The Glass Castle_ A Memoir - Jeannette Walls [65]
I picked up a stick and raced toward them. “Go on, now!” I shouted at the dog. When I raised the stick, it whimpered and slunk off.
The dog’s teeth had not broken the boy’s skin, but his pant leg was torn, and he was trembling as if he had palsy. I offered to take him home, and I ended up carrying him piggyback. He was feather-light. I couldn’t get a word out of him except the most minimal directions. “up there,” “that way”—in a voice I could hardly hear.
The houses in the neighborhood were old but freshly painted, some in bright colors like lavender or kelly green. “This here,” the boy whispered when we came to a house with blue shutters. It had a neat yard but was so small that dwarves could have lived there. When I put the kid down, he dashed up the steps and through the door. I turned to go.
Dinitia Hewitt was standing on the porch across the street, looking at me curiously.
The next day when I went out to the playground after lunch, the gang of girls started toward me, but Dinitia hung back. Without their leader, the others lost their sense of purpose and stopped short of me. The following week, Dinitia asked me for help on an English assignment. She never said she was sorry for the bullying, or even mentioned it, but she thanked me for bringing her neighbor home that night, and I figured that her request for help was as close to an apology as I would get. Erma had made it clear how she felt about black people, so instead of inviting Dinitia to our house to work on her assignment, I suggested that on the upcoming Saturday, I’d go to hers.
That day I was leaving the house at the same time as Uncle Stanley. He never had the wherewithal to learn to drive, but someone from the appliance store where he worked was picking him up. He asked if I wanted a ride, too. When I told him where I was headed, he frowned. “That’s Niggerville,” he said. “What you going there for?”
Stanley didn’t want his friend to drive me there, so I walked. When I got back home later in the afternoon, the house was empty except for Erma, who never set foot outside. She stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of green beans and taking swigs from the bottle of hooch in her pocket.
“So, how was Niggerville?” she asked.
Erma was always going on about. “the niggers.” Her and Grandpa’s house was on Court Street, on the edge of the black neighborhood. It galled her when they started moving into that section of town, and she always said it was their fault that Welch had gone downhill. When you were sitting in the living room, where Erma always kept the shades drawn, you could hear groups of black people walking into town, talking and laughing. “Goddamn niggers,” Erma always muttered. “The reason I have not gone out of this house in fifteen years is because I do not want to see or be seen by a nigger.” Mom and Dad had always forbidden us to use that word. It was much worse than any curse word, they told us. But since Erma was my grandmother, I never said anything when she used it.
Erma kept stirring the beans. “Keep this up and people are going to think you’re a nigger lover,” she said.
She gave me a serious look, as if imparting a meaningful life lesson I should ponder and absorb. She unscrewed the cap from her bottle of hooch and took a long, contemplative swallow.
As I watched her drinking, I felt this pressure building in my chest and I had to let it out. “You’re not supposed to use that word,” I said.
Erma’s face went slack with astonishment.
“Mom says they’re just like us,” I continued. “except they have different complexions.”
Erma glared at me. I thought she was going to backhand me, but instead she said, “You ungrateful little shit. I’ll be damned if you’re eating my food tonight. Get your worthless ass down to the basement.”
Lori gave me a hug when she heard I’d told off Erma. Mom was upset, though. “We may not agree with all of Erma’s views,” she said, “but we have to remember that as long as we’re her guests, we have to be polite.”
That didn’t seem like Mom. She and Dad happily railed