Backyards, Bicycles, and Snakes
Every summer, like clockwork, my cousins Reggie and Marcus came back to Elemwood from Houston to stay at Aunt Tea’s. We spend those summers playing kickball, dodgeball, hide-and-go-seek, and Cowboys and Indians. No one ever wanted to be a cowboy. We all wanted to be Indians because we got to make our bow and arrows out of corn cobs and sticks.
One day Reggie, Howard, and I decided to go on a bike ride up Indian Bayou road toward Mt. Herald Missionary Baptist Church. Dad had bought me my first bike a few Christmases prior. I named it Blacky. Like any kid worth his salt, I loved my bike and treated it like it was a brand new car on a showroom floor. Near the tractor shed across from Madea’s house, I washed it with the water hose until it sparkled. Each day I checked the tires, the seat, and the handlebar before I rode. I had such strong feelings for my bike, not because of the bike itself, but because Dad had bought it for me. On this day, Howard and Reggie rode ahead while I was forced to lag behind because my bike had a loose chain.
“Hey Tyrone, you can’t go too much faster ’cause your chain gonna jump off,” Howard joked, as he and Reggie rode on.
I slowed my bike nearly to a stop right by our muddy little swimming pool.
“My chain might be loose, but even if it pops I don’t even have to get off,” I yelled, still sitting on my bike, leaning over to grab the chain. “All I have to do is…”
CRUNCH!
I was oblivious to my bike creeping forward down the slight decline until the middle finger on my right hand rolled between chain and teeth in the bike’s sprocket. Instinctually, I snatched my finger out, leaving about an inch of it in the sprocket and a few drops of blood on Indian Bayou Road.
Those few red drops became a steady stream; my eyes grew wide and I began to holler. Howard rushed back to my scream. I hopped on the back of his bike and he peddled as fast as he could. Reggie picked up the mangled inch of finger, still in the middle of the road, and stuffed it into his pocket.
“I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!” I screamed as Howard peddled furiously toward Madea’s.
Monicat, standing on the side of the road, heard my screams. When she saw the blood, she too started crying, running, and yelling, “I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!” Finally, at Madea’s we found Mom, who wrapped my finger in a dishrag from Madea’s kitchen. Madea’s time-honored suggestion to “put some dirt on it” wouldn’t work this time. Mom rushed me over to Sharkey-Issaquena Community Hospital and sat me and my severed finger down in a chair across from Doctor Lynch. Doc Lynch had delivered me as a baby several years earlier.
“What’s he gonna do?” I was terrified, clenching my severed right finger in my left hand, holding it close to my chest.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Mom said, prying my hands apart and guiding my finger to Doc Lynch. Holding my hand, he slowly unraveled the dishrag to reveal the stub. It was my first time seeing it since the road.
There is something about Mom and her soft brown eyes that always seemed to put me at ease. No matter what was going on or what seemed out of order, all she had to do was look at me with a smile and I’d know everything was going to be okay. Mom, however, had probably grown weary of my mishaps. The previous year I broke my arm three times in a span of four months, after which she wouldn’t even let me go outside.
Next to Doc Lynch was a white cloth covering items on a silver tray. Doc Lynch retrieved a long needle from beneath the cloth.
“What’s he gonna do with that?” I asked Mom in a panic, yanking my hand from Doc Lynch’s lap.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Mom reassured, easing my hand back over to Doc.
I didn’t realize I was being tricked until it was too late. Doc Lynch and Mom were conspiring against me. While I stared into Mom’s reassuring eyes, Doc Lynch jabbed that needle into my wounded finger, delivering a dose of numbing agent. My body tensed up, my mouth flew open to scream. All I managed was a long squeal, sounding like a whistling teapot.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Mom said again. My finger started to numb. While I looked into her brown eyes, she rubbed my back. Again, I became subdued.
Doc Lynch cleaned the wound, revealing uneven, jagged flesh and a one-inch segment of bone. The pain had subsided, and I was now hypnotized by the bone protruding from my finger. That is, until Doc revealed a tiny, shiny pair of wire cutters.
“What’s he gonna do with that?” I asked mom, again trying to yank my hand away.
Still with a reassuring smile, mom said, “Let Doc Lynch do his work, and we’ll get you some ice cream from Ashley’s.” Located outside the hospital, just across 4th Street, was Ashley’s Drug Store. Aunt Sally worked in the pharmacy. I stared into Mom’s eyes; the image of a waffle cone with a giant scoop of cookies and cream came to mind.
SNAP!
It sounded like a mousetrap slamming shut. The boney tip of my finger shot across the room, ricocheted off the cabinet, slid across the floor, and stopped next to Doc Lynch’s penny loafers.
My eyes darted from Mom’s eyes to that bony tip now resting on the floor, back to Mom, and then back to the tip.
“Dangit!” I thought. She’d again lulled me with those soft brown eyes and reassuring voice. While Doc Lynch wrapped my finger with thick, white gauze, Mom let out a shaky, slow exhale; the serene mask on her face slowly morphed into one of pain, fear, and uneasiness. It had all been a show. She had been putting on a calm face to keep me from panicking.
“Boy, don’t you ever do that to me again,” she barked, pulling me close and holding me tight. Smothering me in her bosom, she slowly rocked back and forth, breathing heavily. I think the hug was now more to console her than to comfort me. By that point, I was fine. The only thing on my mind was a waffle cone and a big scoop of cookies and cream.
When we got back to Madea’s house, we walked up the same steps where I had broken my arm three times the previous summer.
“Do not leave this porch!” she said sternly, worry in her eyes. She opened the screen door, disappearing inside. I plopped on a wooden chair, my legs too short to reach the floor. With what endless gauze wrapped around my right middle finger and a waffle cone with a half-eaten scoop of cookies and cream in my left hand, I stared out, ice cream smeared from cheek to cheek, at my cousins playing kickball in Madea’s grassless, dusty front yard.
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