Tourists of the Apocalypse (7 page)

“His car is a health hazard,” Graham remarks, pointing his coffee cup down the road, where a blue cloud still lingers.

“He’s swapping out the motor,” I offer defensively. “He’s fixing it.”

“
Sling
,” T-Buck starts, but then stops. “Dickie is doing a motor swap?”

I nod.

“That I can’t wait to see,” he laughs before heading back to his half open garage door.

“When’s school start?” Graham queries, moving on quickly from car talk.

“A week or so,” I concede, worried this means no more job.

“You gonna keep after the yards or should I get somebody else?”

“I can manage the lawn and stuff, but any more big projects would be a problem,” I admit, recalling a possible coy pond was mentioned last week.

“That’s fair, but I’d have to pay you less. Say three a week.”

I nod. This will be a problem eventually, but for now it’s better than losing it all together.

“How’s Missy?” he asks, referring to my mother by name.

“She’s good.”

“Not working though?” he confirms, although it feels like more of a statement, than a question.

“No,” I admit and pause. “I’m not sure what to suggest to her.”

“She do laundry?”

“You mean like ours?”

He nods and sips his coffee. Graham doesn’t just make conversation like a normal person. If he is asking questions, it’s likely he already knows where the conversation is going.
Where is this going?

“Yeah.”

“Dry cleaner in town is doing ours,” he reveals, pointing to the left in the direction of town. “They aren’t doing such a great job and we were looking for an alternative.”

I didn’t realize this. I had not thought about who over there was washing their clothes. I just figured all the houses handled their own.
Do they do anything themselves?
This conversation reminds me of the one about his lawn mowing guys.

“You want my mom to wash your clothes?”

“I’d pay,” he nods, sipping. “Say three hundred a week. There are eight of us so it would keep her busy, but she wouldn’t have to leave the house to work.”

“I’m not sure our washer and dryer would be up to that,” I admit, recalling that I have to wait an hour after running the dryer to let it cool down.

“Not a problem. I’ll have the T-Buck pull the new ones out of his place and install them over at yours,” he assures me. “They are brand new, never used. I mean, if she was interested we can do that.”

“Probably, I’ll ask her.”

“Good, get back to me by tomorrow.”

With that he turns and walks across the lawn to Lance’s house. I watch him go, noting that he knocks on the door rather than letting himself in. When he goes to T-Bucks, he just goes in and hollers for them. Once alone on the street, my thoughts drift back to Jarrod.
What do the police want with him?
Another thought dances around my head. My pay loss to three a week, combined with the possibly that my mother might make three a week means we would actually make two hundred dollars more.

“
Sling Blade
was right about me lucking into it,” I smirk then cover my mouth with a hand. “I mean Dickey.”

…

The holidays go well for my mother and our little household. Her laundry business has added a food service component. Every Sunday afternoon she puts on a full sit down dinner for Graham and his crew. They supply a wonderful table that’s at least twelve feet long and the chairs to go with it. T-Buck dubs it the
Round Table
as if they were medieval knights and this was a castle in England.

I throw out the living room furniture to make room for it. The sofa sits on the lawn for a week before the city comes and hauls it away. In exchange for this once a week family style affair, Graham pays for all our groceries, plus another fifty bucks. My mother passes the extra fifty along to Jerry’s mom, Roberta, who comes over to help prepare and clean up. She’s a concrete factory widow now, her husband killed in an avalanche of ash last summer, and is excited to earn some extra money as well as socialize.

Roberta, who works at a flower shop in town, takes a liking to T-Buck right off, annoying Jerry to no end. I doubt anything will come of it, but this is a small town and there are no other interracial couples here. Come to think of it, there are darn few black folks. This tidbit had not occurred to me before now, but it is a fact. Other than Ernie and Ron, who both work at the plant, I can’t think of any actual residents who fall under any racial category other than white. This being Texas there are of course some Latinos, but more so in the adjacent county.
None of that here
, Jarrod used to remark.

There isn’t much lawn work in January, but I rake and cut the grass regardless. Graham pays me and never mentions the time of year. One January day I am startled when Dickey’s Mustang backs out of his mother’s garage. I had not seen it since the weekend he claimed to be doing an engine swap. It was generally assumed he had botched the job as he had taken to driving his mother’s station wagon.
When was that? Like three or four months ago?
Once in the street, he notices me and guns the engine, spinning the tires and leaving a trail of white smoke. Rocketing down to the dead end where I stand, he slides the car to a stop only a few feet from the curb.

There is no hood, a situation I assume has to do with the new engine and not the lack of the item in question. He revs the engine and grins through the windshield. The car sounds amazing, hitting on all cylinders and running smooth. The body is the same sun faded silver as before. There are still dents on the front and back from his poor parking skills. The driver’s rear fender has a deep groove in it running at least two feet. He kills the ignition and climbs out. Coming around to the front, he bows and waves a hand over the engine like the pretty girls on
The Price is Right
.

“Wha, wha wha Laa,” he announces.

“Nice, how’d you manage it?”

“I, of course, that,” he stutters and pauses. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Clearly you do. Sounds sweet.”

He draws out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, dragging a match down the fender to do so. I’m watching him bask in his glory, when I see T-Buck walking down the street from the direction of Dickey’s house. I get a nod when he sees me looking, but then he puts a finger to his lips indicating I should pretend not to notice.
So that’s how he did it.

“Wah, wah, want, to go for a spin?” he offers, leaning over the engine and pushing a blue plug wire back into the fancy divider.

I can’t now,” I beg off, not wanting to ride in a car driven by a guy with a closed head injury. “Maybe later.”

“Too, too, too,” he stutters. “Too bad, so sad.”

I nod as he slips back behind the wheel. When he pushes in the clutch, the car rolls forward nearly hitting me, before peeling backwards. I get a fake salute from Dickey, before he spins the car around and disappears from the street.
Probably going to cruise town like a fifties movie
.

Watching him go, it occurs to me the police never came by and asked about Jarrod. He had mentioned it to me last Fall before the Mustang disappeared into his garage.
I wonder why?
The cops must have caught up with him themselves. T-Buck reaches the sidewalk in front of his place and I pass by, heading home for lunch.

“Pretty nice of you,” I suggest.

“What?”

“Fixing Dickey’s car.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” he denies, but then winks.

“Right, but if you had, it would have been a nice gesture.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he declares, heading inside.

When the Banks go under, the factory closes, and half the people in town lose everything. Several of the houses on our street are foreclosed on. The Piggly Wiggly closes for a week, but then opens when some out of towner tosses enough money at it to keep it going. Without the pharmacy and groceries, it provides, people would be forced to drive over an hour to get supplies.

A bank named Lehman Brothers files for bankruptcy on my sixteenth birthday, creating a pall about town and pretty much everywhere but our little cul-de-sac. Graham and his people could care less about the ongoing financial meltdown; as a matter of fact, Cain contends it made them money. My special day is basically overwritten by the headlines.
Not like I am used to big parties anyway.

When I arrive home from school the day after my birthday, Graham and Izzy are sitting around the big table watching Fox News and eating what’s left of my birthday cake. A small flat screen television has been moved from the kitchen, where my mother watches it, to the table. A blonde woman on Fox is interviewing Nancy Pelosi, who is blaming everyone but herself. This is a strange occurrence as Graham generally only comes over on Sundays. Outside of an odd visit once or twice, I have never arrived home from school to find any of them here. When Graham notices me they are drawn from the flickering screen.

“Afternoon,” Graham greets me, sliding his feet off the chair next to his.

“What’s up?”

“Hiding,” Izzy grumbles, then puts her head down on the table and pretends to pound it up and down.

“From what?” I shrug, tossing my book bag down and pulling up a chair.

“Our group is working on a construction project West of here,” he starts, but then winds up watching Izzy. They share a laugh, then he finishes his thought. “Our group is working on a construction project West of here. We will be shuttling back and forth a bit.”

“What sort of construction?” I ask, picking at the left over cake with a plastic fork.

“Huge complex, Lance will be staying out there every other week. Probably T-Buc and the others will go out now and then.”

“And you?” I mumble through a mouth full of cake.

“I’ll be here.”

“You and Mr. Dibble,” I poke at him.

“Yes with Mr. Dibble,” he acknowledges, frowning at me.

“And me,” Izzy groans, before hoping up and stomping to the kitchen. “I can’t possibly be allowed to go anywhere.”

“What gives?”

“She and Lance had a huge fight,” he whispers. “She wanted to take her turn out at the construction site, but he won’t let her go.”

“So she’s over here at my place?”

“I got in between them and thought cake might calm her down.”

“Why don’t you go out to the site, or whatever it is?” I ask, licking my fork.

“Because the
Fail Safe
can’t go anywhere,” Izzy complains as she passes back through the dining area towards the front door. “I might as well have volunteered for
Fail Safe
since I’m basically a captive,” she growls, going out the front door and letting the screen bang behind her.

I hold out my hands and shrug, having no idea what has just occurred. Graham leans back in his chair and pulls the curtain forward just a bit. He wobbles there peeking out for a full minute then drops the curtain and returns his gaze to the table.

“Women,” he shrugs.

“What’s the
Fail Safe
?” I ask, sticking the fork in the top of the last hunk of cake and pushing myself back from the table.

A worried look passes over his face, but is quickly replaced by a smile. Watching him, I get the feeling the smile is well practiced.
What is he not telling me?

“It’s nothing, he assures me, dismissing my question with a wave. “She and I go back a long way.”

Pondering the situation, the only thing that seems plausible is that Graham may be Izzy’s fall back guy. Maybe when she and Lance fight, she runs back to Graham. All sorts of scenarios run through my mind, but none that seem to explain this odd conversation.
Although
,
I wouldn’t mind being her fall back guy.

“You into Izzy?” I suggest nodding in the direction of the door. “So what, join the club.”

“Oh boy,” he snorts. “Best not to open that can of worms.”

“Why not?”

He stares at me across the table then his posture softens. “You into Izzy?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows as he waits for an answer.

“Of course not,” I blurt out quickly, but to be honest I cannot imagine why any man would not be into her. My face feels flushed just thinking these words.
Ah, but were I a little older.

“Right, well don’t be,” he warns.

Before I can muster a reply, shouting can be heard from the street. Graham hops up and peeks out the window. Seeing something he doesn’t like, he moves to the door and heads out. Pulling the curtains back I glimpse Izzy and Lance shouting at each other as they stand in their own front lawn. Before Graham can get to them, Lance grabs her by the throat and stops her yelling. Her hands come up to her neck, but he backs her up slowly.
The look on his face is terrifying.

I flash back to a myriad of memories where Jarod beat up on my mother and feel sick. My stomach turns and cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. When Graham arrives Lance holds out a finger in his direction which stops him from interceding on Izzy’s behalf.
Why doesn’t he get Lance off her?
He certainly didn’t pause when Jarrod hit my Mom.

Determined to stop this, I head out to the porch, and arrive in time see Lance release her neck. Gasping, Izzy drops into the grass holding her throat. She snarls at Lance, who frowns and goes back in the house. Graham bends down to comfort Izzy, who buries her face into his shoulder and appears to cry. I freeze on the porch steps, not wanting to interrupt their private huddle.

“What’s going on?” my mother asks quietly from inside the door.

“Nothing,” I blurt, not wanting her to see any domestic violence. I have spent enough time trying to re-integrate her back into society after her brush with Jarrod. I don’t need her seeing this and regressing back to whispering everything.

“Sounded like something?”

“Nope, nothing to see here,” I remark, turning her by the arm in the direction of the dining area. “What should we do about this lonely piece of cake?”

…