Birdie (16 page)

Birdie

The street my family
lives on is an interesting shade of decrepit flavored with homemade touches that soften the harsh look. Small, dull painted structures with broken shutters and cracked porches are livened up with plants, tire swings, and colorful curtains in the windows.

We’d tried three previous Ackermans. One wasn’t home. The other had no idea who Leon was. The third was a woman who used to be married to a Roy Ackerson, Leon’s brother. “He ain’t here no more,” she informed us. “Moved to Louisiana a few years back. You want Loretta. That’s their mama.”

Wesley pulls the truck up to a gray house with two kids sitting on the steps and licking popsicles that turn their lips a bright red. Their eyes brighten at us but they make no move to alert anyone inside, just watch us climb out of the truck. I rub my hands nervously.

“Hi,” I call out to them with a small wave.

The younger one, a girl who looks about seven waves back. She has her hair sectioned into several braids with bright plastic barrettes cinching the ends and clacking against each other as she moves her head.

“Who’re you?” she asks, pausing in her popsicle.

Who am I? How to answer…

“I’m here to see Loretta,” I finally say and Wesley nods, liking my direction. Let’s not unload everything on this unsuspecting child.

“Meemaw!” the girl yells standing up and pushing on the screen door. “Some lady and a white guy are here to see you!”

The other child, a slightly older boy studies us silently. I study him back, contemplating my possible relation to him. The thought makes my heart speed up a little and I grow even more nervous. As if attune to my body changes, Wesley rubs a hand on my shoulder. It’s a support that feels nice and I absently lean into it.

A woman pokes her head out of the screen door and squints at us.

“Kesha. Junior. Get inside,” she barks, swatting a towel at the two children. They scramble past her into the house and the woman takes a hesitant step out onto the porch. “Can I help you?” she asks.

I almost turn and make a run for the truck, but Wesley catches my hand and gives it a squeeze. A few silent beats pass and the woman’s face goes from curious to impatient.

“We’re looking for Loretta Ackerson,” Wesley speaks up for me finally.

And now from impatient to a glare. She stares him down. “Who wants to know?” she demands.

Wesley looks at me. He won’t continue – won’t break open that secret without my permission. I bring my eyes to his and nod slightly. My voice doesn’t work yet, it’s so thick with anticipation. I let him say what I can’t.

He looks back to the woman. “This is Hummingbird Clements. Sheila Clements’ daughter.” He pauses to allow time for recognition but the woman just furrows her eyebrows in puzzlement.

I know the look. The name is tickling her brain. I feel a sickness in my gut, a defense for my mother who lived through a nightmare and doesn’t even have the remorse of the family left in their memory.

I can’t do this. I start to tug on Wesley’s arm to go when a light flicks in her eyes and her mouth drops open.

“Oh my lord,” she utters, bringing an astonished hand up to cover her mouth. Tears pool in my eyes.

Wesley starts to speak again but I place a hand on his arm. This is my revelation. I need to finish it.

“I’m Leon’s daughter.”

Birdie

Loretta Ackerson is
a slight woman with streaks of brittle white hair in pulled into a tired bun at the base of her neck. Wrinkled skin lines her face and hands. Even her clothes look beat up, a washed out blue sweater over gray sweatpants. If it weren’t for her eyes, I would guess that she was done with this life and just waiting to pass on. But her eyes are sharp and calculating and full of wisdom. And when they meet mine, they are curious and troubled.

She settles herself across from me in a carved curved-back chair with yellow cushions and a delicate floral pattern dotting the cloth. It is the pride and joy in the small room, standing out against a worn brown leather couch and a mismatching maroon velvet loveseat that is brown and thin on the cushions where years of sitting weathered the material. A couple cigarette burns rest on the arm of the couch. Wes sits next to me with his hands clasped in his lap.

“Leon has been in this time for four years,” she says. “It’s the drugs, I think. When he was clean, he was a good boy. My son was good. Drugs changed him.” She takes a long drag on the lemonade she’s clutching in her hand, the same that Wes and I turned down. I was too shaky to trust myself with a glass and Wes followed my lead. “I don’t know if he raped your mama,” she continues. She doesn’t meet my eyes as she says this. “He says he didn’t. I know not everything he says is true, but I just don’t know. I can’t know. Or maybe I don’t want to know.”

“Did he…” I clear my throat. The words are sticking and I cough to shake them loose. “Did he go to jail for raping her?”

“That stint he did was about seventeen years ago. Your mama and two other women testified that they’d been raped. He was only out for about three years when they got him for murdering that girl on the south side of town. He says he didn’t do it but they have DNA and fingerprints.” She sighs. “This one’s bad.”

I bristle and can’t stop myself from saying, “All of them are bad.”

The front door opens then and a young man walks in. He’s clean in dark pressed jeans and a gray button down shirt. He walks into the room and kisses Loretta on the cheek before eyeing us curiously.

“Lee, this is Birdie Clements and a friend of hers. To be blunt, she says she’s your sister.”

I stare at him wide-eyed. He’s not too much older than me, maybe mid-twenties. He’s giving me the same surprised look I’m giving him but recovers first and holds out his hand to shake mine. Then he shakes Wes’s as they exchange a “Lee” and “Wes” in introductions.

“I’m sorry,” I say as we take our seats again. He lowers himself onto the loveseat. “I don’t mean to surprise everyone like this. I just found out details about Leon Ackerson and that…well, that he’s my father. So I came to meet the family.”

“And you think he’s your father because…” Lee prompts.

“Because of the crime committed against my mother.”

His hands steeple in front of his face. Loretta looks back and forth between us.

“She kept you?” Loretta finally asks.

“Grandma,” Lee warns in a respectful tone. To me he says, “I don’t get along well with my father for obvious reasons. He left my mother when I was just a baby so we don’t have a strong relationship. I’m not sure what you’re looking for, but I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “I don’t know what I’m looking for so I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. I just needed to see people like me, I think.”

He smiles. “Well, there’s plenty of that.”

I officially meet Kesha and Junior, Lee’s younger half siblings so my half-siblings too since I learn they’re Leon’s kids. Leon met a woman while he was out of prison and got married. The woman, Trina, is still married to him and she and the kids live with Loretta. Lee is a graduate student at Rice University and stops by on the weekends to help out. Apparently, Trina has trouble holding down a job or staying clean so Loretta mostly raises her grandkids.

At first, everything feels stifled. My muscles are bunched tight as I take it all in. But as the afternoon wears on, Lee loosens me up. He grabs a beer for Wesley and I finally accept some lemonade and he fills me in on what it was like growing up with just him and his mom. I feel brave enough to offer some of my own stories, wondering if they want to hear about the woman their son and father was convicted of raping.

But they don’t object and after some time it feels as though the man that had brought us all to this room in the first place is evaporating from the air and what is left are some pieces I have to hold and examine.

It feels good.

Wes

It’s late when we
leave the Ackersons. Both of us are tired, the long days evident in the dark circles under our eyes. I couldn’t stop looking at Birdie. As she swapped stories with Lee and allowed Kesha to play with her long hair and stuffed piece after piece of cornbread in her mouth, smiling through the crumbs, she looked so at peace. So relaxed. Relaxed like when we used to lay on the roof of Tim’s trailer only this time she’s surrounded by lots of people and she isn’t tense. I wonder if this is something that happened in the months we spent apart.

I smile over at her and she smiles back.

“It’s late,” I say and she nods.

“Yeah. Do you want me to drive part of the way?”

“Birdie, neither of us slept much.” I take a deep breath and try to sound casual. “Why don’t we just get a room for the night? We’ll head out first thing in the morning.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Huh. That’s not like her. She’s always quick with a defensive one liner when she’s uncomfortable. I sneak another look at her. Is she uncomfortable?

“Yeah, okay,” she says.

I nod, my heart quickening. “Okay.”

I pick a Best Western at the edge of town off the last exit before the highway stretches into long lanes of travel in between rest stops. I pull the truck into the circular drive in front of the glass doors.

“Um, should we get two rooms?” she asks, not looking at me.

I’m proud of myself as I take the keys out of the ignition and turn to face her without a hint of nerves on my face to clue her in on all the emotions rolling around inside me right now. “Wait here. I’ll book a room. If you’re fine with it, we can just do double beds. Small town gentleman, remember?” I ask with a grin.

It works. Her shoulders relax and she grins back. “Maybe once upon a time but who knows what Austin has done to you these past couple years?” she teases and I shoot her a mischievous look before I hop out and head inside to the counter.

After I get the room, we make a quick run to the Target a couple lights down and pick up some bare essentials like deodorant and toothbrushes. When we pass a Jack in the Box, we share a simultaneous look that holds a strong desire for greasy, late night junk food. When we get back, I carry our light store haul and she our fast food dinner into room 303. The dark, cool air drains the excitement of the day from our bodies and we flop onto our respective beds with groans and sighs.

“I think my hangover is finally gone,” she says, rolling onto her stomach and looking over at me. I’m on my back, my feet in the air as I try to shimmy out of my tennis shoes without using my hands.

“Cornbread’ll do it,” I answer, victoriously dislodging one shoe.

“You wanna watch TV?” she asks rooting around in the drawer from the night table between the beds.

“While I’m sure there’s something fascinating on one of the five channels they’ve got, I’d rather just get some shut eye. The chair in your room was not the most restful night of sleep I’ve ever had.”

She has the decency to look sheepish as she divvies up our food. I do a quick check of my burger as she checks hers. Mustard. Ack. She's notices the mayo slathered on hers at the same time that I'm gagging on the mustard smell and without thinking, we wrap both up our sandwiches and do a simultaneous toss to get the food to the correct owner. The auto-pilot exchange puts a small smile on my face.

She takes a humongous bites of her burger and then she says in mid-chew, "I'm sthorry I alled ew." A garbled up apology through a mouthful of food. The laugh that follows almost spits some bits out and she has a clap a hand over her mouth to keep everything in. A snort escapes through her nose.

I rip a chunk of mine out with my teeth and answer, "I'm not sthorry."

Maybe it's the late night punchies but this send us both into fits of giggles and it becomes almost a challenge, taking larger bites and trying to swallow them down without spewing.

After we manage to get most of our food down, she leans back on her bed with a contented sigh. Her dark hair curls around her face and fans out, laying claim to the area surrounding her pillow. She is so beautiful and reminds me so much of those afternoons spent in the bed of my truck that I'm almost pulled back there. When I had the freedom to tug on that hair and kiss the spots behind her ears. My heart trips inside my chest. Why did we even break up?

Her expression changes slightly when she meets my eyes and I know I'm wearing my desire on my face. I quickly cover by asking her, "So what's life like in Houston?"

The brief contemplation leaves her face and I know I'm in the clear when her features smooth out as she describes her life now. "It's everything Shenoah isn't. Large. Loud. Even more since I'm living in the city instead of in one of the ritzy suburban neighborhoods. Tim can't stand it. He mumbles under his breath at people every time he comes to visit."

Her voice softens as she mentions Tim. Her fondness for him is evident. I've never seen her speak like that about anyone else ever.

"Are you seeing anyone?" I don't know why I ask. The question has been burning a hole in my mind since I saw her half passed out in that bar. I've managed to cool it for all this time but sitting with her now alone in this semi-dark room, it presses on me so thickly the words finally leak out.

She hesitates.

Damn. That's a yes.

"His name is Jeremiah."

She stops. Four words. Okay. Well, we're here now so I guess I'll drag this out, word by word.

"How long have you been dating?"

"Six months."

"Oh yeah? And what would he say to this?" I gesture around us. "You sitting in a hotel room with your ex-boyfriend?"

"He'd hate it. Every bit of it. That you slept in my room last night. That you drove me to Nacadoghes. That we're here, eating burgers, talking about him."

"Is he black?"

She shoots me an irritated look as I knew she would but I need to know. She was always so jumpy at my lack of pigment, so wary of public affection, so defensive if people looked at us a beat longer than if we had been walking separately. I had to know if she was willing to deal with all that with someone else when she'd been quick to let it erode us.

I raise my eyebrows in question when she doesn't answer right away.

"Yes," she finally says. "Though I’m not sure why that matters."

I can feel my frustration darken my face. I'm not in the mood to talk anymore. If she doesn't understand why I asked then nothing has changed. I don't respond to her last comment. I toss my empty wrappers in the small wastebasket and shrug out of my shirt. Her breath hitches and I consider discarding my jeans too just to mess with her head, but instead I snuggle under the covers and click off my half of the double beside lamp.

"I'm exhausted," I declare. "Calling it a night."

I'm facing the wall. My back is to her. I can feel her hesitation. I know she's looking at me and deciding whether to continue the conversation. But then she sighs and clicks off her lamp as well and it's not long after that I drift off to sleep.

*                            *                            *

Her soft cries wake me hours later. The dark air is hanging on everything in the room. It's the clingy kind of dark, the one that let's you know it's the dead of night. So late and so still that it's left untampered and thick. That must be why her muffled voice breaks through my sleep. There's nothing else competing with it.

I'm a rotisserie sleeper unless I have something to hold onto so my blanket is wound and tangled in my legs. I free myself and pad over to her bed. She turns as I approach the side but it's so dark I can't see her face.

"Why are you crying?" I whisper. It's just us but I feel my normal voice would boom in this vacuum of silence.

She holds out her phone. The glow hurts my eyes and it cuts through the dark suddenly. I blink rapidly a few times before adjusting and focus on the text message on the screen.

This is Leon's wife. I heard u was coming around and I'm texting u to warn u to stay away. He has been thru enough and he don't need any bastard children claiming he fucked their mama. Stay away from my kids. I will mess u up if u show ur face here again.

I take the phone from her and click the screen off. "Don't let that bitch ruin what you had today," I say softly.

My eyes are adjusting to the dark and I can see her nod but it's a futile nod. She won't be going back to Nacogdoches.

I climb in on the other side of the bed and gather her to me. She lets me. She scoots in, settling her back against my stomach and my arm wraps around her side. I sweep her hair up and away from my face. My forehead settles on the back of her neck. My breathing is shallow and I feel her shudder at my breath on her skin. Her body pushes back more firmly into mine and my nerves fire in anticipation. My arm squeezes more tightly. Her hand comes up to cover mine.

I could have her. Right now. I feel it through our clothes. We lay completely still, hovering between the possibilities. If either one of us makes even one more move, no matter how slight, I know we will plunge into each other. The heat burns me.

I close my eyes and bring her words back to the forefront of my mind.
He's black. Though I'm not sure why it matters.

My forehead lifts just enough to break contact with her neck. I feel her body settle. My arm goes slack. She rubs my wrist and cranes her neck to turn and smile at me.

"Thank you for coming when I called," she says.

"I'm still your friend," I answer. And we fall asleep like that, letting the moment pass.

Birdie

We don't speak much
as we pack what little we have and climb into the truck for the drive home. Wes pays the hotel bill and refuses my money when I try to hand him the cash I have on hand. A country station fills the silence between us until we're too far away and Garth's twangy, sorrowful tale of his friends in low places is attacked by bouts of static. Wesley finally shuts off the radio when the crackly sound vastly outweighs the faint melodies.

I try to attempt conversation but he's not in the mood to talk. He answers with "Yep" or "Nah" and his accent deepens like it does whenever he's got something on his mind. I finally settle on watching the fields race by out the window and comparing the sizes of ranches we pass.

Unfortunately, thinking has a sour side effect as the text message flashes through my mind repeatedly. Wesley told me to erase it, but I want to keep it. I want that knife of astonishment to rip through me anew whenever I peek at it. I welcome the pain. It was unexpected and sudden and a reminder of my floating status. I was stupid to try to find some roots in the family of the man that raped my mother. I invited this pain. I want to remember that.

We finally reach my home and I'm surprised at the displacement I'm feeling now as I sit in the cab in front of my apartment complex. Wes shifts the truck into park and turns to look at me.

"Instant connections are stuff of the movies," he says. "She was just angry. You suddenly came out of nowhere. Hey, it'll just take some time."

He rests a soft hand on my shoulder. I shake my head bitterly, my eyes stinging. "It won't take time. I don't fit in there. That's not my place. DNA doesn't make it my place."

Some of the tears slip out. They race down my cheeks, casting long wet lines, falling in order. Not too messy. Not a waterfall. Perfect order. While everything inside me is anything but. Oh, I hate this feeling. This out-of-control whirring mix of emotions.

"Birds. Hey." Wesley's voice is low and concerned and the emptiness inside me feeds on it. The expression on his face fills me up. The hand rubbing my shoulder radiates through my body. I slip off my seatbelt and straddle him, needing more. Needing the void to stop sucking me in. Needing
him.
Needing him the way I needed him last night when he held me and we almost reconnected before I lost him.

His lips desperately meet mine. I clutch him tighter and he pulls me in, wrapping his arms around my lower back. I notice the salty taste of my tears at the same time he does and he uses his palm to gently wipe them from my cheeks.

"Birds," he whispers and then we're kissing again, pulling in deep breaths when we can. My heart is all over the place. Slamming inside my ribs, it's making the rest of me dizzy. His smell clouds my senses. The taste of him is familiar but still shocks me like we're kissing for the first time. His tongue is impatient. I love it. I love the feeling. My body is urgent as it presses against his chest. I'm involuntarily moving my hips, I can't stop them. His jeans fill up, his hips begin to move with mine.

The cab of the truck is large but it's still a tight fit and my back hits the horn briefly. I tear away at the sound, breathing heavy. Everything is tilted. My heart hurts. It's aching for him and I'm suddenly terrified.

I squeeze my eyes shut painfully. I need to get a grip before everything I stacked up neatly in my life gets knocked over.

"Is this why you came?" I ask, hating myself though I can't stop it. My emotions are pitching everywhere and I can't reign them in.