Sweet Dream Baby (6 page)

My Aunt Delia laughs, and her laugh sounds like I know the water will sound running over those flat stones I saw from the bridge. She says, “You're sweet, Travis. It's sweet of you to say that. But the truth is, Widow Rock is so boring sometimes I think I'm gonna jump out of my skin. I'm gonna get on that highway and just drive 'til I can't drive anymore, and I'm gonna start a new life some place where the music comes from right around the corner and the people don't think it's a matter of honor to shit in their own backyard.”

I'm quiet.

My Aunt Delia reaches over and touches my arm. “Oh, Travis, I'm sorry. I've shocked you with my language. Well, don't worry. Nobody heard me but you, and I promise I'll do better. I'll try not to offend your virgin ears. You're my brother's little boy after all.”

I don't like it. I turn to her and say, “I'm not a little boy. Today's my birthday, and I'm twelve, and that's not little.”

My Aunt Delia looks at me, and her eyes go dark and wide, and she says, “Oh, Travis. Is today really your birthday?”

I nod. Hard. “And I'm not little.” I want to say, “I'm cool,” but I don't.

For a second, I think my Aunt Delia is going to cry again. But she doesn't. She reaches out and puts her fingers on my cheek. I'm mad, and I should pull away, but I don't. I like how it feels with her fingers there. She says, “That damned Lloyd. It's your birthday and he forgot to let us know.”

She takes her hand away from my cheek, and it burns where she touched me, and she looks out across the steering wheel. We're sitting at the crossroads, and the engine is running, and there's no wind blowing through the windows now. In a field across the road, a horse stretches up to pull down a branch from a tired-looking oak tree. It's too far, but the horse keeps reaching. A buzzard circles over the field, riding higher and higher on the wind.

“He's not damned Lloyd,” I whisper.

My Aunt Delia says, “I know, Travis. I'm sorry. He's your daddy, and he's got an awful lot on his mind right now.”

Then I feel her hand on my cheek again. “Let's go back to the thriving metropolis of Widow Rock,” she says. “I've got a surprise for you.”

It's her old voice again, low and full of breath and like cool water over rocks.

I've wanted to go in that drugstore ever since I saw the blue words with white ice dripping from them: COOL AIR. I've only been in air-conditioning a couple of times. Once in a drugstore in Omaha, and once in a doctor's office when I was little. It's great. When you walk in, the hair stands up on your arms, and you shiver, and the air smells good, and when you breathe through your mouth, it tastes like peppermint.

Delia parks the white Chevy in front of the drugstore, and there are two other cars, a red Oldsmobile and a white Ford pickup truck. We get out, and she looks at the two cars and winks at me. “Oh-oh, Killer. Look who's here.”

I say, “Who?” and she says, “You'll see.”

We go in, and it's so cool my teeth hurt, and I like walking in with my Aunt Delia. I like the wavy way she walks and the way everybody looks at us when we come in.

Just inside the door, we stop to look around. There's a counter on one side full of Band-Aid boxes and cans of Barbasol and ladies' perfume and razors and blades. On the other side, there's a soda fountain with red stools and booths with red seats. Where we're standing, there's a cash register and a gun rack with some rifles and shotguns and boxes of shells.

A man in a white apron and a white garrison cap smiles at my Aunt Delia and puts both hands on the marble counter and leans toward us. He says, “Hey there, Miss Delia, what can I do for you today?”

There are two boys in one of the booths, and one of them giggles and makes his voice high, and sings, “Hey there, Miss Delia.”

I can feel my Aunt Delia go hard beside me, and she lifts her chin a little, and she's not walking so loose and wavy as we go to the counter.

She slides onto a stool, and pats the one next to her, and I take it. The boy giggles again, and the man across the counter says, “Behave yourself, Sifford, or you'll not be scarfing milkshakes in here for a month.”

He looks at Delia and smiles, and she smiles, but her smile is small and thin. She says, “Mr. Tolbert, I want to introduce my nephew, Travis, from Omaha. He's here to spend the summer with us.”

Mr. Tolbert has a big, tanned, square face with pale blue eyes and a blue jaw like my dad's. He's got forearms like the business end of a baseball bat, and they've got thick black hair on them. A long scar starts over his left eye and goes up into his hair, and I wonder if it's from the war. He smiles at me, and we shake hands and he says, “You're Lloyd's boy, aren't you?”

I nod and smile and remember to say, “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Tolbert looks past me at the front windows where the light comes in through the green glass, and I know he's looking at the far away like my dad does. He says, “Your daddy's one heck of a man, son. I'm proud to have you in my establishment.” I don't know what he means. Maybe it's the war, the things my dad won't talk about. Maybe it's the things my Grandma Hollister told me about in the car on the way from the airport. Scholarships and running the hundred so fast.

There's another giggle from the booth behind us, and the boy makes his voice as high as a girl's. “Poor Travis, stuck in Widow Rock for a whole summer. That boy's gone lose his mind.”

My Aunt Delia turns around, and I turn, too, and it's fun to spin on the stool, and I look at my Aunt Delia, and she's got that small, tight smile on her face. She says, “Travis, I want you to meet two scoundrel dog boys. That one with the ugly red hair and the big ears is Ronny Bishop. The conceited one with the funny voice is Bickley P. Sifford. Bick for short. He's conceited because he thinks he's cute, and because his daddy owns the box factory and he's accepted to Princeton. But you know what I think, Travis?”

My Aunt Delia stops and looks at me. The two boys watch us, grinning. They look just like my Aunt Delia said. Red hair, big ears. Conceited and cute. But there's more to both of them. The one called Ronny is as big as a man, and his neck fills his button-down shirt collar too tight, and his eyes are small and pale blue and seem to aim at you through the field of freckles on his cheeks. The one called Bick is tall and muscular, too, but he's blond, and at first he reminds me of Tab Hunter. But he's not that cute. There's just something unreal about him, especially sitting across from the other boy. He looks like he knows he could say something that would change everything here. He looks important.

The boys are waiting for me to ask, “What?” I can't see him, but I know Mr. Tolbert is waiting behind the counter, too. So I say, “What?”

My Aunt Delia says, “I think he's going to get up there at Princeton with all the other boys, and their daddies are gonna own even bigger box factories, and they're gonna be even cuter and even more conceited, and our Mr. Bickley P. Sifford is going to have him a comeuppance.”

Mr. Tolbert laughs behind me.

The red-haired boy looks at the one called Bickley P. Sifford and waits.

Sifford is wearing a white shirt with a button-down collar, an alligator belt, penny loafers with shiny pennies and fuzzy white socks, and a pair of tight, faded jeans. I wonder if he's cool. I think he is. I wait. His face is getting red, and I know he's trying to think of something to say back to my Aunt Delia. Finally, he smiles, a kind of slow, evil-sneak smile, and I know he's got something in mind. He says, “Delia, I bet you can't spell comeuppance. I'll bet you a ride in my car you can't spell it. Mr. Tolbert's got a dictionary, and after you try, we can look it up and prove I'm right. What you say, Delia? Will you go for a ride with me if I win the bet? Ronny here'll take your nephew home, won't you Ronny?”

Ronny doesn't like it much, but he smiles his own low, sneak-mean smile and says, “Sure. Sure I will, Bick.”

I look at my Aunt Delia, and she's thinking about it. I don't want her to go for a ride with Bickley P. Sifford. I don't want to ride home with his red-haired, jug-eared friend, Ronny. I like my Aunt Delia, and I want to stay with her, and it's my birthday, and that's our secret.

My Aunt Delia puts her thumb under her chin and presses it there and makes a face like a little girl and thinks about it. Finally, she says, “You want to complete your list, don't you, Mr. Bickley P. Sifford?”

Sifford looks at her. He knows what she's saying, and he doesn't like it.

“Your list of local girls and rides in your fancy red Oldsmobile. And then you can tell all the conceited sons of box-factory owners at Princeton that you took all the girls of Widow Rock and neighboring boroughs for a ride. That's it, isn't it, Mr. Bickley P. Sifford?”

Sifford's face is as red as his car. Mr. Tolbert is washing glasses behind us. I'm looking at Delia, and it's strange. It's strange because she's saying one thing, but her eyes are saying another. They say she wants to go for a ride with Sifford. And Sifford's eyes say he knows it, and that's why his face is red. I think everybody here knows it, and they all knew it before I did.

Sifford clears his throat, and his voice goes raspy when he says, “I'm starting a new list, and it's gone have just one name on it. Yours. Why don't we ride on out to Widow Rock. It'll be cool out there by the river.” He looks at my Aunt Delia long and deep, and his eyes say things that make me look away at the gun rack over the counter. And I want to take down one of those guns and shoot him. I don't look back until I feel my Aunt Delia's hand on my shoulder. She says, “You and your bosom friend Ronny there can put your fancy red Oldsmobile in the back of his truck and ride off together. Me and Travis are on a shopping trip. Today's his birthday, and I'm going to buy him a tennis racket.” She looks down at me and smiles. Then she reaches down and runs her hand through my hair.

“How 'bout that, Travis?”

I'm a shortstop, not a tennis player, but I smile big and say, “That's neato, Aunt Delia.”

Mr. Tolbert says, “I think we got a few things you can look at, Miss Delia.”

Delia spins her stool around to face Mr. Tolbert, and I do too. She says, “First, we're going to get Travis a big fat birthday chocolate malted milk, and then we're going to buy him the best tennis racket in the place.”

Again I smile and say, “Thank you, Aunt Delia.”

Mr. Tolbert says, “Will that be two malts, Miss Delia?”

My Aunt Delia says yes, and we sit together watching Mr. Tolbert's big hands scoop the ice cream and pour in the chocolate syrup and the little malt balls, and then put the shiny steel container on the little rack with the propeller above it. He pushes a button, and the propeller spins until the chocolate malted swells up to the top. He puts the two malts in front of us, and I hear the two boys slide out of the booth behind us.

Sifford says, “Last chance for that ride, Delia.”

My Aunt Delia's voice is mocky and sing-song. “Last chance to learn something about yourself before they teach it to you at Princeton, Bick Sifford.”

Sifford laughs, and his friend follows with his own hee-haw. The two stretch and groan and shuffle, but we don't look at them. Before they get to the door, there's a loud rumble and an engine races, then cuts off, and I see Mr. Tolbert's eyes go hard.

I turn and look through the green glass at the front of the drugstore. At the curb, there's a boy in a black leather jacket and loose jeans and black engineer boots getting out of a midnight-blue street rod. Sifford and Bishop stop at the front door and watch him. Sifford looks back at us and says, “Hey, Delia, maybe you want to go for a ride with old Duck's Ass out there. How 'bout that?”

Mr. Tolbert says, hard, “Sifford, you know I don't tolerate language in my store.”

Sifford says, “Sorry, Mr. Tolbert,” but he doesn't mean it. Then he says, “See you around, Delia. We got all summer for that ride,” and it sounds like Jimmy Pultney telling me he's going to climb over that fence and stomp my ass if I don't give back his arrow. Delia says to her malted milk, “See you, Ronny.”

The two boys go out and stand on the sidewalk watching the boy in the leather jacket. The midnight-blue rod has cool red flames painted on its sides. The flames swell up from the engine like it's on fire. It has moon disks and Lakes Pipes too. When I grow up, I'm going to have a car like that.

The boy in the black leather jacket stops in front of Sifford and Bishop, and they say something to him, and he says something back, and Mr. Tolbert takes off his apron fast and goes around the counter. He's got his hand on the front door when Sifford and Bishop look in at him and smile and get into the red Olds and the Ford pickup and drive off. Mr. Tolbert sighs and comes back to the counter. He leans on it and says, “Miss Delia, I don't know what gets into those boys, do you?”

My Aunt Delia says, “Often as not, conceit gets into them, and moonshine whiskey.” She looks at Mr. Tolbert, and he sighs again and shakes his head and starts washing glasses.

Outside, the boy with the black leather jacket is working on his engine. He's got the hood open and he's leaning in, and the engine's running, and he's making it rev and come back down with a loud pop-pop-pop. He leans back and stretches, and the sides of his jacket fly out like black wings, and he looks up at the sun, and I can see the sweat on his pale cheeks and forehead.

My Aunt Delia says, “Turn around Travis and stop staring.”

I like the way the tennis racket feels in my hand. It's got a tan leather grip and shiny varnish, and the strings are tight and white, and it says, T.A.D. across the bottom. My Aunt Delia says that stands for Thomas A. Davis, but the kids just call it a Tad racket. She says she's going to teach me to play tennis, and we're going to play a lot, and by the end of the summer I'll be as good as Pancho Gonzales.

Delia takes a twenty and a ten out of her pocket and puts them down by the cash register, and Mr. Tolbert says, “How 'bout some balls, Miss Delia?” And my Aunt Delia says, “Why not? Travis is starting a new year of his life today. We might as well start out with fresh ones.” Mr. Tolbert reaches under the counter and brings up a red can that says Spalding. It has a key on top like a can of tuna.

My Aunt Delia waits for her change, but she's watching the boy outside working on his car. He's got long black hair, and there's a lot of oil on it, and it's combed back like Elvis. He closes the hood and looks at the window, and I wonder if he can see us standing here. My Aunt Delia counts her change and says, “I got enough for one more malt, Travis. What do you say?”

I look at her and at Mr. Tolbert, and he smiles, and I say, “Sure, if you'll share it with me.” Delia puts her hand on the top of my head. “Travis, that's sweet, but I don't want any more.” She touches her middle. “As my grandmother used to say, ‘I have had a sufficiency.'” Mr. Tolbert laughs. I guess he remembers my Aunt Delia's grandmother.

We sit on our stools again, and the bell at the front door rings, and I know the boy in the black leather jacket is here. His thick boots bark and scuff on the floor, and I hear him slide into the booth where Sifford and Bishop sat. I spin around and look. He takes a pack of Camels and a silver Zippo lighter from his jacket pocket and starts tapping the lighter on the table. Delia doesn't turn around, but she doesn't tell me to mind my business. I like watching the boy. He's big and his big hands are greasy. He's got a silver ring with a red jewel on his right middle finger, and he's wearing a white T-shirt under the jacket and his silver dog tags hang outside his shirt.

Mr. Tolbert puts another malted in front of me and says, “There you go, Travis.” I turn around and look at my Aunt Delia, and she's got that small tight smile on her face again, and I wonder if she's thinking about Sifford.

The Zippo keeps tapping on the table, and Mr. Tolbert says, “Griner, what can I do for you?” Mr. Tolbert's voice is too loud. He sounds like my dad when I'm getting on his nerves. The boy in the black leather jacket says, “Jack, I'm sitting here waiting for you to bring me an ashtray.”

Mr. Tolbert bites his jaw down hard and says, “Griner, I've told you you can't smoke in here, and I've told you not to call me Jack.”

Griner looks at Mr. Tolbert for a long time, and a drop of sweat comes out of his shiny black hair and rolls down his forehead. He ignores it and says, “Everybody smokes in here, Mr. Tolbert, and I seen you come round that counter quick as a monkey and bring them ashtrays. If them boys that just left out of here wanted to smoke, you'd sure-God bring them ashtrays.”

Mr. Tolbert says, “Griner, you are sorely trying my patience.”

Griner shakes a cigarette out of the Camel pack and lights it and draws in a big chest full of smoke and blows it at Mr. Tolbert. He says, “I'm just as good as any customer that comes in here.” He pulls out his wallet and takes out a five-dollar bill and slaps it on the table top. “I got money to spend just like them rich boys.”

Mr. Tolbert bites his jaw and slowly shakes his head. “Griner, you'll be legal to smoke in here when you're twenty-one. Now put out that cigarette.”

Griner takes another big puff and huffs it out and smiles. He pulls up his leg and puts the thick sole of his engineer boot on the red upholstery and sticks the cigarette in where he's rolled up his jeans. It hisses, and a puff of smoke rises from the burnt cloth. He smiles bigger and says to Mr. Tolbert, “Now we're legal. How 'bout you bring me a co-cola there, Jack?”

Mr. Tolbert looks at my Aunt Delia, and his eyes tell all about his patience. He fills a glass with ice and Coca-Cola and just leaves it at the end of the counter. He turns his back and starts washing glasses. Griner looks at the Coke on the counter and then at Mr. Tolbert's back. He shrugs and comes over to get his Coke. He puts a quarter on the counter and picks up the Coke and catches me looking at him. At first I think he doesn't like it, but then I see he does. He winks at me and says, “What's shakin', Buddy?”

My Aunt Delia spins on her stool. “Kenny Griner, you leave him alone.”

Griner smiles and raises both his hands and the jacket spreads again like the wings of that big buzzard I saw circling over the pasture when Aunt Delia and me were driving in her white Chevy. Griner says, “I ain't doing nothing, Miss Delia. All I done was say hello to the boy.”

My Aunt Delia looks at him for a while, and he keeps smiling at her, and she says, “Well, all right then,” and turns around to face the soda fountain.

Griner goes back to his booth and sips the Coke and says, “News gets around fast in a small town.”

My Aunt Delia turns around again, and there's something scared in her eyes. Something I've never seen before. “News about what, Kenny? Did you set a new speed record from here to nowhere and back?” She's smiling, but her eyes are holding Griner's, and they've still got that scared thing in them.

Griner shrugs again. “Naw, I already hold that record. I'm talking about Mr. Flatland there. Him being in town for the summer an' all.” I look at my Aunt Delia. I don't know how I'm supposed to act. She's not scared anymore.

She gives Griner a tired look and says, “Last time I looked, Kenny, I didn't see any mountains around here.”

“We got hills though,” Griner says, “out there north of town, and we got the rock. Good old Widow Rock. Now that's pretty high, ain't it. Out where that boy comes from it's as flat as your momma's ironing board and just as hot.”

My Aunt Delia says, “When's the last time you were in Nebraska, Kenny?”

Griner looks hurts. He takes out another cigarette and flips open the Zippo, but before his thumb scratches the lighter, he looks over at Mr. Tolbert and just holds the cigarette in his mouth. He says, “I know about Nebraska. I read about it in a book one time.” Griner reaches into the pocket of his black leather jacket and pulls out a paperback book and puts it on the table. On the cover, there's a picture of a boy on a motorcycle. He's wearing a jacket like Griner's and a leather hat with a pair of silver wings on the front. He's leaning over the handlebars and looking off down the road. Griner says, “See, I read a lot, Miss Delia. Just 'cause I ain't still swallowing the crap they dish out in that high school don't mean I don't read.”

My Aunt Delia looks at Griner now, and her eyes say she's sorry. She says, “I wish you hadn't quit school, Kenny. You didn't have to quit.”

Griner looks out the front window, squinting at the sun, at the cool blue and flaming red street rod out there at the curb. He looks back at my Aunt Delia and says, “I didn't have to stay either. That's one thing they couldn't make me do.”

My Aunt Delia shakes her head and slides down from her stool. My malted is only half-finished, but I've had enough. My stomach's not that big. She says, “Come on, Travis.” I'm standing beside her. Griner's looking at his book now, pretending to read with that cold cigarette hanging from his mouth. My Aunt Delia says, “Kenny, what are you gonna do with yourself? You can't just stay around here and work in that box factory and fiddle with that stupid car for the rest of your life.” Now she sounds angry, but I know she's not angry at Griner. Not exactly.

Griner pulls his eyes out of his book. “Why can't I, Miss Delia? A lot of folks do, folks that don't live over on Bedford Street or out to Pleasant Hills with your friend Sifford.”

Bedford Street is where I live now.

My Aunt Delia says, “Bick's my friend, Kenny, and so are you, or at least you used to be. I care about what happens to both of you.”

“Don't worry about me,” Griner says. He taps his book with his greasy finger. He lifts the finger to his forehead and touches it there. “I'm getting an education. Worry about Sifford if you want to worry. He'd like it if you did that.”

My Aunt Delia says, “If I worried about Bick, he'd just take it as a compliment. It's you I'm worried about.”

“Like I told you,” Griner says, “don't worry about me. School ain't the only way to be a success in life.”

My Aunt Delia shakes her head once, slow, then turns to Mr. Tolbert behind the counter. She says, “Thank you, Mr. Tolbert. We'll be in again real soon.”

Mr. Tolbert smiles at my Aunt Delia and says, “Say hello to your daddy for me.” At that, Griner grunts and then laughs. “Me too,” he says.

My Aunt Delia looks at Griner one more time, and I can't tell what she's thinking. She lifts her chin a little, and we walk out together.