“Do it again Sissy. He’s magic. Make him do it again!” Tink begs me, her round face turned up toward the sunshine. For a flash, she looks like any ole kid – but she ain’t.
The goats belong to our neighbor, Rex, and we’re fascinated with em. They stand on top of a rusted gray, hollowed-out Buick that Rex has parked inside the chain-link fence. It has four flat tires that have given themselves to the red mud beneath them.
We take scraps to them, and they put on a show for us. We shucked for hours this morning before the day turned steamy, and we brought them two big buckets of cornhusks. Tink laughs at how they romp around in the emerald-green grass that’s dotted with bare patches of red soil.
One of them, the one that’s nearly solid white, can do some tricks. If I climb on the fence and hold the food up real high, he’ll stand up tall and walk on his hind legs. Tink thinks that’s hilarious. She ain’t allowed to climb up there. Mama says she’ll fall and break her neck.
Tink’s raspy voice pieces together the words between her laughter. “Sissy, make em dance.”
Her favorite goat’s the white one with the caramel-colored spots, and my favorite’s the black one with the white blaze. I named him Moon Pie. I don’t think Rex would mind since he doesn’t give any of em names anyhow.
“Scraps’re all gone Tink. We gotta head home. Bet Mama’s getting lunch ready for us by now.” I tug at Tink’s hand to try and persuade her. She glares at me over the rim of her glasses and grunts a little, but Tink is probably hungry too. Breakfast seems like a hundred years ago.
We start our climb back up the hill with our empty buckets and the late morning sun glistens on the saliva that’s gathered in the corners of Tink’s mouth, enhancing the delicate blue tinge of her lips, a little like she’s been eating a snow cone from the fair. She’s only been walking with me back up the hill but she can’t quite catch her breath. That happens sometimes.
Smooth golden hair frames her rosy face. Freckles, only a few small light brown ones, dot her nose. Baby pink plastic framed glasses sit slightly crooked above the freckle patch. Tink is two years older than me, but people always think I’m oldest. She’s smaller and not real strong. Mama said Tink was born with a hole in her heart.
This morning, Mama slathered her face and arms with big white globs of Coppertone before we went out for the day, and made her wear a dumb-looking rainbow sun hat that flops in her face. She hates it, so she wears it mostly hanging around her neck until Mama hollers for her to put it back on.
Some people call her names or point her out. I heard some women talking in the A&P while Mama picked over the roasts and questioned the butcher about the cuts of meat.
“Look at them purdy little girls, Louise. They’re so cute. That blonde one’s a mongoloid, ain’t she?”
I could feel my face getting real hot like I just got a sunburn.
“She ain’t no mongoloid!” I grunted from the bottom of the grocery cart. “She’s got Down’s Syndrome.” My words broke out clear and loud, and I gave them women my worst stink-eyed look.
The butcher’s eyes got big as frisbees. Mama just grabbed a roast and wheeled our cart down the canned food aisle, and quick handed me the grocery list. “Here, here Sissy, you check off what we’ve already got.”
“But Mama, those ladies…”
“Hush, Sis. Just hush.” I closed my mouth and pretended to button my lips together. Mama don’t like us to make a scene.
Sometimes lately I feel a little embarrassed when people stare at her or start whispering. Mama says Tink is like a rare flower in the garden of life. I ain’t real sure what that means exactly.
The other week, when we were shopping at Hudson’s Department Store, Mama made me take Tink to the bathroom while she was busy trying on a skirt. I hate when Mama makes me do that. Tink always needs me to help fasten her pants, and she never can get the water to turn off by herself after she washes her hands. Some lady just stood there in the corner next to the stall, holding tight to her purse and watching us until we got out of the way. She was a real pretty lady with long blonde hair and a blue sundress with a ruffle at the bottom, and brown high-heeled sandals.
The pretty lady stared right at Tink and said, “Why are her lips blue like that?”
I just looked away and helped Tink wash her hands. I don’t know why, but I felt wiggly in my skin, and I kind of just wanted to leave her there in that bathroom and go find Mama and forget about Tink for a little while. I never used to feel like that about Tink, but sometimes now I do. I don’t wanna feel that way, I swear I don’t.
I’ve seen Tink’s blue lips plenty of times before. The Sunday we were baptized was the worst. The heater for the baptismal pool broke the night before, and the water was on the verge of lukewarm at best. I was in a navy and white dress that was a hand-me-down from my cousin. It made me look like a Holly Hobby doll. The elastic on one of the white, frilly sleeves was shot and stretched out shamelessly, while the other wrist had a perfect frill still intact that clung to my skin, making my wrist itchy and red under the tight elastic band. My chestnut hair was tidy in braided pigtails.
Tink wore a mint green dress that almost matched her eyes. Mama had bought it new from Hudson’s. She said Tink’s too small for the dresses in the hand-me-down bag. We stood barefoot on cinder blocks so we wouldn’t drown in the baptismal while we listened to Pastor Buelow Price talk about the eternal life, and how when Jesus was baptized by his cousin, John the Baptist, in the River Jordan that the Holy Spirit descended on him in the form of a dove.
I thought about how much I liked doves and how I wished the Holy Spirit would come down to visit me right that moment and make me warmer in that coldish water. Goosebumps covered my legs and made the hairs stand out, all electrified. I wished right then that I was in the River Jordan since I like playing in the creek down behind our house and catching as many crawdads and salamanders as I can find under the slick, mossy rocks.
Tink’s not allowed to come to the creek to play with me anymore. She falls in every time, and Mama gets pissed. So now it’s my own little place to be alone. Daddy says everybody ought to have a place just to be quiet with their thinking.
I looked across the baptismal at Tink and her lips were so blue they made me think of the old cobalt glass bottles our Nana keeps on her kitchen windowsill. Tink’s tongue sat sandwiched between them. Her glasses sat crooked on her face, and her haircut reminded me of a yellow mushroom smooth and glassy like a crown. I knew she wasn’t beautiful, but I thought she looked a little bit magical right then. She caught me looking at her and smiled with her stubby teeth. My heart felt a tinge sad, so I took a little picture of Tink with my mind, just wanting to remember her like that.
“I baptize you my sister in the name of the Father, The Son, and the Holy Ghost,” Pastor Buelow Price said to the congregation as he ducked Tink under the water wetting down her hair into a slick helmet. I held onto her glasses. She gasped for air as she came up. I wanted to ask her if her sins had been washed, but it was my turn and I knew Tink didn’t have many sins anyway. Unless God counted it when she ate more than her share of the Christmas stocking candy, or when she let out our pet rabbits and they never came back. She forgot to lock the cage after she took them out to pet them. She loves soft things, but I’m thinking they got ate by a coyote. I’d never tell Tink that, but it makes me sad and even a little bit mad at Tink.
“I didn’t mean to Mama,” Tink said in her tiny voice. There’s not a mean bone in Tink’s body, but sometimes I feel a welt of anger just a little bit deep down inside when I think about how Tink let those rabbits go free.
“Sissy,” she lisps. It sounds more like “Th-i-thy” in her breathy words. She needs a rest to catch her breath. It’s harder coming back up the hill and takes effort. I could run ahead if I wanted. I can run faster than all the boys in my class, but Mama might be mad if I run ahead and Tink might cry.
Mama said in a serious voice this morning, “Tink’s not strong as you, Sissy. Come to my room and let’s talk.” Tink was still asleep in our room. “Come here.” She patted the daisy-patterned bedspread with her hand. “Sissy, you have to take care of Tink. She might be older, but you, you’re the one who will always have to take care of her. It might not seem fair to you, Sissy, but you’re the strong one.” Mama turned and held tightly to my shoulders and stared straight into my eyes. “Just remember that.”
I twisted away from Mama. “But what if I don’t wanna take care of Tink?.”
Mama put her hands back on my shoulders and looked me straight in my face. “The Bible says, to whom much is given, much will be expected.”
“What’s that mean?” I tried to squirm. I looked away from Mama’s hard stare and pulled at a string on the bedspread. Mama sat real quiet and still next to me.
When I looked back, tears were pooled up in Mama’s eyes, and I watched with anticipation to see when they would spill out and drip down onto her cheeks. Mama is beautiful, with dark brown hair and big-rimmed glasses.
“I need you to know something, Sissy. I think you’re old enough now.” Mama gripped her hands together like she was going to pray, with the fingers intertwined, but tighter than for any prayer. I could see her knuckles turning white at the joint as her hands rocked back and forth. There was a small scratch on her right knuckle that stood out and looked a little like it hurt.
“Sissy, listen to me. Sometimes we just have to be strong enough to carry a weight that’s not our own, something heavier than you think you can carry.”
My mouth wrenched to the side, and I thought hard about what Mama was saying.
“You’ll grow up. You’ll grow up and be a woman with a job and a family and a home, and Tink…” Mama breathed in like she was discovering air. “Tink won’t do those things.” Her teary eyes stared at me hard as droplets fell from her chin onto the daisy print below. “Are you hearing what I’m saying?”
I nodded a little. “Yeah, I guess, but why? Why won’t she do those things?” My face twisted, and I squinted at her.
“Some people are made to be on the earth for a long time and do lots of things, but some are made only for a short time.” Mama took a tissue from the box on her nightstand, the one with the orange crocheted cover that I love, and she softly dabbed it under her eyes. “We have to make the most of every season they’re with us,” Mama said.
I’m thinkin on what Mama was talking about just as we make it to the line of trees that I love. There’s tulip poplars, white pines, and a couple persimmon trees. “Sit down, Sissy,” Tink demands as she falls onto a mossy patch. Tink is mostly gentle but can be obstinate as a mule when she wants me to do something I don’t want to do.
“Come on Tink. I bet Mama’s making bologna sandwiches with mustard, and I’m hungry.” I try to pull her up off the ground, and I can feel my temper starting to bubble up, but there’s wheezing in her lungs, so I stop tugging at her so hard. She glares at me with her narrow green eyes over the top rim of her glasses until I give in.
“Okay,” I grunt and I sit with her next to the path, under the persimmon tree. The tree has a good canopy with a substantial mossy carpet around the base, so I don’t pout much. Shadows dance on the ground from the leaves above, and I lie down on my back and look for forming fruit held in the intermingled branches. If you try to eat one of those persimmons now, it will turn your mouth inside out with bitter.
“Hey Tink, I bet this tree is gonna have a thousand persimmons on it this year.” I want to perk her up.
“Think so, Sissy?” Tink said in an unenthusiastic voice.
“Look Tink,” I point to one of the higher branches, “There’s a nest. Bet it’s a robin’s nest.” I grab her arm and help her point to the nest so she can find it. She straightens her glasses and tries to look. Tink’s eyesight isn’t very good, even with her glasses.
“I see it Sissy.” Her voice sounds a little brighter.
We lie there on our backs and I watch black ants crawl on the moss near my head; their shiny armored bodies search the terrain for bits of edible material. Some carry leaves that are ten times their size. Daddy always says that creatures are gifted in different ways and each holds a purpose, but I argue with him about how mosquitos can’t possibly have a purpose.
The cool umbrella of the persimmon tree is welcoming, and a bumblebee buzzes and flits through the shade. There’s a breeze blowing and flipping the leaves above us. It attempts to dry the sweat beads on my upper lip and around my forehead, where wisps of my brown hair stick in the moisture.
White clouds bunch up in the hazy summer sky and look like floating cities. I can tell there’ll be a thunderstorm later. I love storms. Maybe Tink’ll let me read to her for a little while on the screen porch. I just finished chapter three of James and the Giant Peach, and I’m anxious to see what he’s going to do with the bag of the crocodile tongues.
I look over at Tink. Her eyes are closed and her lids look a little like she’s wearing purple eyeshadow. I’m envious since Mama won’t let us wear makeup. She says we’re too young, and that little girls who wear makeup look trashy.
Tink’s button nose has a perfect sweet slope to it. To me, she looks like a sleeping doll. I guess I know I’ll grow up, but Tink won’t. She’ll be a little girl forever, and for a second I wish deep down that I can stay the same with her. Being all grown up seems hard and grown-ups are ill and tired a whole lot.
I dig my fingers into the moist, emerald moss, pretending I’m touching the thousand crocodile tongues that have been boiled in the witch’s skull from my book, and I uncover the reddish-brown mud below it. It’s flecked with bits of mica that glimmer in the mid-day sun. An earthworm wiggles and writhes, wanting to be put back into the dark safety of the earth, so I cover him up with the clump of moss.
I’ll go back to school in a couple weeks. I’ll be in the third grade, and I hope I’ll get Mrs. Blanton this year since she doesn’t paddle. I got paddled last year for lying about finishing my alphabetical order in that stupid workbook. I hate workbooks. They’re a useless waste of time, but Daddy says I need to have a good work ethic, whatever that means. He also tells me that I’m not allowed to tell lies.
“Sissy, would you like it if I told you lies?” Daddy asked me.
“No,” I said as I pretended to write in my workbook.
“Listen Sissy, if you work hard at school and stop telling lies, I promise we can go camping before the end of summer, just you and me.” Daddy brushed my hair out of my eyes and wrapped his arms around me. He hugged me tight like he just didn’t want to turn me loose.
“Okay Daddy.” I agreed.
I really want to go camping. Maybe Daddy will even take me fishing since we won’t have to worry about Tink falling in and getting all wet and muddy. Mama and Tink won’t go camping. Tink won’t even go to school in the fall, Mama said.
Tink takes in a heavy breath, and I watch as her chest rises and falls under her favorite Cookie Monster t-shirt. Her lips don’t look so blue anymore.

I think about how in the fall the persimmon tree will hang heavy with orange balls of fruit, and the ground will be littered with the overripe ones. I imagine the deer and raccoons coming silently in the crisp cool of the night to eat all the ones they can get to. In my mind I see me and Tink picking persimmons off the ground early the next morning and squishing some under our boots, and Mama hollering at us about what a mess we’re making, but we just laugh and pretend we’re making orange pudding with our feet.
“Hey Tink?”
“Hummm?” she says. She’s nearly asleep. The trip to the goats wore her out.
“Why don’t I go get our sandwiches and bring em back? We can eat right here in the shade and watch the ants. We can feed them a few crumbs and watch where they take em.” I’m excited about this potential entertainment.
“Okay,” Tink mumbles. She reaches over with stubby fingers and holds my hand. “Love you Sissy,” she says.
“I love you too. Be right back… I promise.”
I walk back up the path a few feet then decide to break into my fastest run. I don’t want to leave Tink by herself for too long. My feet pound into the ground and sweat trickles down the sides of my face. My hair blows behind me, waving in the wind and my arms pump hard at my sides.
I run as hard and fast as I want, and I let myself feel strong. I think about all those tiny ants back under the persimmon tree and the way they carry things way bigger than they are. I have a thought that maybe I’m like them.
I’m going to get my book to take back with our lunch. I want to see if James is going to be brave enough to mix those crocodile tongues in the water and drink em down. The man said he’d be full of their magic. Tink might like to hear about that while she eats her bologna sandwich.
When I get to the house, I throw open the screen door and Mama is standing there making our sandwiches. I run past her to grab my book off the table in our room.
“Wash your hands girls…Sissy, where’s Tink?”
I run back through the kitchen and Mama is standing there with her face all angry and her hands on her hips. “Where’s your sister?”
“She’s just under the persimmon tree, Mama. I told her I’d be right back with our sandwiches.”
Mama’s face shifts and she looks like she’s seeing something a thousand miles away. She just stands there for a minute while I wrap our sandwiches in a paper towel.
Her voice is quiet, like a whisper. “You just left her there, Sissy? What was she doing?”
“Oh, she was just laying there like an old dog in the shade.” I push the screen door open and jump down the two steps and take off, running back down the path with my book under my arm and the sandwiches in my hand. I can’t run as fast this time carrying everything.
I hear the door slam again and when I turn to look, it’s Mama running behind me, but I know I can run faster than she can, even with the sandwiches and book. I imagine that my legs are like machines as my feet pound down into the path, and when I get back to the persimmon tree, I see Tink, just leaning there against it. I get to the moss and almost fall down. I’ve been running so hard. My breath is loud and heavy. Mama’s still running down the path.
I can see that Tink’s just resting her eyes. “Hey Tink, look who’s coming to eat lunch with us?”
Fluttering, her eyes open just in time to see Mama come running under the shade of the tree. “Sissy, you bring the sandwiches?” Tink whispers.
“Yeah, and I have the book, too.” I hold it up close to Tink’s face so she can see the cover. Mama just stands there watching us and not saying anything, but when I look up at her, she has tears slipping down her cheeks.
“Here Mama.” I say, patting my hand on the mossy ground next to me. “Why you cryin’? Here, sit down. The shade is so nice and cool and I can read to us for a little while. It’ll make y’all both feel better.”
Mama sits down cross-legged on the patch of moss and runs her hand across Tink’s forehead. Tink smiles a little with her stubby teeth, and it makes Mama smile a little bit, too.
I don’t wanna think about how Tink might not be there in the fall when those persimmons fall off that tree, but I know my mama’s thinking about just that.
My fingers flip through the book to find Chapter 4, and I take a big bite of my sandwich. The mustard squishes into my mouth and tingles on my tongue. I take my fingers and break off a few crumbs from the crust to give to the ants, and I watch as they carry the crumbs, bigger than their own tiny bodies, up the side of the persimmon tree.