Southern Cross (5 page)

“Communications Officer Passman, as you know, handled a nine-one-one last month that saved a man from choking on a hot dog,” Hammer said. “And Officer Otis Rhoad issued three hundred and eighty-eight parking tickets last month. A department record.”

“Booooo!”

“Yeah, a lot of ’em on our cars!”

Passman glared at Rhoad.

“He wins the prize for talking on the radio!”

“Rhoad Hog!”

Passman bit her lip, her face an angry red.

“Rod
eo!” Fling had to toss in, although the aspersion made no sense.

“That’s enough,” Hammer said. “I’ll see all of you back here on Friday.”

The Ford Explorer’s turn signal was beating like a panicking heart as its driver, who had already missed his exit, tried once again to ease in front of Bubba. Bubba accelerated and the Explorer swerved back into its lane, where it belonged. The cop was still on Bubba’s bumper and Bubba slowed to send the message that he wouldn’t tolerate tailgaters no matter who they were. Bubba was a cowboy herding cattle on the open prairie of motoring life.

“Unit 2 to Unit 1.” Honey was sounding increasingly concerned over the two-way.

Bubba was too busy to talk to his wife.

“Smudge,” he got back to his good buddy, “Queen
Bee’s buzzing, got a city kitty tailwind, and a sixteener with a low seater’s trying to wipe my nose.” Bubba spoke in code, letting Smudge know that Bubba’s wife was trying to get hold of Bubba, he had a city cop riding his ass and a 4x4 driven by a punk was trying to swipe in front of him.

“I’ll leave ya lonely.” Smudge signed off.

“Throwin’ ya back. Catch ya later, good buddy.” Bubba signed off, too.

By now, the kid in the Explorer seemed challenged and might have become violent but for the cop one lane over. The kid decided to default. He got in the last word by laying on his horn and giving Bubba the finger and mouthing
Fuckhead.
The Explorer disappeared in the current of other traffic. Bubba slowed to communicate to the cop one more time to get off his rear bumper. The cop communicated back by flashing his red-and-blue emergency lights and yelping his siren. Bubba pulled over into a Kmart parking lot.

O
FFICER
J
ACK
B
UDGET
took his time collecting his silver anodized aluminum Posse citation holder and dual clipboard. He climbed out of his gleaming blue-and-red-striped white cruiser, adjusted his duty gear and approached the red Jeep with the Confederate flag rear bumper sticker and BUB-AH vanity plate that he had been staring at for miles. Its redneck driver rolled down the window.

“Am I to assume you go by the name Bub-ah?” Budget asked.

“No, it’s
Bubba,”
Bubba rudely said.

“Let me see your license and registration.” Officer Budget was rude, too, although he might not have been had Bubba not started it.

Bubba pulled his nylon wallet out of his back pocket. Velcro ripped as he opened it and got out his driver’s license. He fished around in the glove box for his registration, then handed both proofs of identification and ownership to the cop, who studied them for several long minutes.

“You have any idea why I stopped you, Mr. Fluck?”

“Probably because of my bumper sticker,” Bubba stated.

Budget stepped back to look at the Jeep’s rear bumper, as if just now noticing the Confederate flag on it.

“Well, well,” he said as images of white pointed hoods and burning crosses violated his mind. “Still trying to win that war and round up Negroes to pick your cotton.”

“The Southern Cross has nothing to do with that,” Bubba indignantly said.

“The
what?”

“The Southern Cross.”

Budget’s jaw muscles knotted. It had not been so long ago that he had been bused to one of the city’s public high schools and had watched seats empty one by one as other black kids got locked up or killed on the street. He had been
Buckwheat, Sambo, drone, porch monkey, Uncle Tom.
He had grown up in the
niggerhood.
Even now on some calls, white complainants asked him to go around to the back door.

“I guess you know it as the Confederate flag,” the white redneck asshole was explaining to him. “Although it was really the battle flag, versus the Stars and Bars or Stainless Banner or Naval Jack or Pennant.”

Budget knew nothing of the various official Confederate flags that had gone in and out of vogue for various reasons during the war. He only knew that he hated the bumper stickers and tattoos, tee shirts and beach towels he saw everywhere in the South. He was enraged by Confederate flags waving from porches and graves.

“It’s all about racism, Mr. Fluck,” Budget coldly said.

“It’s all about states’ rights.”

“Bullshit.”

“You can count the stars. One for each state in the Confederacy plus Kentucky and Missouri. Eleven stars,” Bubba informed him. “There’s not a single slave on the Southern Cross. You look for yourself.”

“The South wanted out because it wanted to keep its slaves.”

“That’s only part of it.”

“So you admit that it’s at least part of it.”

“I’m not admitting anything,” Bubba let him know.

“You were driving erratically,” said Officer Budget, who
wanted to grab Bubba out of the Jeep and smack him around.

“Was not.” Bubba refused to admit it.

“Yes, you were.”

“Not me.”

“I was right behind you. I ought to know.”

“That kid in the Explorer was trying to cut in front of me,” Bubba said.

“He had his turn signal on.”

“So what.”

“Have you been drinking?” demanded Budget.

“Not yet.”

“Are you on any kind of medications?”

“Not this minute.”

“But you are sometimes?” Budget asked, for he knew that some drugs and poisons, such as marijuana and arsenic, stayed in the blood for a while.

“Not anything you need to know about,” said Bubba.

“I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Fluck.”

Officer Budget leaned closer to the open window, hoping he might smell alcohol. He didn’t.

Bubba got out a cigarette. He smoked Merit Ultima instead of other brands because Merits, along with Marlboros and Virginia Slims, to name a few, were manufactured by Philip Morris. Bubba was very loyal to his employer and to all products made in America.

Bubba had no intention of telling Officer Budget that he took Librax for cranky bowel syndrome and that now and then he needed Sudafed to control his allergic responses to dust mites, mold and cats. None of this was Officer Budget’s business.

“Advil,” Bubba answered the cop.

“That’s all?” Officer Budget asked with severity.

“Maybe Tylenol.”

“Mr. Fluck, you . . .”

“What did you say?” Bubba interrupted.

“. . . certain you aren’t on anything else?” Budget finished his sentence.

“I heard what you said and I’m going to report you to the chief!” Bubba exclaimed in rage.

“You do that, Mr. Fluck. In . . .”

“See!”

“In fact, I’ll make the appointment. You can see her, Mr. Fluck, face . . .”

“That’s it!”

An entire population of cruel schoolchildren stampeded through Bubba’s brain. They chanted those awful names, shrieking with laughter. Bubba saw himself fat and in camouflage. Enough was enough, he could take no more.

“What’s it?” Budget raised his voice, too.

“I don’t have to listen to this!”

“You can tell the chief that face to face!” Budget exclaimed. “I don’t give a flying . . .”

“Stop!”

“Man, you got a problem,” Budget said.

Weed did, too. He made it to biology class in time to watch all completed quizzes passed up to the front and to hear Mrs. Fan go over homework he had not done.

His miserable eyes wandered around the room to worms, deer embryos, rhinoceros beetles, termite eggs and dog intestines suspended in formaldehyde, and butterflies and snakeskins pinned to boards. He felt trapped by Smoke.

Later, in Western Civilization, Mr. Pretty picked on Weed three times, and Weed knew the answer to nothing. Weed’s fears gathered force.

His escape was Mrs. Grannis’s class. She taught Art IV and V during fifth period, and was very young and pretty, with soft blond curls, and eyes as green as summer grass. She had told Weed more than once that he was the first freshman ever, in the history of the school, to attend her class. Ordinarily, only juniors could take Art IV, and only seniors and Advanced Placement students could take V. But Weed was special. He had a gift that was rare.

There had been much debate about pushing Weed so far
ahead so fast, especially since he clearly lagged miles behind the troops on most other fronts. Questions about his maturity and social adjustment had been discussed at length among faculty and counselors. Even Mrs. Lilly, the principal, had been brought in at the end, and had proposed that Weed take a class at Virginia Commonwealth University or perhaps specialized classes at the Center for Arts. But the county did not provide transportation beyond the morning and afternoon buses Weed was afraid of missing. He had no way to get around in the middle of the day. Godwin decided to take a chance.

Weed had free period and lunch between 11:40 and 12:31 and he needed to hide. He did not want to run into Smoke somewhere. Weed was desperate and had come up with a secret, brazen, bizarre plan. At 11:39 he walked into Mrs. Grannis’s classroom. His self-esteem was low. He was frightened about what lay ahead and could tell by the way Mrs. Grannis looked at him that she sensed he wasn’t himself.

“How are you today, Weed?” she asked with an uncertain smile.

“I was wondering if it would be all right if I worked in here through free period,” he said.

“Certainly. What would you like to work on?”

Weed stared at the computers on a back counter.

“Graphic art,” he said. “I’m working on a project.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. There are many, many job opportunities in that field. You know where the CDs are,” she said. “And I’ll see you back here fifth period.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Weed said as he pulled out a chair and sat in front of a computer.

He opened a drawer where graphic software was neatly arranged in stacks, and picked out what he wanted. He inserted CorelDRAW into the CD drive and waited until Mrs. Grannis left the room before logging onto America Online.

Lunch followed free period and Weed had no intention of eating. He hurried down the hallway to the band room,
which was empty except for Jimbo “Sticks” Sleeth, who was doing his thing on the red Pearl drums.

“Hey, Sticks,” Weed said.

Sticks was rolling on the snare, his feet keeping rhythm on the high hat and kick. He had his eyes squeezed shut, sweat running down his temples. Weed went over to a cabinet and retrieved the hard plastic Sabian case. He opened it and lovingly lifted out the heavy bronze crash cymbals. He checked the leather straps to make sure the knots were holding tight. He gripped the straps, index fingers and thumbs touching. He held the cymbals at an angle, the edge of the right one lower than the left.

Sticks opened his eyes and gave Weed the nod. Weed struck the left cymbal, glancing it off the right, punctuating toms and snare with his euphoric bright sound.

“Do it, baby!” Sticks yelled, and he started in.

It sounded like a musical war going on as Sticks beat and throbbed and boomed in a rhythm that made the blood wild, and Weed was march-dancing around the room, crashing and flipping up, flashing and spinning.

“Go! Go! Oh yeah!” Sticks was frenzied.

Weed was moonwalking, his bright sound rolling out from the edges, then crashing staccato, then crashing long. He didn’t hear the bell ring but he finally noticed the clock on the wall. He packed up the cymbals and made it back to Mrs. Grannis’s art room with two minutes to spare. He was the first one there. She was writing on a white board and turned around to see who had come in.

“Did you get a lot done during your free time?” she asked Weed.

“Yes, ma’am.” Weed wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I wish everybody liked the computer as much as you do.” She started writing again. “You have a favorite software so far?”

“Quark XPress and Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop.”

“Well, you have a real knack for it,” she said as he chose his place at one of the tables and tucked his knapsack under his chair.

“It’s no big deal,” Weed mumbled.

“Have you written your story of the power behind your fish?” Mrs. Grannis asked as she continued writing this week’s project on the white board in long, looping letters.

“Yea, ma’am,” Weed sullenly answered, opening his notebook.

“I can’t wait to hear it,” she continued to encourage him. “You’re the only person in the class to pick a fish.”

“I know,” he said.

The assignment for the past two weeks had been to make a papier-mâché figure that was symbolic to the student. Most picked a symbol from mythology or folklore, such as a dragon or tiger or raven or snake. But Weed had constructed a cruel blue fish. Its gaping mouth bared rows of bloody teeth, and Weed had fashioned glittery eyes from small compact mirrors that flashed at anyone walking past.

“I’m sure all of the students can’t wait to hear about your fish,” Mrs. Grannis went on as she wrote.

“We doing watercolor next?” Weed asked with interest as he made out what she was writing.

“Yes. A still-life composition that includes reflective objects, texture.” She wrote with flourish. “And a 2-D object that gives the illusion of a 3-D object.”

“My fish is three-dimensional,” Weed said, “because it takes up real space.”

“That’s right. And what are the words we use?”

“Over, under, through, behind and around,” he recited.

Weed could remember words in art, and they didn’t have to be in bold.

“Freestanding, or surrounded by negative areas,” he added.

Mrs. Grannis put down her Magic Marker. “And how do you think you’d make your fish three-dimensional if it was actually two-dimensional?”

“Light and shadow,” he said easily.

“Chiaroscuro.”

“Except I can never pronunciate it,” Weed told her. “It’s what you do to make a drawing of a wineglass look three-dimensional instead of flat. Same for a lightbulb or an ice chicle or even clouds in the air.”

Weed looked around at boxes of pastels and the 140-weight Grumbacher paper he only got to use on final sketches. There were shelves of Elmer’s glue and colored pencils and carts of the Crayola tempera paints he had used on his fish. On a counter in the back of the room the computer terminals for graphics reminded him of the secret thing he had done.

By now, students were wandering into the room and scooting out chairs. They greeted Weed in their typically affectionate, smack-him-around fashion.

“Hey,
Weed Garden,
what’s going on?”

“How come you’re always in here before we are? Doing your homework early?”