The Great Good Summer (10 page)

I don't know for sure if Paul's being sweet with me or snarky. And I'm not sure it matters, 'cause as all the stars in the universe fly by, all I can think is,
Even that little baby star bear has his mother.

Chapter Fourteen

J
ail isn't what you'd expect it to be. I mean, it should be super-scary, right? Loud and dark and super-scary. But walking into the Leon County Jail isn't that much different from walking into the lobby of a school or a doctor's office, and it's a whole heap better than certain bus stations I know.

The place is actually clean and bright, and the soda machine spits out cold bottles of soda, which we all need. We traveled straight through the night, folded up with crinks in our necks and tingles in our feet, and then barely took time to splash our faces in the restroom at the Tallahassee Greyhound station before getting on a city bus that brought the three of us here, right here, to the Leon County Jail. Where it feels good just to stand still for a second, on this solid, polished floor, instead of flying sixty miles an hour through the dark.

Besides jail, here's another thing that's different than you'd expect—Ricky. It turns out Ricky had a clean collared shirt in his pack, and a comb, and a breath mint
or something. It's like he's a new man. Literally, I guess, since now he's pretending to be the faithful stepbrother of Davey Floyd Roman. (Davey Floyd Roman being Hallelujah Dave to you and me. We found out his real name in yesterday's paper that we scrounged up at the bus station this morning.)

I'm darn near believing in Ricky-the-stepbrother myself, that's how good and true he looks and seems. Now we just need to convince the police.

“Oh dear, dear God,” I whisper as Ricky walks up to the front desk, “I am so sorry about all these lies and the running away from home and everything. I hope you can forgive me since it really and truly is all in the name of doing the right thing.”

I feel Paul Dobbs's shoulders rise up and sink back down with a slow deep breath, right next to me as I pray. We haven't said much to each other since late last night, but there hasn't been much to say since Ricky kind of stepped in as our grown-up.

“And please forgive Paul, too,” I whisper. “Not one bit of this is his fault. He's just trying to help.” That last part I whispered a tidge louder, on purpose, thinking maybe Paul would hear it and accept it as my apology for being all itchy with him—last night and all the way along,
really. Plus, I figure he isn't talking to God himself, so he could use the support.

The policeman on duty is actually a really pretty police
woman
with long pink nails that click on her keyboard when she types. Ricky smiles at her as he says hello.

“We're here to see Davey Floyd Roman,” he says, plain as day, as if we have all the right in the world to be marching into jail and asking to meet with a prisoner today.

“Did you come to pick him up?” asks the policewoman.
Click, click, click.

“Pick him up? Uh, no. That wasn't exactly the plan. Why?”

“Oh, I thought you might be with the ministry sent to get him. He's been bailed out, and I'm just completing the paperwork now.” She looks up at Ricky, her pink-tipped fingers still in place in front of her, her badge big and shiny over her heart.

I watch as Ricky shifts his weight from one skinny leg to the other and takes a second before saying whatever he's gonna say next. This wasn't what we'd counted on, Davey Floyd checking out of jail before we even got in to see him. If he leaves now, we'll have to start from scratch in finding Mama. He's our best and only hope, this crazy-
crooked preacher in prison. If that's not the most ridiculous fix to be in. I take a gulp of soda to calm my nerves.

“Well, hey, that's great,” says Ricky, calm as calm can be. “I'm his stepbrother, just here to check on him. I know he needs all the help he can get from the Lord God Almighty, so really, it's great about the ministry. Can we just get one quick word with him before he leaves?”

Oh, yes, please and thank you,
I think.
Yes, please and thank you, Skinny Ricky.

“It's quiet in here this morning,” says the policewoman, looking at Ricky, and then at us, and then around the otherwise empty room. “If y'all will just slide down to the end of this counter, I'll bring him out and you can talk while I finish things up and get him ready to roll.”

Ricky turns around with a great big grin for me and Paul, and my heart starts to settle. See what I mean about Ricky being different than you'd expect? He may be a tired, skinny, yellow-toothed guy, but it turns out he sure is someone you can count on in the Leon County Jail.

But now, staring straight across the wide white countertop at Davey Floyd Roman, I change my mind about the scariness. Jail
is
scary after all, just like you'd think. It's cold, and way too bright, and the prisoners wear prisoner
clothes. But here we are anyway, with nowhere else to be or go, and if this man in orange is the way to my mama, then here is where we simply have to be.

“Stepbrother, huh?” Davey Floyd says through his teeth, without even opening his mouth, like he's a creepy ventriloquist or something. He's talking to Ricky, I guess, about faking that they're relatives, but he's looking right at me, maybe 'cause I'm smack in the middle of his little group of visitors, or maybe because I'm the only girl or something, but yeah, it's kind of scary. And his eyes? They are fake blue, like they're glass stones instead of eyes, and his hair is long and blond and tied back in a sort of bun.

A preacher with a big blond bun, I kid you not.

Honestly, Mama, for all the good on this green earth, what were you thinking?

“I didn't have the heart to tell 'em I don't
have
a stepbrother,” Davey Floyd says, sarcastic, but still low and teethy, probably so as not to get the officer's attention, “because I just hate to ruin someone's fun. And plus, I was curious 'bout who'd be visiting a fallen son of God in the county clink. So. Here I am. You got me, probably right where you want me. Everybody's got me, from the sounds of things. The snake-mad folks from Florida and
Alabama and Texas and Tennessee. As if it's all my fault that the dumb and devout are nearly desperate to give away their money. Like I can help it if I was in the right place at the right time, if you know what I mean. Used to be it was a person's own responsibility to look after their money . . .”

It is as if he's never gonna stop talking, in his quiet, sarcastic, angry preacher voice. I think this must be what sucked Mama in, this voice rolling on and on like a train, till a person has no choice but to up and follow it to Florida.

“I mean, far be it from me to not help people out,” Davey Floyd goes on. “As we all know, the word of God is the word of God is the word of our Almighty high heavenly host in the sky, no matter who's speaking it. You can't fault me for that, for passing on the good news and the warnings, now can you? A man's got to do his called-for work. The Lord asks that of us all. So then, that said, Hallelujah Dave at your service. How can I help you?”

And finally he comes to a full stop, like a car at a school zone crosswalk. But we just stand there, the three of us, staring back at him with our mouths open. Open like nets for catchin' bugs, Mama would say, not sure if he's finished, for one thing, and not sure what to say in response, for another. So the pause is a long one.

But then I start talking back at him, not even really meaning to. I mean, I may be scared of the Leon County Jail and also scared of this glassy-eyed, bun-haired preacher man, but I guess I'm more scared of never finding my mama ever again.

“Mr. Roman, um, sir,” I say, “I don't rightly know what's going on here, and I guess that's between you and God and the sheriff anyhow. And I don't know a thing about all those angry church folks you're talking about . . .” I stop to take in a breath of air-conditioned air and to catch a sideways look at the police lady on the other side of the room. She is still busy with her computer and tapping fingernails, and now she's on the telephone, too. I twist the little cross at my neck with a whisper of thanks for her distraction, and right then Hallelujah Dave opens his mouth like he's about to start talking again. But I don't let him. I just keep on going, 'cause I can be a train too, Mr. Hallelujah. You just watch.

“But I'm pretty sure you know Diana Green? From Loomer, Texas? She followed you to The Great Good Bible Church of Panhandle Florida, and I'm not sure why, because she already
had
a church, and a home, and a husband, and a daughter. And that's who I happen to be, Mr. Roman. Diana Green's daughter. She's my mama.
Did you know that? Did you know any of that when you got her to go with you to Florida?” I stop to take another breath, but my voice isn't shaking anymore, and now I feel a lot more mad than scared.

But y'know who
does
look scared? Mr. Hallelujah Davey Floyd Roman with the glassy eyes. He looks shocked, and scared, and now
his
mouth hangs open like a net for catchin' bugs. And it seems like he might be done train-talking for a while, because he doesn't say a single thing.

I look a little to my left at Ricky, standing back with his arms crossed, and a little to my right at Paul, who's leaning forward into the countertop. They both look like they're waiting for something to happen next. But nothing happens. Not a thing. And the four of us just stand still together in this too-cold room, like we're lights hanging from the ceiling. That's what it feels like, like we are all hanging lights with those tiny chain pull cords, and we are waiting, waiting, still and dark.

And then, right at the very second when I think I might die of quiet, Paul stands up straight and says, “I believe Ivy was talking to you, Mr. Roman. We'd like some answers about her mama, if you please. Like, where is she?”

And I know this is inappropriate seven ways from Sunday, but I could kiss Paul Dobbs, right here and now, for this tiny gift of grace.

“Right. Yep. Diana Green,” answers Hallelujah Dave. His voice is different. Normal. Less low and preachery. Not like a train. Not through his teeth. And I'm pretty sure his Southern accent is gone.

He laughs sort of a sad, head-shakey, chuckley laugh. “Yeah, I know her,” he says straight to me. “She's one of the folks who's maddest at me, I guess.” He blinks his eyes about three times fast—looking either startled or nervous or both—and I wait for him to say something more.

But before he can, the pretty jailer walks over with her heels
click, click, click
ing on the hard floor, just the same way her fingernails clicked the keyboard. “Okay, folks. So that'll do it,” she says, like everything's fine and normal over here. “Let's wrap it up. I'm ready to take you back, get you your things, and get you out of here, Mr. Roman. The legal rep from, um . . .”—she looks down at her clipboard—“from the Ministry of Heavenly Love,” she says, “is gonna be here to get you in just a sec.” She motions to Davey Floyd to follow her, and he kind of coughs to clear his throat, and then turns, like he's gonna do what she says, like he's all finished with business here.

“Wait! Wait just one second! Where is my mama, mister? Don't you take one more step till you tell me where she is!” The words come out shaky, but loud and clear, because I did not run away to Florida and lie my way into a county jail just to hang out with a creepy preacher for a few minutes and leave with no information at all.

Davey turns back toward us and leans toward me. It is dead quiet except for the hum from the soda machine, and we hold our breaths. Even the policewoman seems to want to hear his answer, but we very nearly miss it, all of us, because Davey Floyd Roman's voice is suddenly nearly a whisper.

“She's in the hospital,” he says, and that's when I swing my hand out across the counter, to grab him or scratch him or maybe hit him. But I'm not tall enough and the counter's too wide, and Hallelujah Dave just turns and walks away.

Our policewoman, you can tell, doesn't have the faintest idea what to do next, seeing as how things have gotten a little bit out of hand. And I suddenly see how she's almost a teenager herself, all long hair and fingernails and just the big badge to indicate she's supposed to be in charge around here.