by Dea Jones
“Francis Earlene, Momma says get your butt back to the house right now before we’re late for church.”
I heard Skeeter, my little brother, yelling, but I didn’t speed up. He was only using my full name to aggravate me, like he always loved to do.
“Well alright, then, Darling Reese Posey, I’m comin’!” By using his dreaded full name, I showed him who was boss. Skeeter hated his first name with a passion. To save a lot of misery, we just called him Skeeter on account of him being pretty small for his age.
My name wasn’t so bad, really. I was named for my daddy, Franklin, and Momma’s favorite brother, Earl. Folks around here tend to do that a lot, name their kids after other family members. Makes for interesting family reunions.
Anyway, Momma and Daddy had two girls, my sisters Sarah Ann and Kathy, before Momma was in the family way again. They just knew it was gonna be a boy but what should have been Franklin Earl Posey became Francis Earlene. Me. Most people just call me Frankie. Skeeter came along three years later, forever spoiling my position as the baby in the family.
Drawing out one last sigh, I listened just a little longer to the singing from the Maranatha Baptist Church, drifting across the field and over the railroad tracks at the end of my street. The music swelled, coursing through the air as I sat in Mr. Abernathy’s apple tree, my favorite perch for pondering life. I felt the song wash over me with its promise of hope and joy coming. The folks there could really sing a jubilant song. I always wondered why we didn’t sing like that in our church. I mean, we sang songs too, but we sounded like little mice afraid some ol’ cat was gonna snatch us if we were too loud. When I asked Momma if maybe we could ask those folks to come teach us how to sing, she shushed me and said nice girls didn’t ask questions like that. I guess it was because they were black and we were white, but Momma never said.
Lately, folks around here were a little touchy about black people and white people getting along. Just last month there was a lot of talk on the radio about nine black teenagers trying to go to a white high school over in Little Rock, and what a mess that was causing. Governor Faubus even called out the National Guard.
Little Rock isn’t far from here. What if those troubles find their way here to our little town? Me, I don’t care if black people want to go to school with me. All I know is, when I hear the music coming out of that church, it makes my heart happy. Makes me want to turn my face up to God, throw out my hands, and sway in the wind.
Sighing, I shimmied down the tree and ran, pumping my legs to catch up with Skeeter. When I got close, we took off racing back to the house. ‘Course I beat him, but it wasn’t easy ‘cause he’s fast.
“Alma! Alma! I’m a pretty bird!”
From the screened porch in front of the house, we could hear the new addition to our family chirping and talking up a storm. Momma inherited Chino, a myna bird, from Grandma Lovett a couple of months back. Poor Grandma was forgetting things, and turning kinda mean. She started cussing at people and refusing to do things, like bathe, so the doctor said she needed to go to the old folks’ home because she had become ‘incorrigible’. I asked Momma what that meant, and she shushed me. She said nice girls don’t ask those kinds of questions.
Anyway, Grandma gave Momma her bird for safekeeping. Uncle Earl brought him from overseas when he worked on the pipeline somewhere in Asia. Chino was a pretty thing with an inky black body and bright yellow markings under his eyes. The best part, though, was that Chino talked. He almost sounded like a real person, and it seemed like he knew what he was saying, too. One time Daddy bathed him in the old tin tub, and he screeched and carried on to beat all.
“Alma! Alma! He’s killing me, Alma! Help! Frank! You’re killing me, Frank!”
Daddy got to laughing so he couldn’t do nothing but sit back in the chair while the bird flapped around, splattering water all over the kitchen. Momma came running, took one look at the scene, and she laughed, too. They thought it a wonder that he could talk so good.
In weather like this, Momma kept Chino on the porch so he could get some air, and I could hear Momma before we even crossed the doorway.
“Bring Chino in the house, Frankie, and hurry. We’re going to be late!”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I grabbed Chino’s cage and carried it to its spot in our big eat-in kitchen and put the cover over it. Then I raced to change into my dress and good shoes. I licked my hand and rubbed my scraped knee to wipe off the blood left over from when I had fallen on a rock.
I skittered back to the front room, the parlor, Aunt Ida called it. Daddy stood there in his suit holding his good hat, his lips pressed into a half-smile. He looked comfortable in whatever he wore, I thought, whether it was his Sunday suit or his work overalls. Daddy was a carpenter for the railroad.
“Let me look at you.” He spun me around and then took my face in his big warm hand to inspect for dirt. “You’ll do.” He winked at me before putting on his fedora, taking Momma’s hand, and leading us all into the early summer sunshine for our walk to church. Our little procession was typical of most folks on Sunday morning in our town. Momma and Daddy led the way, Aunt Ida and Kathy walked behind them, and me and Skeeter brought up the rear, pestering each other because we weren’t allowed to pick up any sticks or do anything to get dirty. What else were we going to do, I ask you?
Sitting through church could definitely work a nerve sometimes, as Aunt Ida would say, and I had big plans. I got a new book from the library that was calling my name, and I was going to spend the afternoon up in Mr. Abernathy’s tree reading to my heart’s content.
Anyway, once the service was over, we headed toward the door pretty quick. Momma and Kathy had dinner sitting on the stove ready to reheat when we got home. Skeeter was always hungry, so he was rushing up the aisle as fast as his legs could go, but Momma put a hand on my shoulder to keep me from running with him. Momma always told me nice young ladies don’t do such things.
Brother Pugh, the head preacher, was standing next to that nice new assistant preacher, Brother Donnell, shaking hands and slapping shoulders as we shuffled up in front of him. He grasped Daddy’s hand and gave him a hearty shake AND a slap. He didn’t seem to notice Daddy stiffening his touch.
“I want to thank you folks again for inviting me to dinner. I’m looking forward to it. You know I love your cooking, Mrs. Posey” Brother Pugh’s mouth smiled in that simpering way of his, and he winked. He wore his hair long on the top so he could comb it over his bald head. That flap of hair was stiff with pomade, and it was flapping like a half-wilted hair flag of glory in the slight breeze wafting through the door. I must have been gaping like a fish at that flopping hair because Momma poked me in the back.
I couldn’t stand Brother Pugh. His eyes never smiled like Brother Donnell’s did, and he wore the nastiest smelling aftershave in God’s known world. I always felt like he was talking down to me. When it came time to pray in church, he would go on and on like he had to cover all the sins of everybody. He always made it seem like he was the saint who was gonna save us all. Lord, it was exhausting just listening to him. It was some consolation that his name rhymed with “pew”. In private, Skeeter and I called him Brother Pee-yew and laughed ‘til we fell on the floor.
After we shook Brother Donnell’s hand, we made our escape and headed home where Momma started reheating dinner. Me, Kathy, and Skeeter changed out of our church clothes and set the table. The preacher had been to our house a couple of times before, and Momma was proud that he never turned down an invitation from her. She was known far and wide for her excellent cooking.
“Frankie put Chino out on the porch. Hurry now, before the preacher gets here!”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I carried the birdcage out to the porch. Hesitating a little, I took off the cover. Every bird needs some fresh air.
Finally, Brother Pugh arrived, and we all sat down at the table. Brother Pugh said the longest blessing in all God’s kingdom, and then we started eating.
“Mrs. Posey, you have outdone yourself again. I was hoping you would serve that wonderful ham of yours.” He paused to look at Daddy. “Brother Posey, you are a blessed man to have such a woman as this little lady right here!” Momma blushed. Daddy nodded and answered, “Yes. that is true,” before he glanced at me and rolled his eyes just a little. I stifled a giggle and reached for more potatoes.
Skeeter took a helping of carrot raisin salad and started in on one of our favorite games.
“Oooh look at the dead bugs all over the carrots,” he said.
“And the guts will ooze out in your mouth if you bite one,” I said, joining in the fun.
Daddy grinned. “I wonder what bug blood looks like.” We three snickered while the others at the table frowned.
“Eeeww!” said Kathy.
“You children work my nerves. And you too, Frank,” said Aunt Ida, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.
Momma stared daggers at us all as if daring us to say one more embarrassing thing.
“Children, you all stop this instant!” She was speaking to us, but she was glaring at Daddy. Daddy smiled.
“Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him. Proverbs, twenty-two, sixteen,” quoted Brother Pugh. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Posey, I’m sure they will turn from their wicked ways with your firm guidance.”
For a minute I wondered what would happen to the hair flag of glory if I poured the contents of the gravy boat on his ratty head. Daddy cleared his throat. “Well now, I don’t know. I don’t think a little fun, or foolishness as you call it, is call for a rod of correction. Let the punishment fit the crime, isn’t that right?”
Brother Pugh pressed his lips together. “The foolishness of man perverteth his way and his heart fretteth against the Lord,” he said. He sat back in his chair, triumphant, assured of his placement on a higher cloud in heaven. Daddy calmly set his fork down, keeping eye contact with Brother Pugh as he rested his forearms on the table. “You know your proverbs, Reverend. That’s commendable. I’m partial to the New Testament, myself.” He leaned forward. “Especially the verse that says ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’” In that split second, I swear Daddy’s eyes glittered like diamonds.
“Anybody up for a big piece of apple pie?” All of us were so caught up in the drama unfolding that we didn’t see Momma jump up and grab the pie off the counter. Skeeter, always distracted by food, bounced up and down and clapped his hands for dessert. Daddy and the preacher stared at each other until Brother Pugh shifted his eyes away.
“I would love one, Mrs. Posey. Everyone knows you make the best pies in the county.” Dinner continued without further incident as everyone enjoyed Momma’s delicious dessert. It was kind of a letdown, I thought.
Afterward, we all moved to the screened porch. The preacher noticed Chino for the first time ‘cause he was making lots of squawks and chirps. Chino wasn’t here the last time Brother Pugh came, and he had never seen the bird before. Momma saw his uncovered cage and leaned over toward me. “You were supposed to cover him up,” she hissed.
“I forgot.”
“Well, do it now!” She handed me the cover. As I went to place it over the cage, Brother Pugh stopped me.
“Let him be. I enjoy listening to the joyful sounds of God’s creatures.”
In answer Chino became even more restless, bobbing his head and chirping more. We proceeded to tell Brother Pugh the story of how Chino came to live with us as the preacher circled the cage, wanting to observe the bird up close.
Brother Pugh moved closer to the cage, looming over it to observe Chino more closely. Chino’s trilling call became more pronounced. Momma’s worry grew leaps and bounds. “Brother Pugh, wouldn’t you like to sit down and enjoy this breeze in the porch swing?”
The preacher kept studying the bird, his reddish face a stark contrast to the bird’s shiny black feathers. “He is an extraordinary creature! Does he talk?”
What happened next forever marked a red-letter day in our family history. That’s when Chino let loose his unique vocabulary in all its glorious splendor. “Son of a bitch! Dammit to Hell!”
Brother Pugh stumbled back from the cage, a look of shock plastered on his face like the people on the monster movie posters at the Saturday matinee.
Chino continued, “Brother Pugh! You’re killing me, Brother Pugh! Pee-yew!
Momma cried out in dismay, and moving with the speed of a woman worried about her place in heaven, grabbed the cover and threw it over the cage. Chino continued, undaunted, from under the sheet. “I’m a pretty bird! You stink! Brother Pugh! Son of a bitch! Dammit to Hell!”
Brother Pugh backed toward the door and the freedom it offered from the screeching bird, his face red as an Arkansas sunset. Sweat popped out on his face, wilting his hair flag of glory. “Th-Thank you for the lovely meal, but I guess I b-better head on back home.”
Mortified, Momma clutched her apron, talking over Chino who had reverted back to chirps and squeaks. “I’m so sorry, Reverend! I don’t know what’s got into him. I don’t know where he learned to talk like that. He picks up everything he hears.” She laughed nervously. “He must pick it up from sitting on the porch all day. Those railroad men use all kinds of disgraceful language. Please stay and enjoy some iced tea.”
Aunt Ida clutched at imaginary pearls, misery smeared all over her face. I think she was kinda sweet on the preacher, to be honest with you. There’s no accounting for taste.
The rest of us, even Kathy who was always proper, tried hard not to laugh, pressing our lips together or covering our faces. Meanwhile, Brother Pugh opened the screen door and flew down the steps to the yard, waving back over his shoulder.
“No thank you, Mrs. Posey. Got to run. I’ve got to…visit Mr. Bacon in the hospital. Yes, yes. He’ll be expecting me. I’ll see you in church!” And with that, he shot down the gravel road as fast as his rat-nasty legs could carry him. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Chico sent his parting shot, the sound carrying from under the sheet and over the quiet street. “You stink! Brother Pugh! Son of a bitch!”
For a minute we all sat in shocked silence until Momma started to laugh. That opened the floodgates and we all roared until we cried, even Aunt Ida. Sometimes you just gotta appreciate when the good Lord puts something like that in your path. When we were all laughed out, Momma fanned herself with her apron. “That is one smart bird,” she said, which set us off again.
Dea Jones is a veteran middle school teacher of 32 years who began writing seriously within the last ten years, although she has always loved writing as a creative outlet. Her first novel, Desert Courage, was self-published in 2023. Along with her story in this issue of The Petigru Review, She has a story published in Ember; a Journal of Luminous Things, as well as devotional writings in The Word in Season, and coming in 2026, Upper Room Disciplines. When she is not writing stories or novels, she maintains a website, (www.deajones.wordpress.com), and a devotional blog (www.faithfulconversations.wordpress.com). She lives in Columbia, South Carolina with her husband and a dysfunctionally spoiled rescue Boston terrier named Winston.
Jerry Craven is director of Ink Brush Press and active founding editor of the literary Journal Amarillo Bay. He is a member of the Texas Institute of letters, Texas Association of Creative Writing Teachers, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and the Texas Literary Hall of Fame. In 2011 he designed and began Lamar University Literary Press, which he directed for twelve years. Craven has published thirty-three books and is currently completing the 34th, another collection of poetry. He is an award-winning graphic artist; samples of his art are posted on the website http://www.jerrycraven.com. He lives in Texas with his wife the poet Sherry Craven.
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