The Waking (41 page)

When we finish, we sip some cider, which burns a little going down, on two rockers out on the front porch.

“
How long have you been a deputy?” I ask.

“
Seven years now. Started on patrol, worked my way up.”

I blink. He has to be pushing sixty, and he’s only been a deputy for seven years? That’s a long time to wait for a promotion.

“
The stories I can tell you.” He smiles. “But you don’t want to hear none of that noise.”

“
Got nothing better to do.”

“
True.” He rocks some more. “Let’s see … we found an alligator in a ditch off four-thirty-one last month.”

“
An alligator?” And wasn’t I walking along there today?

Right.

“
Oh, it was only a little alligator. You couldn’t have made but one boot from it, I ‘spect. And, oh, over in Opelika, a state trooper pulled some Texas folks over, you know, routine stop and all that. Didn’t turn out to be routine at all. That trooper found twenty-four pounds of pure heroin worth over four million dollars. Largest bust in state history, right over near Opelika.”

“
Twenty-four pounds?”

“
Yeah.”

That’s a lifetime’s supply of bundles, Manny.

And some of that might have made it to the Hill, but how’d they arrive at it being worth four million dollars? Cut even at just one percent, it would barely be worth a million on the street.

Cops and their inflated numbers.

“
Let’s see … We found about four hundred marijuana plants in a field last month, too. The owner didn’t know nothin’ about it. Guess someone just planted it there without his knowin’.” He smiles. “Now how you
not
gonna know if there are four hundred marijuana plants growin’ on your land? Some folks are just clueless, I guess.” He shakes his head. “I’m makin’ it sound like Lee County is just full of drugs, ain’t I? We’re probably no different than anywhere else.” He turns to me. “Got any plans for July fourth?”

“
No.”

He sighs. “This will be the last time I get to do a sobriety checkpoint. I’m retirin’ next fall. Yeah, checkin’ folks for drinkin’ and drivin’ is kind of like sittin’ on my rocker here, only I’m lookin’ for folks off
their
rockers.”

And after that, we just sit and rock. We don’t speak at all, though Hughes sometimes says, “Uh-yep” to himself or tells me what insect or bird is making that particular sound in the darkness. At first, it’s kind of strange, but then it feels natural.

The rocking and the cider, though, are putting me to sleep. I need to talk to stay awake. “I noticed your newspapers.”

“
Uh-yep.”

“
They’re all from seventy-four.”

“
Uh-yep.”

“
Any reason?”

He stops rocking. “Yep. Vietnam.”

“
You were there?”

“
Me? No. My boy was. Still there, too.”

I shouldn’t have asked.

“
Army gave me his dog tags though.” He pulls out a chain around his neck. “Didn’t much like readin’ the paper after that. It’s funny that folks around here read a Georgia paper to get any news about Lee County, Alabama.” He sighs. “My boy was a light-skinned boy like you. I tried to keep him out of the draft and all, but I didn’t have no pull. I was only on patrol then. And his mama wouldn’t have it anyway. She said it’d make him a man, help him make his own way.” He rocks some more. “She passed three summers ago. We just had the one boy.”

“
I’m sorry.”

“
For what?”

“
For asking.”

“
Don’t worry about it.”

“
What was his name?”

“
Bobby. Bobby Hughes, Junior. We just called him Junior.” He stops rocking. “You got to be tired,” he says. “Let’s get you fixed up for bed.”

We climb the stairs and enter a small room where Hughes unfolds some sheets lying on a chair. We make the bed “army style,” tightening the sheets until even that little bug would bounce off of it.

“
I’ll be serving breakfast at seven sharp. Think you’ll be up by then?”

“
Sure.”

“
And we’ll get you a bath then, too. You like pretzel pancakes?”

“
What?”

“
Pretzel pancakes. You never heard of them? You’ll love them. Guaranteed to wake you up. Good night, son.” Hughes turns and, hovering in the doorway, says, “Sorry about callin’ you ‘son,’ all night. You see, when I came up to you in that clearin’, for a moment I thought you were … Well, who knows what I thought. I’m gettin’ old is all. Good night.”

Whoa. I wonder if ghosts can travel ten thousand miles.

I bet they can. Maybe you’re even in Junior’s room.

This is spooky.

And you can thank those old ladies, huh? I’ll bet they even knew about his son, huh?

I strip to my draws, squirm into bed, and smell mothballs, but at least I’m dry. It’s nice to be dry, so nice to be …

I wake up a few hours later in a cold sweat. It’s not like withdrawal, but in a way it is. Maybe I ate something that didn’t agree with me. The lemonade? Maybe the cider? I sit up, and I feel dizzy. Am I sick? I can’t be sick. I have so much further to go. I lie on my side, hoping my stomach will stop flip-flopping.

But it won’t keep still.

I get out of bed and walk in a crouch, practically doubling over by the time I find the bathroom, and when I sit … Let’s just say that putting uncooked greens and red meat on top of sweets doused with old lemonade and hard cider has a cleansing effect.

I hear some shuffling feet outside the door. “Whew, boy. What you got cookin’ in there?”

I can’t say it was his cooking. “I drank some water from a stream earlier today. Guess I shouldn’t have.”

“
Got you a gut ache, huh?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Well, please keep on flushin’, and I’ll light some matches.”

Completely empty half an hour later, I slip out of the bathroom and see Hughes at the kitchen table playing solitaire. “All better?”

“
I think so.” I wonder if he plays solitaire every night. That’s so sad. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

“
I know I didn’t.” He collects the cards into a pile as a gust of wind slams against the house. “This storm ain’t nothin’. When I was, oh, what was I? Think I was five years old. It was back in fifty-three.” He looks at the chair at the other end of the table. “You could be sittin’ down. Unless you’re tired of sittin’.”

“
Oh, no.” I sit.

“
My daddy and mama and I were jes’ sittin’ out on that porch, like we was doin’ tonight, and it was muggy and rainin’ kind of like it was tonight, too.” He pauses. “Don’t mean to scare you, but as far as we’ve come with predicting the weather, there ain’t much you can do when you got a tornado bearin’ down on you.”

“
A tornado?” I thought they only hit in Kansas.

“
Two hundred and six miles an hour they say it was blowin’, and it was two miles wide.”

“
Whoa.”

“
We hid out in the cellar for a spell, and when we come back up, we looked around, and everythin’ looked okay. We got spared for some reason while folks from Opelika on over to Columbus got tore up pretty bad.” He wraps a rubber band around the cards. “I decided that day that this house was blessed, and I decided never to leave it. Gonna spend my retirement right here. Oh, I’ll do some fishin’ probably, watch some Auburn football, maybe even take up golf. Lots of golf courses around here. You ever play?”

“
No.”

“
Funny sport. Lots of walkin’ and cussin’, and you got to pay for the privilege. I could do that for free anywhere.”

I laugh.

“
And the folks out on those courses are so serious about it, like the world will end if they miss a little putt. Only time I’m serious is when I’m fishin’. I go up to Lee County State Lake and catch me some crappie, bring ‘em home, and fry ‘em up in a pan. If you were stayin’ the week, I’d take you up there myself on Saturday.” He squints. “You ain’t stayin’ that long, are you?”

“
No.”

“
Didn’t think so.” He looks down at his hands. “You better get some shuteye.”

He wants me to stay, and in a way, I want to stay. Our conversations have been so ordinary. Normal. Like a father and son talking. “Thanks for, um, making sure I was all right.”

He looks up. “Sure I can’t get you anything? Pepto-Bismol maybe?”

“
I’m feeling much better, thanks. See you in the morning.”

“
Good night.”

I fall into bed and immediately start dreaming …

I’m walking up to a house, a fine, big house with rusty red bricks and black shutters. I look down at my feet. I’m wearing a pair of black Converse All-Stars, and my feet are so small. I must be a kid again. I stand on a bricked sidewalk splitting a green lawn and look at all the windows in the house. Though I’ve never seen this house, I’m not afraid. I walk up some steps to the door and push the doorbell. A few moments later, a white man comes to the door.

“
Daddy?”

The man looks past me. “Who’s there?”

“
It’s me, Daddy.”

He shuts the door.

I ring the bell again and again, but he doesn’t come to the door. I want to cry and even start to cry as I walk directly across the lawn to the street. An old black man waves at me from his porch where he rocks on a rocker. I smile, dry my tears, and wave—

“
It’s oh-seven-hundred, boy! Time to get up!”

I wipe the crust from my eyes and squint at the sun streaming in under the shade. “I’m up!”

“
Drew you a bath! Better get in ‘fore it gets too cold!”

I collect a new set of draws, the bar of soap, the hand towel, the toothbrush, and the toothpaste from my backpack before I realize how
perfect
those ladies were. I rummage around in the backpack for anything else I might need and find two quarters. Fifty cents. What can I possibly do—

I’m going to make a phone call. I check my jeans for Rose’s calling card but can’t find it. I must have lost it on the train or didn’t transfer it from my old pants. I clink the coins together. I’ll have to call collect, but who will I call?

“
Boy, it’s gettin’ cold!”

I drop the coins into a boot then head down to the bathroom, the unmistakable scent of pancakes in the air.

“
How many pancakes you want?” Hughes yells.

“
As many as you can make!” I call out as I step into the tub. The water is just right, and I scrub off three days’ worth of Mississippi and Alabama mud and rain from my body. And while I’m scrubbing, I look for the stamp on my leg, but it’s gone, only a little patch of tender new skin where it used to be. Except for one cut on my right index finger that doesn’t seem to want to close, the rest of my cuts have healed into scabs. I’m almost whole again.

After my bath, I dress upstairs and pack my backpack before returning to the kitchen.

“
You look like a new man,” Hughes says.

“
I feel like a new man.”

We don’t say much during breakfast, but it’s a comfortable silence except for the crunch of the pretzels in the pancakes. Dark brown pancakes with little light-brown pretzels covered with salt. Add some syrup and some real butter, and I’m eating a real, home-cooked breakfast.

“
Don’t you have to work today?” I ask after finishing my stack.

“
I called in sick.” He winks. “Summer cold, you know.”

“
I hear you.”

“
Sleep okay?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Good.” He stands and puts his plate in the sink.

“
Want me to do the dishes?”

“
Nah. I can do them later.” He grabs my backpack and a set of keys from a little peg on the wall near a side door. “We best be goin’.”

“
Where are we going?”

“
Thought I’d drop you off at the state line. I’d take you further, but if I cross state lines and folks found out, I couldn’t do any fishin’ during my retirement.”

“
Thank you.”

I stand and put my plate and glass in the sink as Hughes goes outside. I walk through the front room to get my boots and see that Hughes has cleaned them off, even added a little polish so they almost match. As I’m lacing them up, I see the stack of newspapers has vanished. I guess he doesn’t want his reminders anymore.

Either that or his boy finally came home.

No.

The human mind is tricky that way. Think they call it transference.

Maybe.

I hear the rumble of an engine just outside the front door and go out on the porch. Parked next to Hughes’s police car is a truck’s truck, a jet black Ford F-150 with running boards and an eight-foot bed. “Come on!” he calls.