Autumn Winifred Oliver Does Things Different Read online

  We moved in two days after Gramps’s little brush with death. Mom and Katie and I all shared a room, one little spot that was likely meant to store food instead of serve as a bedroom. This was nothing like the house we’d left across the Cove, where Katie and I had each had our own room upstairs. And in Knoxville, a huge house sat waiting for us, a house that even had a front porch and closets. And here we sat in this dump. It was hard to imagine Mama growing up here. She’s tidier than a hummingbird, and this place was a rubbish heap. Mama said things had been different when Granny was alive. My granny must’ve been some kind of miracle worker.

  “But a sixteen-year-old needs her privacy!” Katie whined when she saw our living quarters.

  Mama let loose one of her deep sighs. “Whatever you can do before the eyes of the Lord you can do in front of us, Katie.”

  And so we bunked up together. Between Mama’s knitting supplies and Katie’s perfume bottles and fake jewels, there was hardly any room at all for my art stuff. Mama could nest into any little nook, but Katie and I’d never shared a room before. Can’t say I recall us having shared anything before. Unless you count the hand-me-downs I’m forced to wear: three sizes too big and ten times too frilly. Katie’s roomy clothes hang on my scrawny frame like a horse blanket on a hound dog.

  “Okay, so let’s make the best of this,” Katie grumbled. She drummed her thick fingers on the chest of drawers. “I’m willing to go splitsies on my toilet water, my talcum powder, and my Camay soap while we’re stuck in this hole.” Katie pointed at three fancy packages as she said this. “But anything to the left of my strand of pearls is for-bidden. For-bidden. Got it?” I glanced at the shiny bottles and containers and realized I didn’t even know what cold cream did or how witch hazel might make you prettier.

  “Can I borrow your books?” I asked. Katie had more books than our schoolhouse, and huge stacks now teetered in every corner of our tiny new room.

  She tugged her earlobe while she considered that one. “Yeah, but don’t dog-ear the pages, you hear? Use a bookmark like a civilized human being for once. Now, let’s divvy up your stuff. Those paint-brushes of yours just might make do as makeup brushes. . . .”

  But the worst part? No running water! I’m not joshing—we had to go into the backyard and pump our bathwater by hand. I might not have minded so much, but the wailing from Katie was near unbearable.

  “It’s 1934, for heaven’s sake!” she said, slinging her wrist at the water pump. “Everyone should have running water, no excuses. And an outhouse? Really, no one should have to endure an outdoor privy.

  “Tell you what, Autumn,” she said, eyeballing the water pump and tugging that earlobe again. I never could tell if one of Katie’s earlobe tugs would leave me with the short end of the stick or if it signaled a true give-and-take. “I’ll do your share of the dishes each meal if you haul all the water.”

  “Deal!” I jumped at the chance to get out of doing the dishes. I consider myself as having a strong constitution, but there’s something about half-chewed, dried-up food that knots my stomach. Katie and I sealed our arrangement by spitting into the palms of our hands and shaking on it.

  Now might be the time to ’fess up: I hadn’t given much thought to my gramps before. Truth be told, I know my old bloodhound, Jeb, better than I know my mama’s daddy. If I tend to do things different, Gramps tends to do them downright odd. He was always working on some scheme or another, thinking he’d strike gold. (And I’m talking plain talk here—it’s been said the old man once dug up his creek bed in search of gold nuggets.) His crazy dealings with the park were just him chasing more rainbows, Aunt Lydia said. Mama gets so fed up with him and his antics that we’ve gone for months without checking in on him. That’s how I knew Mama was death-scared to move to Knoxville; she’d’a never chosen this old coot over Pop otherwise.

  I’d seen Cove folks hugging and kissing on their mamaws and papaws, but my only living grandparent was Gramps. He’s not much on giving sugar. He’s not much on giving anything but orders. Mama said that wasn’t always the case, that when Granny was alive, she’d made him walk the line. Said he even used to be funny. But now—well, now he’s just the cranky old-timer in the corner. So he steered clear of us and we steered clear of him. It was a right nice relationship.

  But now all that was about to change. Mama buzzed around the place, determined to turn this log pile into a home. She was so contented, humming and puttering about, that I knew she was happy we’d be staying in the Cove. She’d managed to put off Knoxville for as long as Gramps needed us, and from the looks of things, that could be a good while. A good while longer without my pop.

  Mama decorated some plain cotton potato sacks by laying some flowers and leaves on them and sprinkling them with ashes. Once she lifted off the live stuff, the pattern left behind was right pretty. She tacked these over the window, and you’d’a thought she’d ordered those curtains right out of Sears and Roebuck.

  Next she hammered in a nail or two and hung up some of Pop’s best artwork, and it really spiffied up the place. Pop’s paintings of Cades Cove look so real, it was like Mama had gone and cut more windows in this place. I smiled. At least we had this part of him here.

  Mama also flipped through some of her old Good Housekeeping and National Geographic magazines and tore out the handsomest photographs. Those were tacked up, too. The effect was a big improvement over the mossy logs underneath.

  Gramps stomped in and out of his house the whole time, muttering and sputtering and being overall crotchety. “Curtains?” he’d spew, and trudge out of the house, only to return ten minutes later. “Pitchers?”

  Once all our stuff was moved in and Mama was satisfied with her home improvements, she set to making supper. Boy, she must’ve been out to show Gramps just what he’d signed on for, because she made fried chicken and green beans with ham hocks and mashed potatoes with gravy and juicy sliced tomatoes and corn bread with molasses and even a big cherry pie.

  Gramps slunk in toward the end of her preparations and before he could help himself, a twinkle flashed in those grumpy old eyes. He caught himself, though, and hitched up his overalls before plunking into a chair. “Better clean up this mess, Martha.”

  Mama just smiled and placed a platter of fried okra in front of him. She sat and grabbed Katie’s hand on one side and my hand on the other. Katie and I looked across the table at each other. Then Katie shrugged and reached out to take hold of Gramps’s hand, but it was already attached to a fork, and it was already shoveling food into his mouth as fast as a waterwheel.

  “Daddy!” Mama whispered. “After grace.”

  Gramps made a face like he’d just eaten a slug and dropped his fork into his mashed potatoes. He snatched up my hand, then Katie’s. His grasp took me aback, his hand was so strong and smooth.

  “Amen,” Mama said. We ate like it was the Last Supper, and to me and Katie, it felt like it was. (Heaven help me for making such a comparison, but it’s durn near true!) I guess I’d never noticed it, but boy, was Gramps ever something to look at while he was eating—or rather, not to look at. He ate way too big, and he made way too much noise, and he left a greasy ring of food bits all round his plate. I thought Katie just might throw up, and even if she had, it still would’ve been a toss-up between her and Gramps as to who was the most disgusting at the table.

  After cleaning his plate, Gramps burped and leaned back in his chair, picking his teeth with a chicken bone. “Girls, there will be no free rides round this homestead, you hear? I got a list of chores a mile long. Autumn, let’s start with you.”

  Have you ever smelled a flock of geese in the summer-time? I mean, really smelled one? It smells like what I imagine a dead body smells like. Not sure why I think that, exactly, except that wherever there’s a flock of geese, there’s a cloud of feather dander and puddles of poo that stink like rot. Rotten to the core, they are.

  I hate geese. To be fair, I hate all birds. I imagine that they’ll peck my eyes out. Got this
fear of beaks, you see. I know, I know . . . it’s a stupid fear. But anybody who’s ever seen a chickenhawk tear apart a skunk with one mighty riiiiip might think otherwise about pointing the finger of ridicule at old Autumn Winifred Oliver.

  So seeing as how I hate geese and all, I shouldn’t have been one bit surprised at my first detail at Camp Gramps.

  “Autumn,” he told me. “Tomorrow you’re on goose duty.”

  Goose duty? Dang it!

  “Keep them out of the garden till your mama and I get back from the barn.”

  What? Mama had promised I could go fishing tomorrow! “But Mama said—”

  “Your mama needs to come to the barn, Autumn. I got big plans for that barn. Don’t give me lip.”

  And so the following day, they left. Left me with a flock of stinking, honking geese. I sat outside on a dusty patch of yard in the sweltering sunlight and thought about how a dip in Abrams Creek would feel right now. Every now and then, I’d have to shoo a goose away from Gramps’s withering tomato plants. One little chicken wire fence would solve this problem lickety-split. But I didn’t have any chicken wire on hand. Jeez . . . what a crummy job. There must be a better way to stop those nasty geese from chomping down on those scraggly leaves. I got hotter and hotter, and it wasn’t because of no sunshine.

  And then it hit me. Maybe it was the heat or the dust or the feather dander, but suddenly it occurred to me that the problem here was those durned beaks. If I could somehow rig those orange honkers, they couldn’t eat up Gramps’s garden. So I scurried around the dusty yard, gathering handfuls of sticks and twigs. And then I set out to catch me some geese.

  I do things different. It helps to remind yourself of that when you’re wrangling a flock of geese.

  I managed to snag every single goose out there, despite a lot of flapping and honking and stinking. And then came the hard part. I pried open those horrible beaks, snipped off a bit of twig, and propped open each goose’s mouth like a pup tent. Boy, what a sight! Those stinking geese couldn’t close their mouths, let alone do so around a juicy tomato plant. Problem solved.

  Those twelve geese looked at each other like they’d all been told they were next on the chopping block, the way their mouths hung open. I couldn’t help myself. “Surprise!” I yelled at them, and I laughed to high heaven when they all whipped their heads in my direction, their maws gaping.

  Time to fish.

  It’s a curious thing, guilt. Because there I was, lollygagging the afternoon away on the banks of Abrams Creek with cool, clear mountain water lapping at my ankles, and all I could think about was those durn geese. Would their tongues dry up? What if they got lockjaw? Did they need to spit?

  “Dang it!” I muttered, and found myself packing up my fishing basket and trudging the mile and a half back home.

  It was only four o’clock, so I had plenty of daylight left. Katie wouldn’t be home; she was off making jam with Linda McCauley. And I figured I’d beat Gramps and Mama home easy; Gramps’d want to squeeze every drop of sunshine out of the day, cheap as he was. But when the trail came out of the thick trees into the dusty yard, he and Mama were both there. And they were standing beside an automobile!

  “Wow!” I dropped my fishing basket and pole and ran over to the gleaming black sedan. My hand floated over the boxy back end, down the side of the auto to the dusty runners, around the hump of the spare tire, and finally came to rest on the cowl lights. I huffed on the shiny chrome grille and polished off the cloud of breath with my elbow, just for effect. “Wow!”

  In the mirrored bumper I saw a figure appear over my shoulder. “Please, no breathing on the Ford.”

  I turned and found myself facing a silky smooth red tie with a gold stickpin dead center. I followed that ribbon of red right up to the man’s creamy white face. His hair was as glossy black as his automobile, and his mustache was so thin, it looked as though the whiskers had been left behind by mistake.

  Gramps grabbed the gentleman’s hand and pumped it in a vigorous handshake. “Mighty nice to finally meet you, Colonel Chapman. The work you’ve been doing on the national park is right impressive. Right impressive. When I read in the newspaper you were thinking of a park in these parts, I just knew I had to lend my support. That’s why I sent you that letter. Glad I could be of help.”

  The colonel shifted his gaze from Gramps to Mama, apparently cueing her to chime in. Mama hesitated. “This park just sounds so . . .” She fanned herself with her fingertips. “It’s such a big change. You’re certain that Daddy’ll be able to live here in the Cove once the park opens next year?”

  A smile grew across Colonel Chapman’s face, and I thought he might be one of the handsomest men I’d ever lay my eyes on again. Now I knew why Mama was all fanning herself and whatnot. “Of course. Your father and everyone else in the Cove can stay right where they are. The only thing that will change will be the number of opportunities available to those who live here. Why, Cove residents can open hotels and restaurants and gasoline stations and gift stores. They can stay here and get rich. There’s a lot of money to be made in tourism. Indeed, someone has to be here to rake in all the money the tourists are itching to spend.”

  Gramps hee-hawed and slapped his knee in a too-big gesture. “Itching to spend! Haw! Guess you could say that we here in the Cove got the calamine lotion for that itch.”

  The colonel’s face didn’t even twitch, just stayed put in that gleaming smile. “And I assure you that the five million dollars pledged by John D. Rockefeller will be put to good use.” The colonel laid thick on the name Rockefeller, as if we should pay homage to this fella rather than the five million dollars he’d ponied up. Five million. Cash money. My chin nearly hit the ground on that one.

  The colonel turned crisply. “Well, my nephew and I must continue our rounds.” With that, he swooshed his wrist toward the automobile, and for the first time I noticed a squirrelly-headed boy with thick, thick, thick glasses peering all moony-eyed at me over the door’s edge. He looked scrawny and bookish and whiny—all the necessary ingredients a kid needs to get picked on.

  “Cody here will be one of your new neighbors,” the colonel said in an all-too-cheery kind of voice. I reckon he was aiming that comment at me. “He’s never been to the Cove before. He’ll stay here with his aunt Matilda over the next few months. I myself will be coming and going while we finalize the deal with FDR.”

  At the mention of our revered President Roosevelt, Mama sucked in her breath. “You know Mr. Roosevelt?” she asked, blushing.

  The colonel grinned. “Yes, Mrs. Oliver. If you’d like, I can pass along your good wishes to him and Mrs. Roosevelt.”

  I thought Mama might pass out at the idea of her name being spoken in the very presence of the First Lady. “Oh, would you?” she breathed, clasping her hands together. “I’d be much obliged.”

  And then, either in the fervor of the moment or in the excitement of the park or in sheer all-out craziness, my mama said something I’ll never, ever forget. Or forgive. She laid her hand on my head and said, “Autumn here would be delighted to show your nephew—Cody, is it?—around the Cove while he gets settled in.”

  What? I’m not one to have a bunch of pals hanging around, like Katie does. I whipped my head back toward the auto, and that moony-eyed little booger nodded his big head and grinned to beat all. And then the fresh little creep winked at me—winked!

  “Excellent. He’ll be going to school here, too. I know he’d enjoy a buddy.” A buddy? Jeez.

  The colonel then slid into his car and looked up at Gramps. “Your assistance in bringing this park to life is much appreciated, Mr. Tipton. I was delighted to receive your letter in which you offered your support. I look forward to the town meeting you’ve organized tomorrow. Once you explain the numerous ways that the park will benefit your neighbors, they will quickly hop on board, I’m sure. I doubt we can win the support of the Cove inhabitants without your endorsement. Cove people tend to be . . . limited in scope.”

&nbs
p; If by that he means that Cove folks on the whole don’t do things different, well, then I’d have to say I agree.

  The colonel cranked his engine. Gramps cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted above the roar. “Thanks again, Colonel! Folks in this here Cove are about to see big change.”

  The three of us stood there as that black beauty of an auto stirred up a cloud of dust and vanished. Gramps was smiling until he saw me. His face fell.

  Uh-oh . . . the geese! There was no telling what kind of punishment my gramps might dole out for this one.

  But instead, Gramps’s face pulled into the slightest of grins. “Autumn, fix those durned birds. If we’re going to turn this place into a tourist trap, we can’t have a bunch of gaping geese flapping around.”

  3

  I do things different.

  It helps to remind

  yourself of that

  when you sniff out

  the skunk, and the

  skunk is your kin.

  Last week, before his little brush with death, Gramps had posted signs all over the Cove:

  Come Discuss Our National Park!!!

  See What’s in Store for You:

  Easy Work!!!

  Easy Money!!!

  Easy Living!!!

  Meet at the Schoolhouse

  Saturday Next at Noon to

  Stake Your Claim to the Riches!!!

  But even with that enticing message, only a handful of homeowners showed up, maybe because of the early August thunderstorm howling outside. I certainly wouldn’t have been there if Mama hadn’t made me come. Katie had her sewing circle, and I’m apparently too “unpredictable” to leave by myself all day.

  A stupid town meeting! Who cares about this crummy park, anyways? I stomped all the way to the front of the one-room schoolhouse and slumped onto the bench next to Mama. Neighbors ambled into the tiny white frame building, shook off like wet dogs, and chatted each other up before Gramps ushered them to their seats. Colonel Chapman planted himself on the back right corner bench, arms folded across his broad chest. He somehow managed to be the only dry person in the room. Even Cody, seated next to him, was rain-soaked. Cody looked skimpier than a piece of hay floating in a bucket of water. I slouched lower in the bench. I didn’t think he’d seen me, but then he waved at me so hard I thought his fingers might fly off. He stood and walked over. Dang it!