Lynnette Kent - The Ballad of Dixon Bell

He put a finger on her lips. “Don’t say anything—I don’t want to jinx it. But I do want to set things to rights around here, if you’ll let me.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. “I’m comfortable enough, Dixon, but I don’t have the money to do the kinds of things you’re talking about. How are we going to afford all this?”

Though he hadn’t really doubted that she would go along with his plans, he felt better having her permission to begin. “I’ve got the money, Miss Daisy—they’re paying me pretty well to write songs these days, remember? And I have a lot of time and energy to do at least some of the work on the house myself. Don’t you worry about anything but picking out wallpaper and paint colors and countertops. Leave the rest to me.”

By lunchtime, he’d made a survey of the downstairs and his list had grown to twelve closely written pages. More than a little daunted by the task he’d set himself, he went outside into the hot July sun, where mad dogs, Englishmen and crazy ex-cowboys belonged.

There, the grounds met him with their own demands—knee-high grass, overgrown gardens where weeds formed the primary crop, wisteria and poison ivy vines gone crazy as they climbed over pine trees that should have been pulled up as seedlings fifty years ago. The giant magnolias for which the house was named had fostered their own crop of sprouts, smaller trees which, though beautiful, detracted from the majesty of the originals. Dixon thought he would like to transplant those sprouts rather than just cut them down. But that would entail a monumental amount of extra work.

As he stood staring, feeling his shirt stick to the sweat on his back, which was a combination of heat, humidity and sheer trepidation, a blue Taurus came down the gravel driveway and stopped at the front walk. The driver was young, and his olive skin and black hair easily identified him as Consuela’s son.

“Good afternoon.” Dixon extended his hand and got a firm shake in return. “I’m Dixon Bell.”

“Sal Torres. My mother works here.” There was a certain defiance in the words and an arrogant tilt to the boy’s chin indicated resentment.

“I met her for the first time this morning. I really appreciate all she’s done for my grandmother—it’s not easy for an eighty-four-year-old woman to manage on her own.”

Sal Torres didn’t intend to be placated. “My mother always does a good job. She takes pride in her work.”

“As well she should. I’ve done my share of dirty jobs, chores other people turned up their noses at. Work done well is work to be respected.”

The youngster looked a little surprised, then nodded. “That’s true.” His gaze moved beyond Dixon, to the wilderness around the house. “And it looks like you need a lot of work done out here.”

“Yeah. Inside, too. Your mother keeps things clean, but there’s a mountain of repairs to be made.”

“I know people who do landscaping, carpentry, painting.” Before Dixon could reply, Sal gave a shrug, rueful and angry at the same time. “‘Of course you do,’ you’re thinking. Hispanics are the new labor class. We’ve replaced the African slaves.”

“You know, that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.” Dixon unclenched his jaw, got his irritation under control. “I can’t help that my ancestors ran a plantation and owned slaves, and I won’t apologize for that fact. But, as I believe I just said, I respect anybody who does a decent day’s work and I expect to pay them a good wage when they work for me.” He turned on his heel and headed for the house. “I’ll tell your mother you’re here.”

Sal watched the other man go into the grand, sad old house, then went to sit in the Taurus with the air-conditioning blowing full blast. He hadn’t really meant to start an argument about slavery and prejudice, especially not with his mother’s employer. Something about the atmosphere surrounding the mansion, some remnants of past lives, maybe, had stirred resentment in him, and a need to take a stand. Dixon Bell had probably been more tolerant than Sal deserved. L.T. LaRue would have picked him up bodily and thrown him off the place. Or tried, anyway.

Of course, Mr. LaRue had already laid hands on Sal once, for kissing his daughter. Dixon Bell probably wouldn’t be too tolerant, either, when his children wanted to date outside their own class. Kelsey’s mother managed to be polite, but it was obvious she had serious doubts about Sal as somebody worthy of her little girl. All because he had dark skin and came from the south side of Boundary Street, the line dividing the haves in New Skye from the have-nots.

The heavy front door of the house shut with a thud, and Sal looked up to see his mother ease her way down the steps, the heavy shopping bag she always carried in one hand, her other hand holding tight to the rail. She looked tired, and it was only a little past noon. How would she feel at five, when she finished her second cleaning job of the day?

Sal jumped out of the car and ran around to open her door, taking the bag out of her hand. “Let me get that.”

She sank into the front seat with a sigh of relief. “Ah, the air-conditioning feels good. That house is always too hot.”

In the driver’s seat again, Sal flipped the fan up a notch. “Don’t they have AC?”

“Yes, but not enough. And when you’re working…” She shrugged. “Did you go to class this morning?”

He cleared his throat and put the car into gear. “No.”

“Salvadore, you must go to class. You need these credits to graduate next year.”

“I know, Mama, I know. I’m going this afternoon. But I had a job this morning, unloading furniture at Joe’s. I earned fifty dollars. So this afternoon I’ll figure out how to do algebra.”

With another sigh she closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat. “The fifty dollars is nice. But you need a diploma to get a good job. In the long run, a diploma is worth a lot more than fifty dollars.”

He didn’t argue with her, just let her doze a little as he drove across town toward one of the brand-new subdivisions where her afternoon job was located. These big, new houses were easier to clean, she said, because they had all the modern conveniences. She didn’t work nearly as hard there.

Sal only wished she didn’t have to work at all.

They stopped for a fast-food lunch before he dropped her off at the big house on a street where all the trees were too young to make real shade. “I’ll be here at five,” he promised as she leaned in the window to give him a kiss.

“Go to class,” his mother ordered.

And because he promised her, he went. He was late, of course, which meant checking in through the office and getting a lecture from the secretary. School schedules never took into account that teenagers might have real lives. If he didn’t drive his mother to work, she couldn’t get there. If she didn’t get there, she didn’t get paid, and his brothers and sisters didn’t eat. That was a pretty simple equation, he thought. Maybe the algebra teacher could explain it to the front office.

After two hours of algebra, the teacher gave them a fifteen-minute break. Sal went in search of a cold drink and the one person who made him feel as if the future held promise for someone like him.

He found Kelsey lingering by the vending machines. The way her face lighted up when she saw him was worth all the hassle of going to summer school.

“Sal!”

“Hey, querida.” He put an arm around her waist, felt her yield to him with a surge of pride. She was gorgeous, she was sweet as candy, and she was his. “How are you?”

“Better, now. Where were you all morning?”

Sal didn’t like being questioned, but he did like it that she cared. “I had some work to do. Judging from the last two hours in class, I didn’t miss anything.”