Chameleon (34 page)

The photos were in the box without rhyme or reason — just one big pile of pictures stuffed in a box. One image stopped me in my tracks. It was black-and-white and the largest in the box. It was a guy and a girl, and the girl looked like Auntie. The guy was a dark brown soldier dressed sharply in an army uniform, holding a trumpet. The girl was about college age in a white dress that dropped to the tops of her black-and-white shoes. Their arms were around each other, tight. Her head was nuzzled into his neck, and they each had a big smile on their face. I flipped it over, and in faded black ink I was able to make out
G & A Forever.
G & A, huh? The
G
was probably for Gertie, so the
A
must be for . . . Avery? I’ll bet it was. Finally a name. Who else would it be? I held the picture up and shifted my vision between Auntie passed out on the couch and Auntie smiling in the picture. My eyes bounced back and forth between the two for a while. What happened to that smile from the picture? I put it down and stared at her. Where did that Auntie go?

Her head slid off her hand and she jerked awake. She blinked a few times and smacked her lips. “I need some water.”

I got up and got her some. She straightened herself and took it in her hands carefully. Her nap must have helped.

“Put the news on for me, Shawn.”

She wiped the drool from her mouth and scooched down into her seat. A soft breath escaped her lips as she took a sip of water. I began putting the pictures away when she noticed me. And the box.

“Whatchu got there?”

She must have forgot that she had pulled them out.

“Some pictures.” I hesitated. “They were on your sofa when I came in.”

I held on to the picture of her and “A.” I wanted to ask her about it but didn’t want her to get all crazy on me. I’ll play it cool.

“I didn’t know you had all these pictures of you and Mama and Grandma and Grandpa.”

She took another sip of water. “Yeah, thas all of ’em.”

I held up the big black-and-white to make sure she saw me looking at it.

“You know who this is?” I stood and handed it to her.

She took the glossy yet worn photo from my hand and exhaled as she examined it. I didn’t know what to expect, so I took a seat on the couch and waited.

“Where’d you find this?” she said, shaking the memory at me.

“It was in that box.” I pointed. “It was already out when I came in.”

“Thas nunna ya business!”

She hoisted herself off the couch, tossed the photo down, and shuffled into the kitchen. So much for finding out a bout “A.”

She shuffled back in and plopped on the couch, this time careful not to hit her head on the wall. Her eyes zoomed in on the weatherman on TV giving the five-day forecast.

“Did you hear about Miss Johnston?”

“What?” she said, not taking her eyes off the screen.

“Miss Johnston — I don’t know if you knew this, but she, ahhh . . .”

Dang — how do I say this?

“She . . .”

“Come on, Shawn, say what you gotta say,” she said, irritated and focused on me.

Just say it.

“Miss Johnston passed away the other day.” There, I said it. “Her relatives are over there now saying good-bye, and one of them told me on the way here just now.”

The words hit her ears like a hammer on a nail, and her expression changed from irritation to disbelief in a short breath. Her eyes fell to her lap and stayed there. Her body rocked back and forth, slow and steady, as moans vibrated from her throat. Uh-oh. I disappeared into the bathroom, and when I came back, her seat was empty. Shoot. Where’d she go? I swung my head around and saw the front door open. I stepped outside and there was Auntie staggering out of the gate. Aww, man. Where you goin’, Auntie?

“It ain’t right! LORD, YOU KNOW IT AIN’T RIGHT!” she shouted, clawing at the air.

Miss Bricknell came out of her house. Shoot, I got to get her back inside.

The words trickled out of her mouth as she staggered on. “Why, Lord? Why you hafta take such a . . . such a . . . sweet . . . such a sweet, sweet, heart? HUH?”

I ran after her. “Come on, Auntie, let’s go in the house.”

“Let GO of me!”

Bodies appeared in front of each house as she staggered across the sidewalk toward Miss Johnston’s. She pushed me off and screamed each time I tried to grab her. The sight of Miss Bricknell slowed her down. Uh-oh.

Auntie leaned on Miss Bricknell’s fence and pounded her chest. “Whatchu want, Josephine!? Huh? Whatchu got to say t’me today? HUH? Whatchu got to say? You don’t like me, do you, Josephine? I KNOW you don’t like me. I know that — I know. But you know what? I don’t like you neither — never have. Whatchu think about that? Huh? Whatchu think about that, Josephine? Huh? Wassamatter — cat got your tongue? You ain’t got nothin’ to say to me? HUH?”

Miss Bricknell crossed her arms and glared at Auntie and me — especially me — in silence. I returned her evil eye, and she went in her house. I didn’t have to turn my head to feel every eye on the block on us. This is crazy. I got to get out of here.

“Come on, Auntie, we causing a scene. Let’s go back in the house.”

I felt helpless as she staggered on, still pushing me away. “LET GO OF ME! I got somethin’ to SAY!”

Her right hand pointed a finger to everyone watching her. “I see y’all lookin’ at me — I see y’all lookin’. I know whatchu see — I know whatchu see.” She dropped her hand and swayed, trying to stand still. “You see a drunk — thas whatchu see . . . an old drunk.”

Her eyelids flickered as she pointed back to Miss Johnston’s. “But not her. Not her. No . . . she saw a . . . woman. A woman wit a . . .” Chest-heaving sobs pumped out her words. “A woman wit a . . . broken heart.”

Why is she telling all these people her business like this? They don’t care. Matter of fact, most of ’em are laughing. Or smoking. Or drinking. But all of ’em are watching; like we some kind of bad soap opera or something. I wish she would stop.

I reached for her again, and again she pushed me off. The swaying ship of her body steadied for a moment as she shouted, “SHE SAW A WOMAN! Not a”— she choked —“not a drunk!”

She threw her fists to the sky. “And you took her away, Lord! You took her away. It ain’t right. You shoulda taken me! Why didn’t you take . . . me?”

She collapsed to the ground in a flurry of tears. I struggled to pick up her heaving body, but I was no longer alone. “Come on, Sis, let’s get back inside,” Mama whispered to Auntie’s buried head.

“Shawn, you get that side. I’ll take this one.”

We looked at each other, and I could tell Mama did not like seeing her sister this way, especially with everybody laughing, staring, and shaking their heads. We shuffled her into the house and placed her on her spot on the couch. I closed the front door. Some of the bodies on the block had gone back inside, but a few looky-loos remained, laughing and wondering what they had just seen.

“Drink this,” Mama said, handing Auntie a new cup of ice water.

“I need a real drink,” Auntie said, not smacking the cup down but still pushing it away. Her head nodded back and forth as she moaned, “Nettie . . . Nettie.”

Mama pulled me aside. “So what happened this time, Shawn?”

“Let’s go into the kitchen.”

We left Auntie to her sobs. I broke down everything for Mama from the beginning. She clutched her chest when I mentioned Miss Johnston.

“And that’s when she lost it — I mean
lost it,
Mama. I’ve never seen her that way. I come here every day and find her on the floor, but that’s the first time she ever went outside like that.”

I pulled out a chair and sat down. Mama stood, staring out the window.

Why Auntie do that? She must have known Miss Johnston better than I thought. Or she was so drunk, she didn’t know what she was doing.

“I can’t take this no more, Mama. You know how embarrassing that was?”

She touched her hand to my neck. “I know, baby.”

“But what kills me the most is how everybody just stood there watching us like . . . like we was a TV show or something. You shoulda seen them — laughing, pointing, and poking at each other like . . . like she was a clown or something.”

Mama pulled up a seat and covered my hands with hers; they were nice and cool and not shaking like mine. We sat in silence, the two of us looking at the sidewalk outside of the window.

“Mama, I wanna show you something.”

I stood and poked my head out the kitchen door to check on Auntie. She lay sprawled across the couch, passed out and snoring to her heart’s content. I signaled Mama to follow me into the living room, and we sat on the couch. I pulled out the box of pictures and picked up the photo of Auntie and “A.”

“You ever seen this picture?”

She took it in her hands and held it up.

“That’s Sis and her boyfriend.”

“Her boyfriend? You know his name?”

“I don’t know — that was a long time ago.”

I showed her the back.

“Ummm, Aubry . . .”

“Avery?” I said.

“That’s it. Avery. How’d you know?”

“That’s the name she said when I picked her up off the floor,” I said, staring into the eyes of the soldier with the big smile and gleaming horn. “She ever talk about him before?”

Mama dropped the image on the table, then leaned back in her seat. “Nope. She never did.” She sighed.

I held the worn, faded photograph up, staring at Auntie’s young, smiling face, then lowered it, revealing her worn, faded body, passed out on the couch.

“After today, Mama . . . I don’t think she ever will.”

“I WANT YOU TO STAY HOME with Gertie tomorrow.”

I knew Mama would say that. After what happened today, I’m surprised she didn’t ask me to stay home with Auntie the rest of the summer. I felt sorry for Auntie, so when I said “all right,” I meant it. I didn’t wanna walk in the door after being with the fellas all day and find her dead instead of passed out — especially after hearing her say she should have died instead of Miss Johnston. I’m sure she didn’t know what she was saying, but I didn’t tell Mama; she would freak if she heard that. And anyway, at least I’d get to finish
Malcolm X.

But how was I gonna tell the fellas? If I didn’t show up at Pop’s first thing in the morning like I always do, they might come looking for me. That wouldn’t be good. I had to think of something, but I didn’t want to think about it now. I wanted to get the last part of the day, with Auntie, out of my head and think about the first part, with Marisol and her party.

I flicked on the radio to break the silence. Mama tapped her hand to the beat and said, “What do you want for dinner?”

“We eating at home or going out?”

“We can go out. We can either eat it there or get takeout.”

Hmmmmm. We only eat out once in a blue moon; she must be worn out. I know I was. Takeout would be good, but from where? The Tamale Hut popped into my head. Followed by Marisol sitting in front of me . . . smiling.

“How ’bout Mexican? There’s that El Pollo Loco near the mall.”

“Fine,” she said without turning her head.

Back at the house, I tore into half a chicken while Mama picked at her beans and rice.

“I suppose your decision got easier today,” she said.

Tortilla chips crunched in my mouth, making it hard to hear. “What?” I stopped chewing. “What’d you say?”

“I said, your decision probably got easier today — you know . . . after what happened with Sis and all.” She punched her fork into her beans.

I finished chewing before I spoke again. This might be a good time to tell her about Marisol.

“Actually . . . it got harder.”

She put her fork down. “Oh. Why’s that?”

“As far as Auntie goes — you’re right, I am tired of dealing with her. But . . . that wasn’t the only thing that happened today.”

I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, so I cut her off before she could jump to one of her conclusions. “And no, it wasn’t anything bad.”

Dang. How do I tell her about Marisol? She’s always teasing me about girls, and now I have to tell her about the one I like? How do I do that? I guess if I could tell Auntie about Miss Johnston . . .

“Ummm . . . there’s this girl . . .”

“A girl?” Her ears perked up and a grin graced her face.

I lowered my head and pushed my beans around my plate. “Her name is Marisol. She invited me to her birthday party on Saturday.”

Whew — I said it.

“Mary-sol? Tell me about this Marisol. She don’t sound black.”

“Does that matter?”

“Now, Shawn, you know I don’t care. I’m just trying to imagine what she looks like.”

Shoot. Every time I think about what she looks like, the first thing that pops into my head is her body and her butt — especially her butt. I can’t tell that to Mama, though.

“Well . . . we’ve been friends since we started school together. She’s Mexican. Has real long hair. What else? . . .”

The day I ran into her after the movies flashed across my brain. Dressed in green. Smiling. What else do I say?

“Ummm, she’s real nice . . . a good student . . .”

Mama put down her fork and laughed. “Now, Shawn . . . she’s real nice? . . . a good student? Come on. That’s it? Tell me about this girl. I see you smiling when you say her name. She has a hold on you; I can see it on your face. And that’s good, baby. I’m happy for you. I am. But come on . . . she’s a
good student
? Shawn, please! Tell me something real about this girl.”