the boys in South Georgia. They danced along holding their papas’ coattails or their mamas’ apron strings either because of their uncertainties about life, or because they wanted to ensure their inheritance.

Bonnie Blithe opened up and out-talked me by a country mile. Mr. Elijah James Hanford had her complete attention and she gave information about herself, chapter and verse. That pleased me to no end.

Well, I’m due up in Georgia to work over at the chalk mine in Gordon in a week or so. Mind if I come to see you, Miss Bonnie Blithe?

For a minute I thought she’d play coy, but a knowing look flitted between us. At nineteen she needed to do more than give a sly smile and turn away. I wanted her to beat me to the altar, but sisterly love would not tether me to South Georgia and maidenhood much longer. I’d met a suitor with big Texas dreams and I’d been inching him toward Papa to ask for my hand. Who knows when she’d have the nerve to open up again to more than a hello.

Yes, you may, she said, giving him more specifics when a visit would be best.

I breathed a huge sigh.

Watch out, Miss Bonnie Blithe. Don’t make me marry you and give you a life you could never imagine. He laughed, showing large even white teeth.

It was nice to meet you, she said again. Wish we could tarry longer, but we have to go back with our group.

I turned to leave, but looked back in time to see him squeeze her hand. I waited at the bottom of the dunes for her to catch up. As she walked towards me, he back padded away, leaving bare footprints in the sand.

Well, Bonnie Blithe?

Merlie, my heart is about to flutter out of me on the wings of a butterfly. Can’t you just see me here in Florida, in the forever sunshine.

True to his word, Elijah came to Monroe County and kept his promise to Bonnie Blithe who became his wife, the mother of his children and the keeper of his secrets, until now.

The life unfolded here is so different from the one I imagined for her, her brood and especially for my neice, Dixie Jo. Even Peter who came to live with us never hinted of anything other than a life of forever sunshine.

Chapter I

Mother

Bonnie Blithe Wilcox Hanford

Stringy moss curls drape the old oak outside our shack’s window. It looks kind of sad and weepy from the hard rain earlier in the day, not normal. It’s only mid-March, but so far, the whole year’s been like that, not normal. Everything is confused, flowers in bloom—too soon, and snakes slither through the over tall grass. I haven’t had the strength to get out there and hack it back. When I think about it, I can’t. Mr. Johns, on a farm or two over, came and took back his sling blade last week. Been here since the end of last summer. The boys borrowed it. Slipped my mind to return it. Something was bound to get overlooked. My head is ready to burst from all that’s on my mind.

I’ve lost so much, but I’ve gained a lot, too. I got five children. The oldest is ten and the youngest is still in my belly, a belly that hasn’t had enough to eat since I moved away from home.

I hope you’re a boy. Girls, well, girls—

I can’t say it out loud, doesn’t seem Christian to feel this way, and it sure won’t be right to utter what I feel. But my mind has grabbed and held on to this idea and won’t let go. Girls are so much trouble. So much more…

Papa thought that, and Mama, too, because she didn’t even speak up for me when Papa looked at Elijah, my husband, spat on the ground, cussed and walked away. I never saw Papa’s face again, until he lay dead in his coffin. I hardly made it back in time for that. My sister Merlie got in touch. The telegram came a day before we set out on another move. She wired money enough for me to get home.

Hello, little boy. Do you like for me to rub you with my hand? Do you like the songs I sing?

I sing to baby boy while I watch my other young ones. They’re making a racket running under the house, back and forth from one side to the other. It’s an old farm house. Sits high off the ground. Now one of them is sticking a dirty little finger through a crack in the floor.

Jimmy, Jesse, Dixie Josephine, whoever’s doing that, come out to where I can see you.

I know it’s Dixie Josephine without having to think twice. It’s always her, the girl. She’s like a head nanny goat, the first to get into something. Somehow, she always manages to get out. The others end up scarred and hurt. But not her. She’s real pig iron.

Please, please, be a little boy, little boy.

Dixie Josephine and Jimmy ought to be in school today, but I kept them home. Jimmy cried. He wanted to go, but he and Freddy Lee use the same shoes. Well, everything, even drawers. Jimmy kept them on. I told Freddy Lee to be real careful. Keep his belt tight so his pants don’t fall. We’re poor, but we got pride, he knows. I don’t know why I said that to him. He’s more pride-filled than me. The belt cinched his little waist so tight, it nearly wrapped around twice.

Anyway, Jimmy can go to school tomorrow while Freddy Lee stays home. He’s little but real scrappy and a good worker. He’s the best weed-puller—can even outdo me. With him helping, we can fix up this yard some. Maybe I’ll send him and Dixie Josephine back over to Mr. Johns later on to borrow his sling blade again. My girl’s only seven and already she can talk the sugar out of a cake.

Dixie Josephine, if left up to her, would never go to the schoolhouse. She came into the world thinking she knows everything. Keeping her home is a reward, and to make her go to school is like trying to coax a pig to the slaughterhouse. She balks and squeals until I back off. I manage to get her to sit in there enough to keep the truant officer from my door. I don’t want him here. He might leave her and take my other children. That’s the way my luck runs.

Hey, baby boy.

I suppose he’s waiting till the moon gets full before he comes. Who knows, maybe it’ll be wasting. Whichever, it will be in his own good time.

Dixie Josephine.

I call her because they’re all mighty quiet. I need to hear some noise, some movement.

Dixie Josephine.

I call the girl again as loud as my fine voice will permit. She needs to get the soap off the back porch shelf and the rag from the nail. These warm daily showers got the tin tub full. The children can get some of the dirt and grime off while it’s still pleasant outside. I’m holding a piece of old chenille bedspread, most of the chenille gone, for them to dry off with.

They come running. That girl, who knows everything, is duty bound. She and Jimmy lift the tub onto the porch and like leap frogs, they are in and out. I watch close from the window. At the first grumble and shiny zigzag high in the sky, I shriek like a peafowl for my young ones to come inside. I don’t play with God and his heavenly neon signs.

Get in here. I hand the make-do towel to Dixie Josephine. She wipes herself over first, barely gets the sheen off, before the towel’s tossed to her brothers. It would satisfy her to march around the rest of the day, bare and free, but I give her the elastic-top pull-up I made.

Here. Get decent.

She pulls it to her armpits.

Give the boys these after they dry off. Can’t have y’all walking around immodest.

She takes the handmade shorts to her brothers.

Jimmy is not big, but he is old enough to be shamefaced about his nakedness. Dixie Josephine knows that. She doesn’t care about hers. She’s as unbridled as a wild mare.

I hear the front door open. Freddy Lee is home from school. Funny, I didn’t hear the school bus.

Freddy Lee.

He answers with a polite Yes ma’am and I ask how he got home. The old bus broke down betwixt and between, so he walked five miles. I hate to ask him to go over and get the tools from Mr. Johns, but I don’t want to send Dixie Josephine by herself. She’d do it, though. Besides being gutsy, she’s as strong as a little mule. To let her load and pull the old Radio Flyer wagon filled up with whatever Mr. Johns could spare would be the joy of her day. Elijah fixed that ol’ thing of a wagon for them before he left the last time. That’s the only bit of happiness he left.

Dixie Josephine.

She needs to check the biscuits in the oven. They smell ready.

Okay, get your brothers around the table. I’ll come in and pour the syrup. I have to do that, or they’ll drown the biscuits with so much, they’ll swim off the plate.

After you and Freddy Lee finish eating, get on over to Mr. Johns.

I look at my boy. He doesn’t look too worn out from his walk. That’s what being young is like. Plus, he’s a real good boy, just like Jimmy. He’ll do anything without complaining.

It won’t get dark until late. This time of year, night takes its sweet time coming. Good for weeding, and working in the evening, but the young ones have to stand out before daybreak, waiting for the school bus. We’re in the country, so all kind of wild varmints prowl about. Florida’s got more than its share.

Elijah left his loaded shotgun and rifle in the front porch rafters. I get one of them and stand guard till the children get on the bus. I haven’t shot anything big. Freddy Lee shot a coon one morning and a possum the next. A bunch of happy faces sat around the table since meat lay on the plates along with the biscuits and syrup.

Freddy Lee. Dixie Josephine. Make haste. Go on, so you can get back. I want to pull a handful or so before dark.

Jimmy and Jesse play real quiet at my feet as I sit in the rocker to rest up. I’m praying Mr. Johns will put tools, wagon, the children, and all in his pick up and bring them home. I’m keeping a look out of the window, so I can meet them at the fence gate.

Had some big losses in my life — papa’s love, my good family name and money, but I still have what’s most important: my faith. Without it, I could not weather the storms that keep rushing about me and my quiver of children. So, in the mighty order of things, I have my greatest inheritance and some.

Bonnie Blithe Wilcox is my maiden name. No matter which direction you looked, your eyes fell upon my family’s land in Wilcox County, Georgia. All my young life, people talked about a Spanish explorer landing there, discovering the Ocmulgee River. They also talked about Confederate President Jeff Davis staying at one of our plantations in ’65, sadly a day or two before he surrendered to the Yankees. According to records, our main family house is the oldest one in the county. The city has grown up around it, kind of, if you can call Abbeville a city.

A lot of my family land was sold off to hog farmers and cotton growers. Because of that, my brothers and sisters are real well off, money wise. They got a good inheritance. That was one of my losses. When I left college in Forsyth and ran off with Elijah, who could barely cipher and not read at all, my heart knew I wouldn’t get anything, but it became a certainty at Papa’s funeral. I had planned to stay a few days afterwards but Merlie, the only sibling I’ll mention because I am dead to the others, said to come on back to my children. Papa had left me out of the will. He stayed mad with me all the way to the grave. I understand.

Papa, a real wealthy man, afforded his children much more than most folks in that part of Georgia. It seems like, though, everything he and Mama poured into me to make me the privileged girl I was, I dipped in and bailed it out. Piano lessons. I hated to practice. But I would. Just put on airs and act like being on that bench was as good as eating one of Grandma’s fried peach pies. I was a good pretender. Voice lessons. Those I liked, but Papa didn’t take a liking to my choice of music, opera. To him it was a bunch of hollering in an unknown tongue. So again, I put on a false front and switched over to the hymns and anthems they screeched and warbled in our fundamental church. I pretended so much until I eventually became less and less of myself, and more of what other folks thought I should be.

Seems what I preferred, Papa and Mama scoffed at and said it was beneath the dignity of the family. Lizzie Pearl, the family cook from beyond the tracks, was my idol. If I was going to sing church music, I wanted it to be like she had at her church. I’d hang out in the kitchen with her, learning whatever she’d teach me, until I got shooed away or called to something more refined in the parlor. I usually stalled my going in there until I learned part of at least one song. Lizzie Pearl would say a line and then sing it, and I’d follow behind her, bellowing as deep and as rich as