Chin Up, Honey

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Earlier in the spring, when elderly Winston Valentine came upon an old electric wheelchair at a yard sale, he bought it and began using it to help him get around town. The wheelchair’s electric motor shortly proved unreliable, however, so Willie Lee often ended up pushing. Quite quickly the pair became a familiar sight on the streets of Valentine—the old man wearing a straw cowboy hat and riding in a wheelchair pushed by a boy with a Dallas Cowboys ball cap, invariably on crooked, and followed by a spotted dog.

Most days after their morning radio program, Winston took Willie Lee to the Main Street Café for lunch, because Willie Lee’s mother hounded them both about eating vegetables. Afterward they would go across the street to Blaine’s Soda Fountain to get ice cream.

Winston insisted that Willie Lee abandon the idea of the extra distance required to use the crosswalk and cut across in the middle of the block, often holding up traffic. Winston often quite boldly used his advanced age and Willie Lee’s position as an eternally sweet mentally challenged person to do just what he wanted to do.

No one minded except First Deputy Lyle Midgette, and he had given up trying to get them to quit the illegal and hazardous practice. Deputy Midgette would much rather face any criminal than Mr. Winston’s sharp tongue. Half the time he was not even certain what Mr. Winston was saying. Whenever he saw the two crossing illegally, he would turn around and go in the opposite direction, so that he did not have to feel he was derelict in his duty. It was a comfort to know that the sheriff had admitted to the same thing, saying, “There’s no one who can tell Winston what to do.”

The boy would push Winston in the wheelchair through the door of the drugstore, and the old man would rise and call greetings to everyone as he walked across the room to the soda fountain. There he would spend half an hour or so holding court and pretty much pretending that he was at least twenty years younger. He would hand out cold sweet tea and latte and barbeque and banana splits, along with advice and opinions. On good days, Claire Ford would come in, slip up on a stool, smile at him and ask for a strawberry milkshake, her favorite. He would make it extra thick and watch her rosy tongue savor the sweet pink cream off the long-handled spoon. On really good days she would be without her husband, and Winston would imagine himself at least thirty years younger, and sometimes he almost got some excitement in his pants.

During this time when Winston was occupied, Willie Lee, with Munro quietly at his heels, would occupy himself in the magical world of the magazine section. The plate-glass windows of the drugstore had wide wooden windowsills just right for sitting and reading, which was why Belinda Blaine kept insisting the magazine section needed to be moved, but she could not figure out where else to put it. Willie Lee would sit on the windowsill, and look at magazines about bicycling and skating and skiing and car racing. He could not read the words, had even quit longing to read the words, but he looked at the pictures and dreamed of doing these things himself, just like a normal boy.

“Where’s your mama?” Winston asked Belinda on that afternoon’s visit to the drugstore soda fountain.

“She’s gone off with Jaydee.”

“With Jaydee?” This was a surprise. Startling, even. “Gone off to where?”

“I don’t know, just off.” While he was dealing with this, she added, “And Claire was already in earlier. You missed her. She and Larkin were goin’ off this afternoon to Dallas.”

Everyone was off, and here he was. His Claire had not even informed him about a trip to Dallas. There had been a time when she told him just about everything. Now, more and more, she was slipping away from him.

That day’s visit to the soda fountain proved a total disappointment. Not one person he even faintly wanted to see appeared. Lillian Jennings, who was always going on about something in history, came in and wanted to know what Winston knew about the War Between the States. He told her, “Nothin’. I’m not that damn old.” And then Deputy Lyle Midgette came in and said that they had not yet nabbed the thief who had made off with two wrenches and a cash box containing fifty-five dollars from Sybil Lund’s perpetual garage sale.

Winston had not told anyone about seeing the young man that the deputy had been chasing jumping over the pasture fence and hiding, and he didn’t want to speak of it now, because he didn’t want to appear old and forgetful. That he was becoming old and forgetful was too much to bear.

He realized that he wasn’t only forgetful, but that he was being forgotten. His two best friends were Vella and Claire, and they were at that moment occupied with other men. Younger, livelier men. And it was not too hard to be younger and livelier than him, who was in the very twilight of his life.

Over on the windowsill, Willie Lee felt Munro get to his feet and press against his leg. He looked at the dog, who looked back with dark eyes.

In his familiar manner of knowing things without hearing words, Willie Lee immediately put the magazine back in its correct place on the shelf, then went straight to the wheelchair and rolled it to the end of the soda fountain counter, where Mr. Winston was leaning on the freezer.

“Ah…buddy,” Winston said, taking note of him. “Let’s get our ice cream and blow this joint.”

He started to make their ice-cream cones, but Belinda said that she would do it and told him to sit down.

Vaguely aware that Belinda had ordered him and that he didn’t have the gumption to go back at her, and that she had never before offered to make him anything, he allowed her to do so and settled himself heavily into the wheelchair.

Willie Lee could not recall ever seeing Belinda make ice-cream cones. He stood nearby and watched. She was skimpy on the ice cream, but he didn’t think it a wise thing to say so to her.

With Winston carrying the desserts in a cardboard container on his lap, Willie Lee rolled him out onto the sidewalk and over to a bench beneath the shelter of a redbud tree, where they sat side by side and ate their cones, Munro licked his treat from a dish, and vehicles and people passed by. Most everyone cast a wave or called a greeting.

One of these was pretty little Gabby Smith, who waved enthusiastically out the passenger window of her mother’s minivan as the vehicle slowed in a line for the stoplight. “Hi, Willie Lee! Hi, Mr. Winston!”

There was in this feminine enthusiasm enough energy to cause Winston to smile and wave in return.

Willie Lee reacted by scrambling to his feet as fast as he could. Winston saw the boy’s ice cream tilting precariously on the cone.

“I heard you on the radio this mornin’,” called Gabby, pushing her curls out of her face as the minivan began to roll forward.

“I…I…hel-ped.” Willie Lee was on tiptoe at the edge of sidewalk.

“I listen every day. Come see me, Willie Lee!” Gabby called, leaning out the window as the minivan rounded the corner of Church Street and disappeared.

Winston reached out just in time to catch Willie Lee’s ice cream. It plopped into his hand. Willie Lee, blinking behind his thick glasses, looked from the now-empty cone to the mound of ice cream in Winston’s palm.

“Here ya’ go,” Winston said, and dropped the melting ice cream back on the cone.

“Thank you.” Willie Lee positioned himself back on the bench.

“You’re welcome.” Winston slung the excess ice cream from his palm, then held his hand out away from his clothes while he finished his own ice-cream cone. A man with his years behind him no longer worried about small inconveniences.

“Miss Gabby is still right sweet on you, I see.”

Willie Lee shrugged. Winston detected some gloom.

“Is there a problem?” Having a sense of great disappointment in his own life at the moment, he felt irritated at life for bothering the boy.

Willie Lee shrugged again. “I am not…grow-ing.”

“Well, yes, you are. Your mother had to buy you new jeans just last month, said you’d grown a foot.”

“She was ex-ag…ex-ag…”

“Exaggerating.”

Willie Lee nodded, then said in his practical manner, “People do not grow a foot in a month. Pa-pa Tate said.”

“But you have grown into larger pants,” Winston pointed out. “And you’re not done growin’ yet. Not by a long shot. Besides, even if Gabby grows taller, that doesn’t matter. Lots of tall gals go with shorter boys.”

He tried to think of an example and came up short, which seemed a funny pun. He hoped to remember it for his radio show. He liked to write down his thoughts, but his hands were busy at that moment.

Willie Lee said, “I mean…in-side.” He looked solemn. “I am re-tar-ded. I can-not have a girl-friend.” He hung his head, holding out his melting ice-cream cone.

“Eat your ice cream,” Winston said. Then, “Who told you that you cannot have a girlfriend because you are retarded?”

“Just some-one.” Willie Lee focused on licking his ice cream. It had been Mrs. Pruitt, the librarian at the Valentine library, who scared a lot of the children. Mrs. Pruitt had the idea that all the books in the library were her very own, and she would just as soon that children not be allowed to handle them.

“Yeah, well,” said Winston, “that someone is all wrong. Of course you can have a girlfriend.”

Winston considered pressing the boy to get the name of this someone and go set the person straight. Such a person was the type who liked to make other people feel small, mostly because they themselves were shriveled up.

Willie Lee interrupted Winston’s thoughts by saying, “I know I am slow, aannd I will ne-ver be fast-ter. At scho-ol I go to the class for spe-cial ed, but it means slow. Men-tal re-tar-da-tion. There is no cure.”

Winston couldn’t recall ever seeing Willie Lee so sad. He found himself upset at the boy’s pain and unable to form an instant comeback, something that did not often happen. Thinking on it, he finished his ice-cream cone, took napkins from his shirt pocket and cleaned himself up.

“Yes, my little buddy,” he said finally, “I’ll admit that you do not think just like everyone else, and the term slow is used and quite accurate by many standards. Nevertheless, as in all things, it is a matter of perspective. Maybe the world and people in it go too fast. Did you ever think of that?”

Willie Lee looked up, frowning in thought. In Winston’s opinion, and that of a number of observant people, the boy had pockets of rare understanding inside of him that had nothing to do with intellect.

“Being slow is not such a bad thing and has nothing what soever to do with havin’ a girlfriend. Girls prefer boys who are not so fast.”

He reached over and began to wipe up Willie Lee. Suddenly becoming aware of his actions, he handed the napkin to the boy, saying, “The female human is somethin’ I know a bit about. I’ve had a bunch of girlfriends from the time I was younger than you, and two wives, and the first of those was a doozie. I’ve learned from experience that as long as you speak to a female’s heart, she isn’t gonna care how well you think or how tall you are.”

“I can-not re-ad. I will not be a-ble to take the test and get a dri-ver li-cen-se and take my girl-friend on a date. That is what a boyfriend does.”

“Aw, you got somethin’ better than readin’, Little Buddy. You have that trust fund, son. You can buy a car and hire someone to drive you on a date. You won’t ever need a driver’s license. You could go on a date right now, if you wanted.”

“I co-uld?”

“Yes, sir, you could.” Winston was proud to solve that problem. He was counting up Willie Lee’s assets and became happier by the moment.

“I can absolutely assure you, son, that you are more than qualified to have a girlfriend.” He rested a hand on the boy’s small shoulder. “You have everything going for you. You’re a healthy and even handsome young man with a secure future, and there are pitiful few people who can say that at any age.

“But most importantly, Little Buddy, your heart overrules your intellect, and that is the main necessity for gettin’ along with girls.” Then, after a moment, he added, “Really, for successful living, I’d say.”

11

Mothers and Daughters

From the Valentine Voice:

June 3, 1998

Kinney—Berry

Mr. And Mrs. John Cole Berry of Valentine are pleased to announce the engagement of their son, Johnny Ray Berry, to Miss Gracie Louise Kinney, daughter of Mrs. Sylvia Kinney of Baltimore, Maryland.

The prospective groom serves as a manager and vice president of the Berry Quick Stop Enterprises.

The bride-elect is a regional manager for the M. Connor chain of women’s apparel.

A September wedding is planned in Valentine, where the two plan to make their home.

When young Paris Miller, who was clerking at their Quick Stop No. 1, called to let Emma know that the Wednesday after noon edition of the Valentine Voice had arrived, Emma went right down to get four copies. John Cole had wanted to know why she didn’t just make copies from one clipping, but she said it wouldn’t be the same. Men simply did not understand these things.

Just as she entered the store, a boy running out about knocked her down, followed by Paris yelling after him. Emma stood there watching the dark boy in a baggy T-shirt, with a girl with splotchy-crimson spiked hair hot on his heels, disappear around the corner of the building.

Emma went into the store, which was totally vacant, and realized that Paris had abandoned the cash register. She forgot about the register, though, as her gaze lit on a newspaper lying on the counter, folded back to the engagement announcement. Paris was a kind girl.

As Emma started to read, Paris came huffing back through the door. “Oh, Miz Berry—I’m sorry I forgot about the store! I didn’t really…I just wanted to catch that little creep. He shoplifted a handful of candy bars. I gotta call the sheriff.”

“Oh, no, honey. Let him go. He’s only a little boy, and it was just candy bars. All children want candy.” Emma generally did not believe in pursuing children, and in any case, her attention was totally on the picture of Johnny and Gracie. “Didn’t their picture come out great?”

Paris agreed about the picture, and then protested that it wouldn’t be right to let the boy go. “He is old enough to steal, and we might be the ones to save him from prison when he’s older.”

Taking full note of the girl’s upset, Emma looked up to see Paris’s frowning furrowed brows—each one pierced through with a gold ring. She was such a lovely girl. It was a shame that she felt the need to poke so many holes in her body.

Emma said, “Perhaps he’ll return, and you can catch him in the act and instruct him. That would be the best thing. I doubt if the sheriff could find him now.”

“Yeah…I guess.”

Emma’s attention returned to the announcement. Reading it aloud, she winced. “Oh, dear. I used the word plan twice.”

Paris peered at the paper. “No one’ll notice.”

“My mother will,” said Emma. “But maybe no one else. Their picture just captures attention.” She grinned at the teenage girl. “Johnny is just so cute.”

“Yeah, he is,” said Paris, grinning back.

Emma took up four copies of the paper and headed out the door, then came back and got two more.

Paris waved as the woman left. She wished that she had a mother who thought as much of her as Mrs. Berry thought of Johnny. For an instant, in which she blinked hard and looked downward, she wondered what having such a mother would be like.

Paris’s mother had left her years before, just gone off and left Paris, who had not yet turned ten at the time. Not even knowing who her father was, Paris lived with her grandfather, a Vietnam vet who was in a wheelchair. Because she was only fifteen now, she’d had to talk Johnny Berry into giving her the job at the Quick Stop, and it was only part-time for the summer. But Johnny had already given her a raise and said she did a real good job. It was a start on her goal to pull herself and her grandfather up out of poverty of the sort where that little thief probably came from, by the look of him.