Bastard Out of Carolina - Dorothy Allison [101]
I knew he was just trying to sound important, be the man and all, but it was hard for me to swallow my anger and nod back at him. “It’s all right,” I finally managed. He looked pissed, so I ran my hand along the chain and nodded again. “Good job.”
“Damn right!”
Son of a bitch, I told myself, but said nothing more to him. It didn’t matter what he thought he was doing. This whole thing was really about what I was doing. It was my plan, and the hook didn’t matter as much as getting into the Woolworth’s did, and I knew what he didn’t. The way in was over the roof and through the fan vent. There wasn’t any chance my tall, hairy, man-proud cousin would fit through the vent. He’d have to hold his pride and wait down below for me to open a door for him. And if he made me too mad, he could stand around and scratch his hands all night.
When it came down to it, there was a moment when I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Grey had an easy time swinging the hook high enough to bite into the back roof of the Woolworth building, and I had only a little trouble shinnying up the rope with my feet braced against the wall. It was a little trickier at the top, where they’d stuck broken glass on the edge, probably to discourage people with ideas like mine. But the rope didn’t fray, and I jumped the glass easily enough. I got a little cocky then, feeling good about myself. It was quiet and cool and clear up there on that roof. Greenville lay spread out to the east of me, the buildings gradually getting taller over toward the airport and the highway. I could see people standing under a streetlight two blocks away and cars speeding along the overpass above the Texaco station and the railroad siding. I spit off the roof and heard Grey cursing below me.
“You okay?” he whisper-yelled.
“Fine. Now shut up ’fore you get us in trouble.” I walked toward the exhaust housing on loose crackly tar paper. At some point they’d covered the exhaust fan with chicken wire and a lattice of wooden slats. The chicken wire was rusty and pulled free pretty fast. I kicked at the slats until two broke off.
It was the fan blades that worried me. I could slip around them, I was sure, but the engine block was big and oily. That would be a tight piece. I sat back for a minute and looked around again. I felt strange and strong, like I had sipped some of Uncle Earle’s whiskey or sucked on one of Uncle Beau’s green pipes. The rooftop sparkled and shone in the glare of the streetlight.
It was the exhaust fan at the VFW that had given me the idea. There were no wood slats or chicken wire there, and the motor itself was small. I’d seen Uncle Beau’s girls climb through it the weekend of the Baptist Mission Fish Fry. Myer Johnson had run the girls off and complained that he was always having to work on those fans—the only one he never had to mess with was the one on the Woolworth building. I’d known Myer was trying to sound important for my cousin Deedee’s benefit, so I hadn’t paid much attention. But later it came back to me so strong that I’d shaken suddenly in the middle of dinner and caught Mama’s eye.
“You all right, honey?” I’d nodded and gone off to the bathroom by myself. Standing there wetting my neck and looking into my own eyes in the mirror, I’d worked it out. I hadn’t actually been inside the Woolworth’s in years, not since Mama had caught me stealing Tootsie Rolls, but I had a pristine memory of it—the long rows of counters and the lazy fans turning high up on the ceiling, with the big exhaust vent toward the back over the notions counter. Greenville summers were hot and sticky, and the Woolworth building was designed for them with its high ceiling and fans. The vent had a seal they put on for the winter and took off at the end of April, but I remembered seeing it come down once. It was nothing but a loosely fitting frame with cotton insulation in the top of it. The insulation