Sunday Comics
by Dixie Thomas Reale
We were radiant. My sister, Jose, and I had scrubbed ourselves from head to toe in the galvanized wash tub set up in back of the pot bellied stove. A green army blanket draped across that corner made it private while father, in his rocking chair, guarded our innocence from behind his magazine.
Then Mama dipped a comb into in a glass of water, wet my hair down, pulled it back and braided it tight. Jose’s wheat colored curls were much too short for pig tails. Long violet ribbons tied up our hair and tiny lavender bows held forget-me-nots in small bundles across the print of our dresses, still stiff with new from the store. We’d spit-shined our white patent leather shoes and little purses where we kept dimes for the collection plate.
It was our Sunday morning routine. Daddy would drop us off at the Golden Gate Baptist Church for Sunday school then go to the Green Lantern for coffee and a piece of cherry pie. He did this every week.
In primary, we sang “Jesus loves me” and “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.” We held up a finger to represent our flame. I showed Jose my middle finger; we giggled loud and sat down on our chairs. Teacher made a hissing noise like steam from a tea kettle and pointed her claw at us.
She told about Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Teacher moved odd shapes around a flannel board set up in front of the room, called one Forbidden Fruit, said Eve was tempted. I’d heard the story before and knew Eve was in for big trouble.
“Don’t eat the apple!” I called. Alice Mills frowned at me. I shoved out my chin at her.
When it was time to go home, Jose and I burst through the annex doors and tore pell mell past the front steps of the chapel. The congregation was just coming out. A blue 1938 Desoto sat in its usual place. After Daddy finished his coffee and pie, he would always park the car parallel to the curb in front of the church, throw the funny papers in the back seat and read the news while he waited for Sunday school to let out.
We clawed and shoved one another, each anxious to get to the comics first. I jerked open the back door on the passenger side as Jose went around to the driver’s side. We pounced on the funnies strewn across the seat, kicking and slapping, dividing up the pages.
“I get Smoky Stover and Li’l Abner,” I announced.
“You can have stupid old Smoky; I want Dick Tracy.” Jose grabbed her favorites, shoved an elbow into my ribs and smirked.
Little LuLu was on the same page as Dagwood and Blondie and I wasn’t about to let her have that one. Jose was nearly four years older but had always been sickly. I was younger but stocky, close to the ground, like a bull dog. I could hold my own in a scrap and loved to show her. It made me feel big and powerful. We were fairly evenly matched as we wrestled on the seat. Her weak spot was her hair. I entangled one hand into curls and pulled. She screamed as she slid to the floor, braced her shoulders against the back of the front seat and raised a foot to kick me.
“What the Hell’s going on back there?” A man’s voice bellowed. A sharp nose, skinny face and wire framed glasses peered over the driver’s seat where Daddy’s squashed features and bushy black eyebrows should have been.
That was not our father.
This man was blond; Daddy was dark haired. Jose and I looked at one another. The upholstery was all wrong — rather than fuzzy gray seats the back seat was tan with little metallic threads running through the fabric. This was not our car. It smelled like cigarettes. Our daddy didn’t smoke.
I turned loose of Jose’s hair, laid the paper down and we crawled out, each by a separate door. From the sidewalk I could see the tail lights were different, big and protruding and the car was a dusty blue, ours was blue green.
We tried to sneak away hoping nobody would notice, but of course everybody gawked. Billy Norris, the bully, glared at me backwards over his shoulder as he opened the front door of that very car. The skinny blond man must be his father.
Just then I saw Daddy’s car turn the corner up the block. Jose and I raced to meet him singing, “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.”
We clawed and shoved one another, each anxious to get to the comics first.
“I get Smokey Stover!” I announced and ran faster.
“Sunday Comics” was originally published in Nostalgia and is included in Squirrel Pie and Other Morsels.
