The Tattered Quilt

Chapter One – Naiveté

It was the best yet the worst day of his life. A time of celebration cloaking the unknown of tomorrow. A moment in time with his friends, soon to be lost to him, traded for mysterious new adventures.

Scents of exotic spices blended with butter, flour, and sugar danced through the military gray, green-tiled classroom air and contrasted with the bland corndog Stevie had just eaten in the cafeteria. Golden Japanese Wagashi cakes, fat brown Iranian Koloocheh cookies, Southern chocolate brownies, and pure white sugar cookies surrounded a yellow pound cake at the center of the table at the back of the classroom. His nine-year-old mouth watered at the thought of the treats he would soon enjoy.

The fourth-grade class was a microcosm of the world where Blacks, Whites, Native Americans, Latinos, and many international fourth graders learned reading, writing, and arithmetic. The elementary school was just inside the gates of a U.S. Air Force Fighter jet base two miles from Selma, Alabama.

Turmoil had surrounded Stevie's life since he had begun school with five years of war, discontent, and death. President Kennedy's blood stained their first year in school with his assassination. The invasive war in Vietnam escalated, followed by the just and unjust mayhem of the ongoing Civil Rights War just outside the airbase gates and across the country. This year alone, Martin Luther King, who had marched past the airbase on the march to Montgomery a few years earlier, had been murdered in Memphis. Senator Robert F. Kennedy was gunned down in Los Angeles three months later. The school walls, security fence, armed guards, and their parents shielded them from the chaos and brutal truths outside its gates.

"Give me your attention class," said Mrs. Livingston, "Today is Stevie's last day with us. His father, Major Kidd is retiring after twenty years of faithful service to this country. Someday your fathers will too."

Amin, his father sent to Alabama by the Shah of Iran, raised his light brown hand and was given permission to speak.

"Did Josephine's daddy retire too? She didn't get a party," he said, "We didn't even get to say goodbye."

Stevie forgot about the sweets as the humid Alabama air was sucked from the room by the question. Josephine, a class member, had lived two houses down from the Kidd's home in the officer's section. Weeks earlier, Stevie and his friends Amin, Sagi, and Chuckie watched an Allied moving van arrive early one morning. By late afternoon, a stack of trash bags and discarded furniture sat at the end of their driveway, a remnant of the Puerto Rican family's existence in their lives. Stevie had waved when their family car passed his house at dusk with her mother at the wheel. Josephine's bronze face was pressed against the passenger window, reminding him of his Aunt Polly's placid façade lying in the casket at her funeral the year prior. Josephine didn't wave back. Two fighter jets screaming overhead shook the ground as they lit their afterburners, and fear simmered in the back of his mind. Where is her dad? Could this be my family one day?

Their teacher, Mrs. Livingston, interrupted Stevie's thoughts and replied,

"Amin, you know we don't talk about these things. One day, we will have a party for you when your family returns to Iran. Now, let's enjoy the treats your mothers brought and wish Stevie and his family good luck as they leave us."

Moments later, with the honor of being served first, Stevie forgot his fears as he laid a peanut-laden Wagashi and a cinnamon-stuffed Koloocheh cookie on his plate. The everyday chocolate chip cookies and brownies like his mother made were good, but the exotic international treats were fantastic. He first tasted them when playing with Chuckie at Amin and Sagi's houses. Four nine-year-old boys, an Iranian, a Japanese, an African-American, and a white American, had spent many afternoons sailing imaginary high seas seeking hidden treasures in a world gone crazy.

The cinnamon and sugar dissolved in Stevie's mouth, but sampling the world's goodness did not prepare Stevie for the bitter education to come. He and his family were about to be pushed from their gilded fortress into the realities of the civilian world.

***

"Stevie, get out here. It's time for the cookout," his mother called from the hallway.

She pushed the bedroom door open and searched the room.

"Where is that boy? “ she said.

No answer.

Opening the closet door, she found Stevie hiding in the closet with a flashlight and the book Captain Kidd.

"What are you doing in here? Why do I always have to search for you??”

"I don't want to move, Mom. My friends live here. It's not fair we have to move."

Stevie didn't dare mention the Benson and Hedges cigarette pack bulging from her apron pocket. His mom hadn't smoked in years since the Surgeon General's warning had convinced her she had to quit. The return of the cigarettes meant his mother was upset, too.

"Stevie, just do what you’re told. Wash your hands and get outside," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

Stevie heard the lighter click as he scampered past her to the bathroom. Minutes later, slipping down the hallway, wisps of acrid smoke drifted from his bedroom, and he heard the stifled whimpers of his mom crying. Rattled and confused by his mother's emotions, tears welled in his eyes, but he fought them back; pirates don't cry. Chuckie, Sagi, and Amin would know, his brothers would know, and he'd be thumped for being weak and a wimp. Stevie Kidd, a direct descendant of Captain William Kidd, the privateer and pirate, mentally pulled a stoic mask of expected indifference over his face, eased towards the patio door, and stepped into the backyard.

Welcomed by the fatty offerings smoking on the grill, the aromas calmed him. Chuckie's dad, Lt. Stewart, cranked the handle of an ice cream churn while Major Kidd tended the hotdogs and burgers. His friends tossed a football with his brothers, and for a moment, he forgot that this would be his last days with them. Determined to be like a brave pirate setting sail on a bold new adventure, he joined the game.

***

The movers came and packed their belongings, and the neighborhood kids picked through the discarded remnants left at the end of the driveway. Stevie had done the same a hundred times with his fellow pirates. The following day, in a loaded-down 1964 Rambler station wagon, his mother turned the car onto their street for the last time. Stevie waved at Chuckie, Sagi, and Amin, who stood stoically at attention on the sidewalk. They waved back, and the final stored image in his mind of his friends brought tears to his eyes.

Rolling through the base gate, security officers saluted the officer's sticker on their front bumper for the last time. In a moment, the military Kidd family became a civilian one. No more base swimming pools, bowling alleys, and movie theaters just up the street. Stevie felt his stomach sink and a false urge to go to the bathroom. Rules and order, consistent on every military installation, were left behind. There was no longer a strict chain of command to adhere to, but societal rules, like those he had seen in Selma, that would be murky at best. Security fences and armed guards that protected the military order gave way to the outside world, where towns were segregated by railroad tracks, racism, and hate.

Crossing the historic Pettus Bridge over the Alabama River, the Kidds passed the hate-stained Dallas County Courthouse. The station wagon slipped through the ramshackle streets of the divisive town of Selma that had awakened a country to its horrific truths one final time. Mrs. Kidd drove them east, with Stevie's father soon to follow, toward their new civilian life and his grandparents' house in Commerce, Georgia.

***

Cotton bolls dotted great green fields that bordered the black pavement for miles as far as the eye could see. Combines crawled in rows across the acreage like green-eyed monsters consuming the snowy balls. The fluffy fibers were a part of the Civil War's root cause and tied to men's greed. Stevie opened his pirate book to read about his ancestor and imagined he stood at the helm of his ship, plowing the high seas in search of treasure.

"Full sail and full speed ahead, Mateys! Stevie said. His older brothers ignored him.

Just over the Alabama-Georgia state line, his mother parked in a roadside picnic area by a creek. His brothers retrieved the metal cooler from the back of the wagon, and his mother prepared sandwiches for lunch. Stevie explored the stream that meandered alongside the highway.

"Ya'll stay out of that creek. Don't want mud in the car," his mom shouted.

Wandering alone, Stevie skipped stones and hoped to find treasure. A good pirate was always on the lookout. From a hill opposite and above the creek, a young black boy in denim overalls about his age appeared on the rise behind a barbed wire fence.

"Whatcha doing down there?" he said.

Startled, Stevie looked up and replied.

"Hi. Hunting for treasure."

"Ain't no treasure round here. But we've got cows," the boy said.

"Don't need no cows," Stevie said, "Pirates don't bury cows. I'm looking for gold."

"Ain't no gold in that creek. Manure runs off from the cow pond up here. It's kinda nasty. I wouldn't be touching it. Where ya'll headed?"

"My grandparents in Commerce, Georgia."

A sheriff's patrol car pulled off the highway and stopped at the picnic site near Stevie's mom.

"I best be going," the boy on the hill said.

"Why's that? said Stevie, "Want a sandwich? We have plenty."

"Nah, You're not from around here are you?"

"No, but if you want to join my pirates crew, you're welcome to. We share all treasures. It's the pirate code. No one's watching way out here."

The boy pointed at the deputy's patrol car.

"Everyone's watching. It ain't good for a black boy to be seen with a bunch of white folk. My momma would lash me twice if I started any trouble."

The young boy disappeared over the rise as the patrol car eased away and disappeared down the highway.

"Boys, it's time to eat. We have to get back on the road," Stevie's mom yelled, then moments later.

“Stevie, is that mud on your shoes? Ugh, what’s that smell?”

***

The sun dropped over the horizon as the Rambler pulled into the gravel driveway of the white clapboard mill house in Commerce. After a quick meal of ham biscuits, potato salad, and a slice of his grandmother's brown sugar pound cake, Stevie climbed under the quilted covers of the iron bed in the back bedroom. Quilting was his grandmother's hobby, born of necessity during the Depression. Her favorite saying was,

"Every quilt has its own story to tell Stevie; each patch is a place and a piece of time in someone's life."

His mom came into the room to check on him.

"Stevie, no reading tonight. Your pirates aren't going anywhere."

"Why so early? When is Dad coming?

"Your Great Uncle Gothels is preaching at a Methodist church an hour away. Afterward, we're invited to Sunday dinner at their house. Your dad will be here in an hour or two. No more questions. It's going to be a cold night, let me tuck you in."

Tucked tight under cold sheets and two aged pattern quilts, Stevie wondered what story the quilts could tell. Would they speak to him and share their tales in his dreams? Were there any pirates in his family's history besides Captain Kidd? Maybe they knew where his treasure was hidden. He'd have to remember to ask his grandmother. She knew everything.

***

If a pew could have teeth, this one did as it bit into Stevie's bony bottom and caused him to squirm. The side effect was his mom grabbing his ear.

"Sit still, Stevie," she whispered, and his father gave him the evil eye.

The five-member choir stood before a congregation of twenty and bellowed out the hymn, Bringing in the Sheaves. The out-of-tune piano clacked out the music like it was being pulled by a team of horses. The musical rendition reminded Stevie of a saloon scene from his father's favorite T.V. show, Gunsmoke.

Uncle Gothels spoke, preached, and yelled about sowing and harvesting wheat. His face went from pale white to red as he spoke. He would stop, wipe the sweat pouring off his face with a handkerchief, stare at the ceiling momentarily for guidance, and then launch into round two, separating the wheat from the tares. His face turned beet red, mimicking a stroke. For the third round, he pleaded and begged for the good people present to bring the sheaves before the throne and receive their reward of treasures in heaven.

The word treasures woke Stevie's muddled mind.

Pirates and Preachers must have something in common. We are both looking for treasure. Uncle Gothels is pretty cool. He thought.

***

Hours later, the Kidd family awaited the call to dinner in the parlor of the one-hundred-year-old white Georgian house. The main floor contained a parlor, a kitchen, a study, and a grand dining room with an oak table that sat twelve. Four bedrooms were upstairs. When they first arrived from the church service, they toured Uncle Gothels shoe shop across the street. He had been a cobbler by trade for four decades, making custom shoes and repairing others. Stevie loved the smells of leather and polish mixed with shoes old and new that lined the racks on the side walls.

In the parlor, behind a grand piano, a headless mannequin stood in the corner and displayed a Confederate uniform of a Sergeant said to have belonged to a family ancestor. Scents of baking yeast rolls blended with the musty smell of old books and memoirs that hung from the ancient walls. The antique furniture kept them stoic company as the Kidd family waited for dinner.

Aunt Roberta rang a bell, and everyone moved to the dining room. The massive oak table, garnished with a delicately embroidered cotton cloth, was set with fine white china, thick crystal glassware filled with ice and tea, and ornamental silver utensils. Laced napkins lay on each plate and a card with each guest's name written in calligraphy. Everyone sat at their assigned placement. Platters of fried chicken and dishes of mashed potatoes, gravy, creamed corn, and snap beans filled the table. Baskets of hot yeast rolls lay at each end of the spread with tubs of fresh butter. On the buffet against the wall were homemade cakes, pies, and puddings waiting in reserve for the final taste.

Uncle Gothels, seated at the head of the table, invited everyone to join hands for the blessing. My three older cousins sat on a walnut deacon's pew by the wall at the end of the room. Forlorn looks of envy leaked from their eyes as they leered at the feast laid before them. The meal was not meant for them until an invitation came from their father after all others had eaten. Uncle Gothels prayed a sermon of a prayer, and everyone said, "Amen."

Before the serving of food began, Stevie's mom interrupted,

"Before anyone is served, I have a question Uncle Gothels. Why are these children sitting on the pew, not at the table?"

Stevie and his brothers eyed the chicken and lavish sides, then their mother. They knew that tone of voice and dared not touch a fork or spoon until the air cleared. The fragrance of the yeast rolls and fried chicken made their mouth water and stomachs rumble. Fear of their mother's retribution overrode their hunger. With her one question, they had been cast alongside their cousins to join their forlornness amidst their mother's rebellion against their Great Uncle. The volley of the new fired against the old threatened to send them back to their grandmother's house for leftover ham and biscuits.

"Adults that produce and guests eat first, that's how it's always been. So, everyone begin and enjoy," Uncle Gothels quoted like a teacher to his pupil.

No one in the room moved. Frozen in time, amidst absolute silence, the house seemed to creak in protest.

"Where I come from children eat first. We aren't lifting a finger to touch this fine outlay Roberta's prepared until these children are fed."

Staring in disbelief at the outrage of her collision against his will, Uncle Gothels jowls turned beet red. Under pressure as the host to please his guests, he succumbed and exploded to his wife.

"Fine, Roberta, set three more plates. The chicken’s getting cold."

After the shifting of chairs and the placement of the plates, the feast began. Stevie watched in wonder at the courage his mom displayed by challenging the head pirate on his own ship. He shoved the butter-slathered yeast roll into his mouth to celebrate her victory.

***

Late that night, Stevie read more about Captain Kidd and realized his family had sailed into unknown seas just like their ancestor. Georgia was nothing like his shielded life on the Air Force base. People were different, acted differently, and treated others rudely. Many lived in fear, like the black boy at the roadside picnic.

As a pirate, he loved maps and collected every one he could. Mostly from National Geographic centerfolds. He paused his reading, unfolded a United States map from his book bag, and spread it over the quilt. It dawned on him that his country was much like his grandmother's quilt. Each patch had a different story to tell. Are they good or evil, safe or dangerous, fun or sad? Stevie didn't know the answer, but time would tell. He only knew the patch he was in right now was old.

Next week, they would depart for Charleston, S.C., their new home and an unknown land. Stevie felt better knowing his pirate mom and fighter pilot dad were leading the way. Turning off the lamp by the bed, he snuggled under his grandmother's quilts and prayed for the courage to be a good pirate as they sought what treasures may come.

He heard his grandfather speaking to his father and mother through the thin wall.

"Look here, I know you think what you did today was for those children but you need to accept the way we do things here. Everyone has to know their place. Your behavior today was embarrassing. You owe Uncle Gothels an apology. Next thing I know you will be wanting to invite every black family in town to dinner," my grandfather said.

"I don't care what anyone thinks. If someone is wrong, I have to say something, and I will," my mother said.

"Dad, you're a bigot. Don't worry. We're leaving for Charleston tomorrow and spare you your embarrassment," my father said.

Stevie thought as he drifted off; that's my rebel pirate mom and dad. What will I find in Charleston? Treasure? There are lots of ships there and so close to the ocean. It's an unknown patch in the quilt to me. What will it be like? Better, worse than here. I don't know. I know this: if the quilt is as tattered as this town, the Kidd family will help stitch it back up.

He fell into a deep sleep and dreamed.

Standing on the Execution docks of London's waterfront, the gallows loomed over the crowd. Captain William Kidd was being led to his ghastly end. The pirate, once a King's privateer, was paraded past Stevie, and he stopped; looking down at him, he said, "Be brave laddie. Be brave like a good pirate and… wake up, wake up, Stevie."

"Wake up, Stevie," his father said as he gently shook him awake in the dark of the predawn. "The cars are packed and we’re leaving. We will grab breakfast on the road."

***

Chapter 2 – King Charles Town – (coming soon.)