Sweet Dream Baby (8 page)

I say, “Do boys get pre…pre…”

“Prerogatives. Yes they do, Killer. Boys get to be mean and jealous and stubborn, and they think they get to tell girls what to do, and they think they get to run around acting like jackasses and scoundrel dogs, and girls are supposed to stay home and sit with their knees together and do needlepoint or something. Until the boys come calling, that is.”

“I don't want any of those pre…prerogatives.”

“Good, Killer. I knew you'd say that.”

But I know my Aunt Delia isn't just moody, she's unhappy, and there's a storm coming.

Late at night, the rain comes. First there's a rush of cool air through my window, and I'm lying outside the covers, and it feels good on my legs and chest. Then I can smell the air from way up high, and it smells like it does out in Omaha before the tornadoes come, and then it starts to rain. Big drops, and they hit my window with a sound like Marvadell smacking pie dough with her rolling pin. Then the trees begin to lash, and the limbs start to push each other around, and the birds complain in their nests, and I know I have to go to my Aunt Delia's room.

I get up and close my window and go outside into the hallway. I can see through the bathroom doorway and out the bathroom window into the moving trees. I walk down the hallway quiet and careful and stand outside my Aunt Delia's doorway. Her door isn't open this time, and I think maybe she's all right, and I should go back to my room. But I can't go back. I have to go into my Aunt Delia's room. I don't know why. I just have to. She might need me.

I don't knock. Someone might hear. I just open the door, and I can see her bed there under the slope of the roof. It's like a white boat floating on a sea of moving leaves and branches. I can see her head on the pillow, her black hair spread out. I don't hear her crying. I think she's all right. I turn to go.

“Come here, Killer.”

I walk over and stand beside her bed. She reaches out and touches my arm like she did before. She says, “Are you okay? Did the rain scare you?”

I say, “No. I'm not scared.”

My Aunt Delia doesn't say anything. She just lies there on her side, and I can hear her breathing, and she's touching my arm with her fingers. Then she says, “Did you come in here because you thought I'd be sad?”

I say, “Yes.”

My Aunt Delia says, “I'm okay tonight, Killer. I'm just a little sad. The rain, it makes me sad.”

I say, “I'm glad you're okay, Delia.”

We wait for a while, and the storm gets bigger outside, and I wonder if it's going to tear shingles from the roof or blow the glass out of my Aunt Delia's window. Delia whispers, “It's really rough out there, isn't it, Killer?”

I say, “Yes.”

She throws back the covers, and her good smell pours across my face in the still room. She says, “Why don't you get in here with me for a while, Killer? If the house blows down, we'll help each other crawl out of the wreckage.”

I say okay. I climb into my Aunt Delia's bed. I turn my back to her like I did before, and she rests her chin on the top of my head, and I can feel she's not wearing her nightgown. I guess it's too hot for that. I can feel her chests pressing against my back, and it makes my breath come quick. My Aunt Delia says, “How's that Killer? You okay?”

I say, “Yes,” and I think my voice sounds funny.

My Aunt Delia says, “Let's go to sleep now, okay?”

I say, “Delia, did something bad happen to you when there was a storm?”

My Aunt Delia doesn't say anything for a while, then she says, “Let's go to sleep, Killer, okay?”

I say, “Okay.”

It's a long time before I can go to sleep. I get that way again, down there. It feels good, and I wonder if it's wrong. I wonder if I'm turning into the prodigal son. I can feel my Aunt Delia's breathing going long and slow, and I know she's asleep. I hope she's not sad anymore. I hope she has good dreams. I hold myself down there. I wonder if I'm going to dream about my Aunt Delia. It's a long time before I fall asleep.

You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain.

Too much love drives a man insane.

You broke my will. What a Thrill!

Goodness, gracious! Great balls of fire!

GREAT BALLS OF FIRE

—Music and Lyrics by Jerry Lee Lewis

—Recorded by Jerry Lee Lewis

It's night and I'm sitting in the back seat of the white Chevy and my Aunt Delia and Caroline Huff and Beulah Laidlaw are all crammed together in the front. My Aunt Delia's driving fast. The disk jockey says, “That was Duane Eddy and his twangin' guitar. And now, here's the latest from Little Anthony and The Imperials.” A high voice like a girl's starts singing, “You don't remember me, but I remember you. It was not so long ago, you broke my heart in two.”

I like driving at night. The air blowing in the windows is cool, and it smells different because the things that come out at night are calling to you. And the music seems to come from out there in the night, from the wind and the moon, not the radio. Little Anthony sings, “If we could start anew, I wouldn't hesitate. I'd gladly take you back, and tempt the hand of fate.” Caroline Huff says, “That little nigger boy can sho sing. I read where they just stand around on the street corners up there in Philadelphia and practice the doo-wop. Can you believe that?”

Beulah Laidlaw says, “Any little nigger boy stood around singing on some corner in Widow Rock, Delia's daddy would snatch him bald-headed.”

My Aunt Delia pushes down on the accelerator and slowly shakes her head. “Will you two not be such rednecks in front of Travis? He's not used to your kind of stupidity.”

Caroline giggles and twists around on the seat and looks back at me. Her blonde pony tail bounces over the back of the seat. I want to reach out and touch it. She says, “Sorry about your virgin ears, Travis.”

Beulah Laidlaw says, “Thank God for Travis.”

Caroline says, “Amen to that.”

When they want to go out at night, they tell their parents it's all right because Delia Hollister is bringing Travis along. Tonight, we're supposed to go to the Baptist youth group over in Warrington. Warrington's the rival high school, but it's summer now, so the kids from Widow Rock and the kids from Warrington take turns going to youth groups. They're supposed to talk about Jesus and being a teenager and the problems of growing up too fast. I know we're going to drive around until ten o'clock looking for other kids who skipped the youth group. Most nights, we find them. My Aunt Delia and Caroline and Beulah call it, “Seeing who's there.” It's one of their jokes: “Why don't we go on down to Tolbert's and see who's there.” There's always somebody. There's nothing else to do.

Beulah Laidlaw looks back at me. “You wouldn't ever tell on us, would you, Travis? I mean, I want you to know you'll go to hell if you do. Little boys who break promises go to hell when they die, and sometimes God doesn't even wait to let them grow up before he sends them there.” She tries to give me a grown-up, parent look, but it doesn't work. She's just Beulah Laidlaw. My Aunt Delia says she's got hot pants. My Aunt Delia says she's boy crazy. I say, “Unh-uh, I won't tell.” I mean it for my Aunt Delia. I want her to know she can trust me.

Beulah and Caroline giggle again. “Will you listen at that boy,” Caroline says, “he's been here a month, and he sounds like they found him under a collard leaf.”

I don't sound like Omaha anymore. I can't help it. My Aunt Delia laughs at me sometimes, too. She says, “Killer, when you go home, they gone put your picture in the paper and ask for somebody to come an' claim this poor lost little southern boy.” She's just kidding me. I like the way I sound. I like to sound like other people.

We pass Luby's Roadhouse, and my Aunt Delia slows way down, and for a second I can hear the juke box. Beulah and Caroline don't recognize any cars in the parking lot.

“Farmers,” Beulah says.

“No,” Caroline says, “worse. Farm equipment salesmen.”

We go on down the road in the dark, and the country night pours in the windows, and I lean back as far as I can and look at the stars through the back window. I can smell the perfume and the shampoo from the front seat and hear them talking. Sometimes they whisper and spell things like, “m-a-k-i-n-g o-u-t,” and I pretend I don't know what's going on. The truth is, sometimes I don't, but I'm getting an education.

We come to the outskirts of Warrington, and it looks like the outskirts of Widow Rock, only it's got more hills and it's in the opposite direction from the river. Warrington's got a Dairy Queen, and we stop for Cokes and french fries, then we cruise past the Baptist church. “There's Ronny Bishop's truck,” Beulah says. She runs her fingers through her brown hair and gives it a flip.

Caroline pokes my Aunt Delia in the ribs and says, “I don't see Bick's Oldsmobile. I don't see it anywhere.”

My Aunt Delia says, “The whereabouts of Bick Sifford's Oldsmobile is a matter of no importance to me, Caroline Huff.”

We turn around at the end of the block and slide by the church again. Some kids I don't know are getting out of a car. Caroline and Beulah scrunch down in the seat as we pass. They giggle together. My Aunt Delia says, “You can get up now.” They push back up, still giggling. Beulah Laidlaw says, “Let's stop. I want to see Ronny Bishop. He's cool.”

Caroline Huff looks across my Aunt Delia at the front of the church. Lights come on in the basement recreation room where the youth group meets. A young couple named the Dagles lead the youth group. Mr. Dagle is a lawyer, and his wife teaches English at Warrington High School. He's good looking, and she's pretty, and most of the kids think they're pretty cool, and they listen when the Dagles talk about how Jesus doesn't want them to grow up too fast.

My Aunt Delia says, “Ronny Bishop sticks his fingers in his shoes and then smells them.”

Caroline says, “EEEE-EEWW!”

Beulah says, “Delia, you're just jealous because Ronny likes me better than you.”

My Aunt Delia says, “No, seriously, I watched him do it in Algebra II. He sticks them way down in there when he thinks nobody's looking, and then he pulls them out and pretends he's resting his chin on his hand and thinking about a quadratic equation. Then he gives them a real good sniff.”

Beulah says, “Poop on you, Delia Hollister. I still think he's cool.”

“Well,” my Aunt Delia says, “he's got hot feet.”

I can't help it. It makes me laugh.

We drive out of Warrington. We're in the country again, and I think: so much for Jesus and growing up too fast. We're on our way to see who's there. After a couple of miles, we pass Luby's again, and up ahead a big car slips out from under a tree by the roadside and turns on a flashing red light, and then we hear the moan of a siren. “Uh-oh,” says Caroline, “somebody's gonna get it.”

Beulah says, “Some John Deere salesman had too much kickapoo juice at Luby's.”

My Aunt Delia goes stiff and quiet, and I lean forward and look at her hands on the steering wheel. They're hard and white in the light from the dashboard.

Caroline says, “Stand on it, Delia. I want to see what's going on.”

My Aunt Delia speeds up, and after a while we start to catch up with the police car, and then he stops, and we see he's got somebody pulled over. “It's a long way from US 90,” Beulah says. “I don't know what the road patrol's doing way out here.”

“That's not the road patrol,” my Aunt Delia says. Her voice is different now. It's not her night voice. It's not dreamy and slow and ready to joke or sing with the radio. She stops about a hundred yards behind the two cars and turns off her lights. “That's my daddy,” she says.

Beulah says, “I wonder who he's got.”

Caroline says, “Let's go see.”

My Aunt Delia says, “We can't. We're in Warrington talking about growing up too fast.”

We sit that way for a while. The radio plays “Stagger Lee.” We see Grandpa Hollister get out of his car and walk into his own headlights, but we can't see the other car or who's in it. “It's probably some flatland tourist,” Beulah says.

We've got hills around here, so we call people from further south flatlanders. I don't think our hills are big enough for that, but I don't say much about it. Caroline says, “Yeah, looking for the moon over Miami.” We wait.

Beulah says, “We left Warrington because the discussion was boring and we wanted to get home before curfew.”

My Aunt Delia says, “Oh Beulah, use your brain. The discussion's just getting started.”

I can see Grandpa Hollister standing in the high beams, then leaning down over the car. Then he does something fast. I've never seen him move fast, and before I can say anything, my Aunt Delia turns on her headlights, and we speed, then she slows down. As we slide past the two cars, I see red flames on midnight-blue metal and Griner's black leather jacket. Grandpa Hollister's got something in his hand. He swings it down hard. His hand comes up again and stops. His head turns to us so fast you can't see him do it. My Aunt Delia grinds the Chevy into reverse and stops in the middle of the road. It's hot without the air blowing in, and I can hear three engines running, and smell the cattle in the field across the road from us, and I see Grandpa Hollister shove something black into his pocket.

Kenny Griner is face down on the wet grass in front of Grandpa Hollister. He tries to get up. He makes it to his hands and knees, but he falls again. I hear him groan. I look at Beulah and Caroline, and they've both got their hands over their mouths. My Aunt Delia leans out the window and looks at Grandpa Hollister. He looks at her, and it's like the first day I came when my Aunt Delia drove into the garage too fast, and I thought he'd be mad at her. He isn't mad. I can't see his face very well, but I know he isn't mad. He bends over and takes Griner by the two wings of his leather jacket and picks him up and sits him on the running board of the street rod. Griner's face is down in the dark, but he lifts it, and blood runs from above his eye down to his cheek. It drips from his chin onto his white T-shirt. Griner takes his cigarettes from his jacket and tries to light one, but his hands are shaking, and he smears blood on the Camel pack and the Zippo. Finally, he just lays the whole mess down on the running board and stares at it. Then he looks at us. And he smiles. He says, “Hello, Miss Delia.”

Caroline Huff whispers, “I think I'm gonna be sick.”

My Aunt Delia says, “Hey there, Kenny. Looks like you had an accident.”

She doesn't sound like herself. She sounds grown up and like a kid at the same time, and I know she's talking to Grandpa Hollister not Griner.

My Grandpa Hollister says, “His head hit the steering wheel. I've told him not to drive so fast out here. This road is tricky at night.” Grandpa Hollister comes over and stands at my Aunt Delia's window. He bends down, and I stick my head out the back window. A braided leather thong dangles from a fat lump in his hip pocket. He says, “Caroline, Beulah, let this be a lesson to you. Driving fast on this road at night is dangerous.”

Both Beulah and Caroline yes sir him.

Grandpa Hollister stands up, steps back, and looks at his watch. Then he looks at my Aunt Delia. She says, “Daddy, do you need any help? Is there anything we can do for Kenny?”

Griner is still smiling at my Aunt Delia, but his hands tremble harder. Grandpa Hollister shakes his head. “You girls go along now, hear?”

We pull away, and I watch through the back window. Griner looks after us like we're the whole world slipping away from him. He gets smaller and smaller there in the circle of car light, and the last I see is my Grandpa bending down to him again and Griner looking up into his face.

We drive back to Widow Rock, and nobody talks. The radio plays “Whole lot of shakin' goin' on,” and nobody shakes. I'm the Killer, and I don't shake, but I'm thinking about Griner's hands.