Bobby Drekins from across the street and Lewis Tumds were on his team too. They had all been Indians and painted their faces with ground up grass that the wild girl had smooshed with a rock. Except no one told Charlie that the Indians were supposed to lose. If he had known that, he'd of been a cowboy with Willy Thompson and Quincy Stevens.
The six year old could smell the thick scent of coffee in the air and the chatter of women in the other room. They always did that. As long as Charlie could remember they had always gathered in the kitchen on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Making pot after pot of coffee and gabbing away about nothing remotely of interest. Charlies mom was chair lady of the town committee or something of the like; he never paid close enough attention to remember. Which meant all the other mothers in town, or most of them anyhow, spent their afternoons in his moms kitchen drinking coffee and cackling.
Charlie rubbed his cheeks ruefully still staring out the window. They had been pinched by every woman in the kitchen. All because Charlie woke up late and couldn't escape out the back door before his Ma caught him. Charlie stood and listened with one ear on the table of clucking women and both eyes on the house across the street that was just as wild as the girl livin' in it.
His mother had an opinion about the wild girl too, like every other mother in the kitchen and she was often the subject of their conversations. It would always start with someone bringing up a funeral or one of the ladies catching a glance of the wild girl as she ran shoeless down the street. Charlie would always listen to see if he could catch the girls name, but nobody seemed to know it. They always called her 'that poor child' and 'that girl'.
"Uh-uh that child needs some motherin'." His mother would start shaking her head and pouring more coffee for the table of gossipers.
"Amen." Mrs. Hovenly nodded pursing her lips and fanning herself lazily with her black hand.
"That poor child." Mrs. Mearty would nod her head slowly in agreement.
Charlie didn’t understand how they could call her that. What was so bad about not havin' rules and being able to stay out past the sun? His Ma only let him stay out past dark on the fourth of July and the town barbeque. The wild girl never had to go in after dark.
"Oh it's a phase is all-" The heavy wheezing voice came from Ms. Wid. The oldest woman Charlie had ever met. She had been widowed twice with five grown children and an estate larger than Charlies neighbor hood. "Once they get out of that stupor they'll pull themselves together. You'll see."
"Oh, I do hope so." Charlie didn't have to look to know the whinny voice belong to Mrs. Poodle. "Every time I see that child I just barely stop myself from pickin' up the phone."
The six year old could smell the thick scent of coffee in the air and the chatter of women in the other room. They always did that. As long as Charlie could remember they had always gathered in the kitchen on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Making pot after pot of coffee and gabbing away about nothing remotely of interest. Charlies mom was chair lady of the town committee or something of the like; he never paid close enough attention to remember. Which meant all the other mothers in town, or most of them anyhow, spent their afternoons in his moms kitchen drinking coffee and cackling.
Charlie rubbed his cheeks ruefully still staring out the window. They had been pinched by every woman in the kitchen. All because Charlie woke up late and couldn't escape out the back door before his Ma caught him. Charlie stood and listened with one ear on the table of clucking women and both eyes on the house across the street that was just as wild as the girl livin' in it.
His mother had an opinion about the wild girl too, like every other mother in the kitchen and she was often the subject of their conversations. It would always start with someone bringing up a funeral or one of the ladies catching a glance of the wild girl as she ran shoeless down the street. Charlie would always listen to see if he could catch the girls name, but nobody seemed to know it. They always called her 'that poor child' and 'that girl'.
"Uh-uh that child needs some motherin'." His mother would start shaking her head and pouring more coffee for the table of gossipers.
"Amen." Mrs. Hovenly nodded pursing her lips and fanning herself lazily with her black hand.
"That poor child." Mrs. Mearty would nod her head slowly in agreement.
Charlie didn’t understand how they could call her that. What was so bad about not havin' rules and being able to stay out past the sun? His Ma only let him stay out past dark on the fourth of July and the town barbeque. The wild girl never had to go in after dark.
"Oh it's a phase is all-" The heavy wheezing voice came from Ms. Wid. The oldest woman Charlie had ever met. She had been widowed twice with five grown children and an estate larger than Charlies neighbor hood. "Once they get out of that stupor they'll pull themselves together. You'll see."
"Oh, I do hope so." Charlie didn't have to look to know the whinny voice belong to Mrs. Poodle. "Every time I see that child I just barely stop myself from pickin' up the phone."
