Slow Way Home (29 page)

“Sorry. I got all tied up with an order, then had to run over to the beauty shop for some . . .”

“Shut up!”

She flinched as my voice echoed from the other side of the field.

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“All you do is lie. Lie about selling Avon. Lie about being late.

You lie about everything.”

Her eyes widened, and she played with the ruffle on her blouse.

“Damn, I mean I was late, but come on. I’m sorry, okay.” She tried to bend down towards me, but I jumped up.

“Just like you’re sorry you kept me from seeing Nana and Poppy!”

The aluminum bleacher vibrated when I stomped my foot. “I told you I wanted to see them. I told you.”

“What the hell?”

“You know what. I found that letter from Nairobi. They wanted to see me but you stopped it. I hate you!”

Tears were on my cheeks, and tears were natural enemies to Mama just like water was for the witch in
The Wizard of Oz.
She began to sink and bend forward to the point of breaking.

Her words were as soft as mine had been loud. “Hate me. I deserve it.”

I ran up and down the bleachers, shouting and screaming. Nothing broke her faraway stare. She just sat there with her hands folded in her lap staring at the gap between the bleacher seats.

Crickets were singing, and lights from the nursing home across the field lit up. But Mama never came back on. She just sat there staring into the darkness. Coldness settled in the aluminum before either of us spoke.

“Let’s just go home,” I finally said. Like an obedient child, she followed me down each step. Her platform shoes clanked until we had made it to the last seat. Feeling guilty for telling her that I hated her, I turned to say something reassuring. But she had already slipped out of my reach. With a fling of her shoes, she raced up to the top bleacher.

“Come on, let’s go. I’m hungry,” I yelled up to her.

She reached for the railing and climbed on top of the last bleacher.

With outstretched arms, she stood on the edge of the rail and looked straight out over the gravel parking lot.

Running around to the back of the bleachers where I could face her, I felt a chill snake down my neck. I looked up, trying to mask my fear with a plea. “Mama, quit playing. You’re gonna get hurt.”

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A mascara-stained tear slid down her cheek, and edges of hair fluttered with the evening breeze. “You’re just better off without me.”

In the distance a siren sounded, and I prayed that the policeman would take a wrong turn and end up with us. “Mama, don’t now.

Come on down.”

Her left arm wobbled when she stretched it out. “All I ever wanted is for you to love me. That’s all I ever wanted in my entire life.

But you don’t.”

“Mama, I do love you. Get down.”

“No,” she said. When she shook her head, the aluminum popped and her legs shook.

“Please, now. I promise. I really love you.”

She began to cry harder and reached over for the edge of the beam. When her fingers slipped, she bowed forward. Her face was void of expression as she reached up to the stars and moaned.

A trail of urine snaked down my leg. “Mama!”

Aluminum rang out when she fell towards the seats. A flock of sparrows flew from beneath the bleacher in a fury that was as chaotic as my actions. Running up the steps two at a time, I wondered what I would do if she was really dead. Who would I call? Where would I end up?

Her leg was bent and a line of blood wove a path to her foot.

Smeared makeup made her look like a car-wreck victim, and she screamed as I approached.

Kneeling, I pulled her head against my shoulder. “Mama, you’re gonna be okay.”

“I’m not okay. I’m awful!”

“No, you’re not.” No matter how many times I said the words, she never seemed to hear them.

“They were right. All of ’em.” She gazed off in the distance just like she had done while standing on the back of the bleacher. “They were all right. They told me I shouldn’t have had you.” She traced her finger through the blood on her leg as if it was war paint and she was preparing for battle.

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“At first Mama and Daddy wanted to send me away. Said it was for the best, but I wouldn’t listen. I wanted my baby. And it wasn’t my fault. I kept telling them that. It was not my fault.” She leaned her head backwards as if trying to reach for the past.

“I told them it was that preacher’s son. But he said I had this spirit thing and tricked his boy. He even made me go down to the front of the church and tell everybody how I’d acted. I decided if they wanted to hear the nasty details, then I’d tell every single bit of it. I still remember that man, that Brother Bailey, pinching my elbow and leading me out the door of his church. I kept waiting for somebody to stand up and do something. But Mama and Daddy just kept looking down at the floor.

Just kept looking down. All I did was stand up there and tell the truth.”

The blade of her words stripped away layers of make-believe that had filled the empty place in my being. Her breathing was deeper, and when she let out a scream, I wanted to run away for good.

“The next day my suitcase got packed. Daddy told me no whore was welcome in his house. Said it was for my own good and would make me straighten out. I still remember them standing there on that porch. They looked at me just like the people had in their church. My mama and daddy hated me that day. And me with nothing but a suitcase and a baby in my stomach. They stood right there on that porch not doing nothing.”

She gripped my shirt harder and cried so deep that I thought something inside of her had torn loose. Searching the lights of the nursing home across the field, I wondered if I should run and ask for help.

“When you were born, I was over in Charlotte working at Grady’s place. After they cleaned you up, you kept the tightest grip on my finger. Wouldn’t let go of it even when that nurse tried to put you back in the nursery. Right then I knew you were all mine. Man, you held on to me. You held on to me for everything you were worth. But none of that seemed to matter to them. Mama kept telling me that it took more to raise a baby. So I tried to get fit. I married that bartender, a son of a bitch if I ever laid eyes on one. But you know none of that even really mattered because I had my baby boy. My baby kept holding on to me.

You gripped my finger. I mean, you gripped real tight.”

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She turned and reached for my hand. Our fingers pressed together until the blood from her wound felt like paste. For the first time it all seemed real. She was not my sister or my friend or my child. At that moment Sophie Willard really was my mother.

During the following days my mind tried to shuffle the details as if they were trick cards stuck together. No matter how many times I tried to picture Nana and Poppy sending Mama away, I could not bring it into focus. Dissecting the details even cost me extra time at school. It happened when Mrs. Joplin called on me to answer a question during social studies. But I had more pressing things on my mind than the capital of Minnesota so I just kept staring off in the distance.

While I wrote “I will pay attention in class” one hundred times in detention hall, my mind kept coming back to that night at the softball field. To make order of it all, I gave passes to Nana and Poppy. It was Brother Bailey’s fault. He probably had told them to kick her out. He made them do it just like he had made Nana write down how many times a day she prayed. Soon, the glue on the other cards began to sling free with a violent force. No matter how hard I tried to change the players on the cards, the reality was that my daddy was not a long lost businessman with a yacht and a fancy motorcycle. He owned a candy-red Firebird with black stripes down the side that stayed parked outside of Rock Creek Holiness Church. It was him. Murphy was my daddy. That meant Brother Bailey was my granddaddy. My fingers went numb, and the pencil tumbled to the floor. Picking it up, I erased a misspelling and at the same time tried to erase my past.

That night Tony left to make a delivery in Asheville. Usually I liked it when he was gone, but tonight I watched my mama like she was an unknown woman sent to take care of me. She stood at the stove poking a pork chop until the popping grease made her step away. When she caught me looking at her, she started laughing.

“What? I got flour on my face or something?”

“No. I just was thinking.”

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“You know, you do too much of that. You gotta learn to be free.”

She raised the long metal fork in the air and laughed again.

Laughter was always a good time to slip in something important.

“Hey, you said that Poppy was at church . . . you know, the night you know . . .”

Her laughter weakened down to a gargled cough.

“But Poppy never goes to church.”

The grease popped, and she turned the pork chop over. “He used to go. Went all the time.”

“When did he stop going?”

“After I left. Mama claimed he blamed everything on that Brother Bailey. Funny, he never said nothing to me about it. Listen, let’s stop talking about all that.” She stared into the bubbling grease as if it would tell her what to say next. “Now, I don’t want you freaking out over all that stuff. You just gotta learn in life some things are better left dead.”

“But I just want to know. Did Murphy ever know he was my dad . . .”

The fork slammed down on the skillet, and grease sloshed over the edge. “Damn it. Don’t ever mention his name again. You understand me? Now look what you made me do. Grease all over the floor.”

When she leaned down to clean up the mess, I slipped away to my bedroom. Trying to do homework, all I saw were miniature red cars in place of fractions. The car Murphy drove was my strongest memory of him. The only other thing that came to mind was the night I saw the girl from church sitting in the car. She was stripped down to her underwear. I guess like my mama had been. I slammed the book and turned on the radio. Turning the volume louder and louder until it was nothing more than garbled static.

The Beach Boys screamed through the transistor radio while I tried to hold on to my version of the past. Part of me wished I could have gone back to the night Mama climbed up to the top of the bleachers. Watching her fall to the ground might’ve been easier than having the truth land on top of me. With one hard slam, the radio hit the side of the wall, and batteries scattered across the floor.

Nineteen

T
he night of the softball banquet, I stood in the Pickerings’

living room admiring the queenlike woman on my trophy.

Mr. Pickering passed by me and patted my shoulder again.

While Bethany and Destiny chomped on the jawbreakers the coach had given us, I kept staring at the trophy.

Mrs. Pickering had to repeat her question twice before I took my eyes away from the torch-bearing woman. “Why are so many cars parading up and down the street tonight?”

“Avon party,” I said. “That’s how come Mama couldn’t go to the banquet.”

My words were as stale as the nachos that Mrs. Pickering was serving. Words not laced in disappointment, because I liked sitting with the Pickerings at the banquet and making people think I was a smaller version of them. Maybe people thought I was premature and never got to be their size or maybe they had decided that I was a boy rescued from some orphanage.

After the lights were all turned out and sleep had covered my neighbors’ duplex, I thought the steady chime was from a clock that had gone haywire. When I turned over, the sharp edge of the trophy scraped across my arm. I bolted upright and for a second forgot that I was spending the night with the Pickerings. Lights came on, and in 212

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the haze of sleep I could make out Mr. Pickering stumbling to the door dressed in boxers and toting a sawed-off shotgun.

Before he could crack the door, the squeal gave her away. Mama stood outside rubbing her shoulders and darting her eyes in a million directions. “Brandon here?”

Mr. Pickering massaged his ear. “You know, it’s after three.”

“It’s an emergency, okay. We gotta go to Asheville.”

“Asheville?” Mr. Pickering repeated the word as if she would have said we were going to the moon.

My heartbeat began to speed up, and I reached for my pants. I heard Mr. Pickering trying to convince her to let me stay, but I had come to know the desperation in her voice all too well. When she got like this, it was best to just give her whatever it was she needed. And in some spot deep inside me, I liked being the one to rescue her.

“Look, you want to call the cops or something? He’s mine and he’s coming with me.”

Before she could point her finger at Mr. Pickering, I had slipped through the crack in the door still clutching my trophy.

“Brandon, call if you need us,” Mr. Pickering yelled as we got into the car.

The keys chattered in her hands and she dropped them on the floorboard before leaning back against the seat. Her cry was soft, and her breathing heavy. When she hugged me, her skin felt as if it had been dipped in ice. “Oh, honey, this is bad. Tony got arrested. He just called and told me to get over there right now. I’m just so . . . I don’t know what to do.”

“Mama, we’ll make it.”

Tony came back into the apartment smelling like wool that had been left out in the rain. When he left again the next day, with him went a piece of our dignity and the stash of money Mama kept hidden in an empty cereal box.

While Mama continued to scream and cry about not having
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any money, I watched as Bethany and Destiny played hopscotch out in the street. Their pigtails bounced at the same time, and they began to look as if they had been hosed down with bleach. Holding my arm up against the window, I tried to compare my skin with theirs. Skin so white and pure that it sparkled against the afternoon sun.

Mama stayed in bed most of the time and eventually even Bethany and Destiny quit inviting me outside. We were wrapped in a cocoon of overdue bills, nerve pills, and darkened windows.