Leaving Hedges

by Theresa Konwinski

Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4

part 3.1

After that, Big Phil was a regular within the city limits. Several of the other ladies in town invited him to dinner, and he was sometimes seen at the general store picking up a few supplies.

Arnold Haskins decided that as payment for staying on his land, Big Phil could paint his barn, which the nine-foot-seven man happily completed, hardly ever using a ladder for the high spots. I saw him with bright red paint splatters on his blue jeans more than once.

All the kids continued to be treated to rides on Big Phil’s shoulders. It was better than the carnival because Big Phil’s rides always lasted longer than two minutes, which was about the best we could hope for at the carnival.

Dad, taking an idea from George Parker, made an oversized bench for Phil to sit on, and the two men spent many summer evenings in deep conversation. I think Big Phil liked my dad so much because Dad was the only person who really stood up for him and introduced him to the people in town, allowing a more normal life for Phil.

Sometimes, my brothers and I joined them and roasted marshmallows over burning logs in a firepit that Phil helped Dad dig. Phil showed us how to make a stack of logs that got the fire going easily. Even Dad learned something that particular night.

Mom made extra-large chocolate chip cookies and black raspberry pies for Phil to take back to his cabin. She also got cotton fabric at the general store and made Phil a new shirt. She had to measure Phil’s shoulders, arms, chest, and neck to make sure she cut the fabric big enough. I helped her with the measuring by writing down the numbers she told me. Every time she took a measurement, she’d say something like, “Shoulders thirty-six inches across.” Then behind Phil’s back, she’d look at me with bug eyes, which let me know this measurement was not exactly normal.

I’d write her words and measurements down. I was busy with this project, but I noticed that Mom was trying to keep me from seeing Phil’s body. She kept putting herself between me and him, right in the middle of my line of sight. I didn’t think much of it till later. In the end, the new shirt fit Phil perfectly, and he was proud as anything to wear it, a big smile on his face and his posture even straighter and taller than usual.

Most of the families in Hedges came to accept Big Phil and were friendly to him, though not welcoming in the traditional sense. He got invited to other peoples’ houses, but just not as often as he came to ours. Over the next month or two, he became like an uncle to Joey, Davey, and me. To tell the truth, I loved him. Still, not everyone accepted Big Phil.

Simon Pettigrew’s resentment swelled through the heat of summer. He couldn’t forgive the townspeople for siding against him in the vote to expel Big Phil. But a politician must try to conceal what he does not want his constituents to see. I saw it. I witnessed it with my own two eyes in downtown Hedges.

A leer of contempt perpetually on his lips, the mayor strolled the streets, grandiose. He pumped the hands of the voters, slapped men on the back, complimented the ladies, and kissed their babies. But in whispered conversations, he always came round to the topic of “undesirables invading our region” or “good-for-nothing drifters” he said he saw on the outskirts of town, insinuating that somehow Big Phil had attracted them to Hedges. No one I knew ever saw any of these “drifters,” but Simon kept a steady, conspiratorial drumbeat and laid a firm foundation of anxiety and suspicion.

In Hedges, it was easy for people to fall back on old habits. Anxiety and suspicion had once been default positions for the residents. Now, Simon Pettigrew’s spoken words created unspoken fears that became the basis for out-and-out prejudice. His Honor only had to convince a few people who, in turn, convinced a few more people that evil influences were about to assail our town and bring all the children to ruination. It was an insidious divide-and-conquer strategy that worked. Many of the residents began locking their doors again. Eventually, some of our best friends were no longer allowed to play at our house.

I talked to Dad and Mom about this. I could tell they felt helpless to do more than they had already tried to do. They never spoke ill of Big Phil, and Mom still invited him to dinner. She even bought some more material to make him another nice shirt.

“You made this for me?” Big Phil was so excited about that second shirt! He took off his old new shirt and put on the new shirt right away. It was only when he took off the first shirt that I could really see how developed his muscles were. He was strong; that much I had witnessed. But he was also scarred. Deep welts ran across his back and upper arms. I didn’t have the nerve to ask, but whatever had happened to Big Phil had to have hurt. And that hurt me.

Dad took Big Phil out back of the house for “men talk.” No one else was allowed to be around when Dad wanted to have “men talk” with someone. After the dishes were done, I sat in my room and looked out the window at them as the sun began to set. I picked up an occasional bit of their conversation.

“So that’s what they’re saying about me now?”

“I’m afraid so, Phil.”

I couldn’t hear anything more of what they said that evening, but finally Big Phil stood up, and so did my dad. The way they looked — the way they shook hands — made me think it might be the last time. Burning in my eyes made me look away.

* * *

A week passed, and nothing changed. Big Phil still came into town. He gave us rides on his enormous shoulders. We laughed and played for hours at a time with the man my mom had come to call “the gentle giant.”

One afternoon, we were having fresh lemonade on the front porch when Phil suddenly asked me, “Little lady, what do you want to do when you grow up?”

Lots of people had asked me what I wanted to be, but no one had ever asked me what I wanted to do.

“Get out of this boring town. Change the world. Make it better.”

Phil chuckled. “I believe you’ll do just that.” He took a long drink of his lemonade. “You’ve got a pint-size fire burning inside you, don’t you? You’re getting itchy to shake the dust of this town off your pink sandals and conquer whatever is outside these hedges. Am I right?”

I looked him in the eye. He wasn’t making fun of me. “One hundred percent.”

Phil took the final swig of his lemonade, set his glass on the wicker table next to his chair and stood up. “Don’t ever let anybody squeeze you into their mold. You get what I’m saying? And don’t ever let anyone tell you that you ‘can’t.’ Take that brain and that big heart of yours and go out and make the world a better place, just like you’re planning.”

He walked down the sidewalk, out through the hedges, and headed for the woods. I watched him until I could no longer see his head above the greenery.

* * *

Several more weeks snaked by, a slithering, humid summer with barely enough rain to offer the smallest amount of relief. Big Phil completed odd jobs with different neighbors on our street. I was glad not everyone believed Simon Pettigrew, not that he would ever give up his whisper campaign, which attracted more adherents as summer closed in on autumn. And in little Hedges, a lie repeated often enough began to look like the truth to those who never thought to ask a question.

More than once, I saw people cross the street to avoid passing Big Phil on the sidewalk. Women pulled their purses closer to their bodies. Men no longer tipped their hats. Children who didn’t know any better hid behind their mothers’ skirts. I believe that hurt Phil the most.

One Friday morning, I woke up before anyone else in the house. I was glad the house was so quiet because my head hurt something awful. I tried to go back to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come, so I got up and crossed the creaky hardwood floor to my bedroom window where I saw that the sky was completely gray, full of clouds. It wasn’t unusual for me to get headaches on days like this. My mom said they were “sinus headaches.” I rubbed my eyes and pressed on little indentations in my skull near my eyebrows to relieve the pressure.

A cool breeze came through the window, lifting the hem of my nightgown. Goosebumps rose on my arms, and shivering, I rubbed them with vigor. I headed downstairs as the first raindrops began hitting the roof. Just a sprinkle.

I put on a pot of coffee for Mom, who entered the kitchen fully dressed, ready for the day.

“What are you doing up so early, Helen?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Got a headache.”

Mom looked out the window over the sink. “Rainy-day sinuses. It’s gloomy out there today.”

She didn’t have to remind me of the gloom. I felt it.

By the time Cheerios were finished and the dishes washed and put away, it was finally raining in earnest. No thunder, no lightning, simply a steady rain. We couldn’t go outside, and I had finished my last library book, so I sat on the front porch and rocked in Dad’s wicker rocker.

A loud noise, not far away, caught my attention. It sounded like an engine grinding and grating, working to stay running. I grabbed an umbrella from the hall closet and walked to the end of our sidewalk so I could see beyond the hedges. A large delivery truck was headed our way, but it was slow, sputtering and belching thick, black smoke from under its hood. By the time it got close enough to our house that I could see the driver’s frustrated face, the truck gave a final wheezy cough and stopped dead in the middle of the street.

A gray-haired man exited the truck, putting on an old baseball cap and pulling a brown jacket over his arms as he ran around the front of the truck and popped the hood up. Smoke billowed out and started skyward but was immediately pushed towards earth by the rain. I could hear the driver muttering swear words, some of them I had heard before.

“Mister, can I call someone for you?” I asked.

“Know a mechanic?”

I didn’t. There were no mechanics in Hedges. Everyone fixed everything themselves or called on neighbors to help.

“Well, I’m stuck then. Think I could use your phone?” The truck driver took a couple of steps towards me.

“Come on up to the house. I’m sure my mom won’t mind.”

As we entered the house, I called out to Mom, and she came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. The truck driver explained his plight.

“Lands. I don’t know any mechanics, but you’re welcome to use the phone and call anyone you think could help,” Mom said. “What about the company you work for? Could they send a mechanic out?”

“I’m independent. I don’t work for just one company. I work for whoever hires me. The truck is mine.” The driver rubbed his chin. “I’ve had to fix this old junk bucket a few times myself. Hopefully, I can just get my head under the hood and see what’s going on and fix it again, at least well enough to get to a bigger town and find a truck mechanic.”

“Well, you can’t do that while it’s raining. Sit down and have a cup of coffee till the weather breaks.”

“I don’t need to trouble you...”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll bring a cup.”

“I’ll just sit out on the porch, ma’am, and thank you for your kindness.”

Mom disappeared into the kitchen, and the driver and I went back out to the porch. I sat on Dad’s rocker, and he sat on the porch swing, pushing it back and forth with a well-worn black leather boot. After Mom brought out his coffee, he sat watching the rain, not moving except to blow on the hot drink and take an occasional slurping sip. I wondered if coffee would help my headache and felt jealous about not having any myself.

Proceed to part 3.2...

Copyright © 2023 by Theresa Konwinski