1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: SUSAN, THE CONSCIENCE

I hadn't seen Boy in about two weeks, not since I grabbed the toy car for the second time and ran home. Well, I had actually seen him once, at Mr. Bittner's store, but he wouldn't look at me. I had run there on impulse after seeing a television commercial for a Mars Bar candy bar that prompted me to run barefoot on the gravel road to the store to pluck one off the shelf and run out shouting back over my shoulder to Mr. Bittner to "charge it".
Boy was pretending to read a Superman comic, turning pages quickly one after another. I didn't think he could read, but if he could, I was certain he couldn't read that fast. It had to be a ruse. I left without speaking to him, but my heart hurt a little as I ran home, hoping fervently that I hadn't missed much of the Mighty Mouse cartoon.
Even though I had several friends my own age in Purdon, I actually liked to play with Boy. Most of the time he let me be the boss and decide what we were going to play, and he often gave in to my wishes, the exception being the silver car.
It had been about two weeks since I got the car back for myself. I sat it on the chiffarobe, but every time I looked in the mirror or opened the small closet door beside it, the car stared at me. Susan had asked one evening about dusk why I didn't leave it over there at Boy's house since he didn't have nearly as many toys as the six of us had. Now she sounded like Mother. I didn't answer. I just hugged Monkey even tighter, squeezed my eyes shut, and tried mightily to go to sleep.
Monkey had been the highlight of my fifth birthday as I proudly took the $5 I had been given by my parents and bought him at F.W. Woolworth Dimestore. He looked so merry and mischievous, he seemed a worthy companion. Besides, in the several years I had owned him, he had never once griped at me for something I had done.
Susan, though. She was not nearly as congenial with me as Monkey. She was like having a conscience sitting in your room all the time. Always reading her books, she seemed wise for her years. She was older, but I was scrappier, so we mostly avoided physical confrontations At least Susan did. I often hoped matters would become physical because I could hold my own with her there, but not if she started using her big words and ideas. It was hard to find a comparable comeback when she presented her "oh so logical" arguments. Our fights sounded like a duel between a philosopher and a lobotomy patient.
Susan: "Felisa, I think you should let Jan (our youngest sister), play with your dollbaby because she is younger than you and she doesn't grasp the concept of sharing yet."
Felisa: "No, it's my doll, and I don't wanna share."
Susan: "Felisa, just set a minimum time limit, let her have the fun of playing with her, and when she is satisfied, you can have your doll back, and she will forget about her. Remember what Gelene taught you in Sunday School?" Weirdly, we always called our parents' friends by their first names, but in a respectful way.
Felisa: "No, it's mine and I don't wanna share." The Sunday School comment hit me like a stone thrown directly at the gut though, as I really liked Gelene and wouldn't want her to know I didn't like to share. Susan hadn't threatened to tell her- yet!
A lengthy pause arced lazily between the beds in the stifling air of the bedroom. I hopped up and turned on the huge buzz fan, hoping to drown out Susan's voice. She was looking directly at me with brown eyebrows raised behind her black rimmed glasses. She looked too much like an adult, and I felt uncomfortable. I ran to my bed, snatched the baby doll, and threw it hard at Susan.
"You smell sweaty," I yelled, and ran through the kitchen and out the back door. I had grabbed the car on my way out and put the tiny metal toy in the waistband of my shorts.
On a list of fears, snakes were number one, and the dark was a close second. It wasn't quite dark yet, but the sky was moving stealthily toward it. I had on my tennis shoes, so if I stepped on a snake, I hoped it would roll off my shoes and slither away. I hadn't ever seen any snakes in the pasture right by the house, but I hadn't walked in the tall Johnson grass like I was doing now either. Before, I had always stuck to the paths made by feet traveling the same worn grass day after day.
After pushing open the heavy iron gate, I let it swing shut pulled by the strength of the large spring my dad had installed at the base of it to make it easier to open and shut. I crept along the fence, staying close to the barbed wire since the grass was a little shorter there.
Once I made it to the back side of our garage, I could see Boy's house. Someone turned a light on, the first since darkness slid across the landscape, eclipsing the sun.
I hesitated, edging up against the weathered paintless boards of the old building. It looked like a big wind could cause it to sag eastward and collapse, but we still kept our cherished Buick inside.
Courage resurrected, I headed south along the barbed wire fence, bending at the waist. I hoped no one was outside, and I would bet they were all inside watching Gunsmoke. Grass cut at my legs, making little marks that brought blood, and I let out a little muffled scream when I stepped on a snake that turned out to be a stick from a large oak tree in Boy's yard, its branches drooping low over the fence. When I got even with the screened porch that ran the entire width of the side of his house, I forced myself to take about ten more steps. My best pitch, and the car went over the fence, landing with a little thud and a puff of dust in the dirt that Evelyn called a side yard.
Bolting for home, I secretly hoped Boy found the car soon. Maybe he'd ask me over to play.
Installed