Where Do You Stay (5 page)

Aunt Melinda is visiting from New York. Aunt Geneva has us cleaning every corner of the house. I scrub the bathroom and Monte vacuums the rugs. Damon's supposed to be washing the floors, but Miss Geneva says he's sloshing water all over and just moving the dirt around. “Don't you know how to clean better than that?”

“First you tell me to clean and then you tell me I can't do it right.” He throws the sponge into the bucket.

“You better not talk to me like that,” Aunt Geneva says. She looks at me. “Now I know your mother never put up with that kind of talk.”

I swallow hard. Once Mama tried to help me tuck in my shirt and I said
Leave me alone
, and she said
Jerome, I never talk to you that way and I don't expect you to talk to me that way either.

“Get on your knees and finish this f loor,” Aunt Geneva says to Damon.

He's breathing deep, just standing there. I want to say
You better get on all fours and at least look like you're cleaning.

“You heard me,” Aunt Geneva says.

Damon kicks the side of the bucket, spilling out
some water, then runs down the stairs. We hear the front door slam shut.

Monte is vacuuming the rugs over and over even though they're already clean. I know he's afraid to stop, afraid of how mad Aunt Geneva might be. She turns the volume on the radio up real high, then takes the sponge out of the bucket, squeezes out the excess water, and starts cleaning the floor herself and mumbling all kinds of things about what she's going to do when Damon comes back.

“You never talked back like that, did you, Jerome.” Aunt Geneva is emptying the bucket into the toilet. “And to think that she raised you by herself.” Aunt Geneva shakes her head.

I'm scrubbing the bathtub and the tile around the faucets. I told Mama I wasn't going to scrub the toilet because it was nasty, and she said
Are you going to leave the nasty work for your mother? Is that what you have in mind?

Aunt Melinda has a bag of clothes her son outgrew. She dumps them on the clean rug and says, “Now you boys see what fits who. No sense buying new clothes when you'll outgrow them before the year is out.”

I want to go see Mr. Willie, but Aunt Melinda says, “Go on, try them on.”

“Now?” Monte asks.

“No time like the present,” Aunt Geneva says, handing him a small button-down shirt.

“That's a size seven,” Aunt Melinda says.

“Monte's not much bigger than a seven-year-old,” Aunt Geneva says, and sure enough, it fits just right.

“Where is Damon?” Aunt Melinda asks.

“He stomped off somewhere,” Aunt Geneva says.

Aunt Melinda shakes her head. “It's hard to raise boys right anymore.”

“Sy didn't seem to have a problem.” Aunt Geneva puts her arm around me.

Sy. Most people called Mama Sylvia, all except for her two older sisters. They said when Mama was a baby she couldn't pronounce Sylvia, so they shortened it to Sy, even though that sounds more like a man's name to me. My daddy called her Sy too, that's what I remember.
Sy, sit over here by me. Okay, Sy?

Aunt Melinda hands me a flannel shirt. It's so hot but I still have to try it on. “Too tight under the arms,” she says. She hands me a T-shirt that says Broncos on the front. I pull it over my head and she straightens out the front. “Not bad,” she says.

“Now can I go out?” I ask.

“It's time for lunch,” Aunt Geneva says.

After Aunt Melinda leaves to visit a friend, we have to clean up. Then Uncle James comes home and we have an early supper. I'm so tired of being in this house, but it doesn't seem like I'll have any chance to find Mr. Willie.

“Where's Damon?” Uncle James asks.

“We had a little altercation,” Aunt Geneva says.

“Is that right?” Uncle James looks out the window. “He may have another not-so-little altercation when he gets home.”

After dinner, Uncle James takes a quick nap before getting up for his shift. By the time me and Monte do the dishes, the sun is almost set. There's a bit of leftover chili in the pot.

“Can I take it to Mr. Willie?” I ask.

Aunt Geneva considers. I know she's thinking
What about saving some for Damon
, but then she puts all of it into an empty cottage-cheese container and says, “Sure, Mr. Willie could use some meat on his bones.”

I knock on the door, but Mr. Willie isn't home. I go inside and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Everything is in order, the way Mr. Willie likes it, his mattress with the sheet pulled smooth, his shirt on a hook, the shelf with Mr. Beethoven. Something rustles in the corner. A squirrel maybe, or a mouse. Damon says this place is haunted, but Mama said there's no such thing as ghosts.
What about when someone dies?
I asked.
Then they are part of the soil
, she said.
What about fossils,
I said.
They come from dead things and they aren't part of the soil.
Mama said
You have a point there, Jerome.
Maybe someday Mama's bones will be fossils so I can keep them forever.

I leave the chili in the middle of the table for Mr. Willie.

When we go to bed, Damon is still not home.

“What if he never comes back?” Monte asks.

“He'll be back soon as he's hungry,” I say.

Monte's sniffling and rubbing his eyes.

“Stop it,” I say. “He'll be back.”

“He'll get hisself into trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“He always gets into some kind of trouble.” Monte's trying not to cry. “Daddy's going to beat him when he gets home.” Monte has his face in the pillow, muffling his voice. “I told him not to get into trouble all the time. I told him.”

Our room is stuffy and my chest feels tight. I go over to the window and raise it as far as it will go. There's a slight breeze blowing like it might finally rain. But it could just as well pass us by. I move my fingers on the windowsill, playing an old tune that I know from I don't know where.

Monte is there, his hand on my shoulder, looking out the window. “Where do you think Damon went?”

“Probably just hanging around somewhere.”

“By hisself?”

“With his friends.”

“He doesn't have any friends,” Monte says. “Nobody much gets along with Damon.”

“You do,” I say. “And the kids in the neighborhood.”

“Not really.” His voice is squeaky. “Not anymore. Ashley and Marc told me they're not hanging with Damon anymore. Wesley either.”

“Why not?”

Monte's rubbing his eyes and I think we better talk about something else.

“It might rain,” I say.

“You think it stays dry in Mr. Willie's when it rains?” Monte asks.

“Mostly.”

“You think Mr. Willie likes staying over there?” Monte points up the hill.

“I don't know.”

“Do you like staying here?” Monte asks.

“Like it or not, doesn't matter.” I liked it in my old house with our piano in the living room and David across the street.

“But do you?” His grip is tight on my shoulder, his fingernails digging into my skin. I know what he wants me to say, but I'm not ready to say it.

“You're hurting me,” I say, twisting away.

He drops his hand.

Monte crawls onto my bed and falls asleep. Hard to believe he's nine, the way he's afraid of everything.

I'm seeing all those polka dots like eyeballs again. I close my eyes for what seems like hours, but sleep still won't come. Why was it my mama who got cancer? Why wasn't it somebody who smoked cigarettes all day long, somebody who deserved it? Mama said
Nobody deserves illness, Jerome, nobody.
Even if they smoke?
Even then.
My chest is feeling tight every day now, like the air's too thick.
Concentrate on each breath
, Mama said,
one, two, three, like Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the first movement, slow and steady.
I need a piano so bad. I need to move my fingers on the keys and hear the sound and know it's me that's making that music, nobody else but me.

I put on my shorts and shoes, and go down the steps to the basement. There must be something down here I can use to take out more of those glass blocks. Uncle James has his tools hanging neatly on a pegboard. There's a whole set of screwdrivers. I take the biggest one off the board and stick it into my back pocket. Then I go quietly up the stairs and out the front door. If I can just pry out two more glass blocks then I can fit inside. I bet Sharon's piano is back there somewhere. I bet it is.

Damon is crouched under a street lamp smoking. His back is to me, but I know it's him by the hunched shoulders and the long arms. I duck behind the garbage cans and watch. Another kid walks up and they whisper together. It's a boy even taller than he is who I've never seen before. Damon helps him light a cigarette. I see the orange light and then white smoke. They are standing close, whispering I think, and reaching in their pockets. After a minute, Damon heads one way down the street and his friend goes the other.

With the screwdriver, I can get one more glass block out, but the rest are rock solid, and the hole isn't near big enough for me to fit through. I try to put the tip of the screwdriver into the small crack between the blocks, but when I push down, the metal bends. I try to bend it back and the screwdriver turns in my grip. Uncle James will be so mad. He's particular about his tools.

A car moves slowly down the street. Maybe somebody heard me and called the police. Breaking and entering.
Jerome stays far from trouble
, Mama told Aunt Geneva. She rubbed my head with her dry palms.
Yes, I'm lucky with that boy, I sure am
. Aunt Geneva said
It's not all luck
. And Mama said
There's luck in it too, you know
.

I hear footsteps behind me and whip my head around. There is Monte, in his pajamas and bare feet. “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

He puts his hands up like he's protecting his face or
something. “You weren't in the bed.” Monte looks down. “I was scared in the room by myself.”

I want to tell him not to act like a baby, but I stop myself when I see he's shaking like a leaf.

“What are you doing?” he asks, coming closer.

“Nothing much.”

Monte sees the three glass blocks on the ground and the hole where they were. “You trying to get in there?”

“Yup.”

“What for?”

“I'm looking for a piano.”

“In this old house?”

“Mr. Willie said they used to have a white piano.”

Monte looks at the hole and the glass blocks on the ground. “I can fit through,” he whispers.

I look at his skinny shoulders. I bet he really can get himself through. He sticks his head into the hole, wriggles his shoulders, then scoots so only his legs are out. “It's dark in here, Jerome.”

“Wait a minute and let your eyes get used to it,” I whisper.

He stays like that, half in and half out. Then he starts wriggling his hips through the opening until finally he is inside.

“You see anything?”

He doesn't answer.

I cup my hands around my eyes and peek in. “What do you see?” I ask.

“Boxes. Lots of boxes and stuff.”

“Look for a piano.”

“I'm looking. But I don't see one.”

“You have to walk around. It's big. And white.”

“I know. I still don't see one.”

Monte moves forward, then stops. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That noise.”

“There's no noise. Keep looking.”

“There's no piano that I can see.”

“How about in the basement?”

“I'm scared to go down there by myself,” Monte says.

“Hurry. Just take a quick look.”

Monte moves forward, then turns back. “I'm scared, Jerome. Can I come out now?” He's wriggling his way out just as fast as he can. His pajama shirt gets caught on something and tears, but he's in such a hurry he doesn't care. Finally he's next to me, holding onto my arm, trembling. “It's haunted in there,” he says. “It's a haunted house.”

“There's no such thing as a haunted house,” I say, taking his hand.

“Damon says there is.”

I grab his arm. “There isn't. My mother said.”

Monte looks into the dark hole where the glass block was. “Later I'll look in the basement. I promise.”

I put the glass block back in place. “Come on,” I say to Monte, pulling him down the hill.

•

I take the screwdriver back to the basement and hang it on the pegboard. Maybe Uncle James won't notice that it's bent. In the corner is a crowbar. Next time I'll use that and make the hole big enough so I can fit inside and find that piano myself. Then I'll start fixing up the front room, cleaning out the spiderwebs and washing down the walls.
The floor is the last part to clean,
Mama said.
Work your way toward the door or you'll clean yourself into a corner, Jerome.

Mr. Willie has a lot of work to do before fall. He's painting Mr. Loman's porch and fixing Ms. Alonzo's windows. Then there's lots of raking and sweeping and planting bulbs all over the place. I take care of our garden, and Monte follows me everywhere, chattering the whole time.

“How come you plant the cucumbers in little hills? How come the beans are all bent over like that? Who taught you how to play the piano? When can you start teaching me?”

Sometimes I stop answering and he says, “Jerome, are you mad?”

Damon's been going out almost every night after dinner. Sometimes he comes home late at night and sometimes he doesn't come home at all. Uncle James took off his belt the other day, getting ready to whip that boy, but Aunt Geneva said, “A boy that big is too old to be whipped.” Uncle James said, “Then he's too old to be staying under this roof,” and Aunt Geneva got all teary-eyed. She used to ask did we know where he was, but since we never did, she stopped asking. Sometimes I see her gazing up the street and I see sadness in her eyes like how Mama looked when Daddy stopped
coming around. First he had to go out of town on business for a day or two, then a whole week. I always pushed a chair to the window so I could wait for his car to turn the corner.
It's late, Jerome, time for bed. No, I'm waiting for my daddy. Jerome, go to bed now. Will Daddy be here in the morning?
Mama sat at the piano and played the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata over and over into the night.

I go out early one morning before Monte wakes up and before the sun and head up the hill. The skinny lady is in front of the carriage house, poking around.

“You're up bright and early today,” she says. “Looks like a nice garden you got there.”

“Thank you.”

She reaches into her bag. “I brought these for you,” she says, handing me a plastic bag of black seeds.

“I already got most of the planting done,” I say.

“These are flower seeds. Four o'clocks. They grow pretty much anywhere.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Ginny,” she says. “Call me Ginny. And this is Tom.” She points to the silver-haired man. He's fixing the front door hinges.

Mr. Willie comes up the street and sees us.

“You're early today,” he says to me.

“I'm Ginny,” the lady says. “Ginny Bossard and Tom Owens.” She reaches out to shake Mr. Willie's hand. “Your new neighbors.”

I see Mr. Willie flinch. “Neighbors?”

“We signed yesterday,” Ginny says. “Hey, Tom, come over here and meet our new neighbors. What did you say your name was?”

“Wilson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson.”

“Wilson's the first name,” Mr. Willie says.

Tom sets the drill down and stands by Ginny.

“I was just telling Wilson here and his friend—” Ginny looks at me.

“Jerome.”

“—Jerome, that it's official.”

“When are you moving in?” Mr. Willie asks.

“Moving in? Oh, we're not going to actually live here.” She takes Tom's hand. “We're starting a school in September.”

My breathing feels tight. Me and Mr. Willie need three rooms, one bedroom for each of us and a big room for our concerts.

“A school in this old house?” Mr. Willie asks.

“It's perfect,” Ginny says. “We'll have the smaller children on the first floor, the bigger ones upstairs. We'll cook wholesome food in the kitchen.” Her face moves as she talks and her hands too. “We got a government grant to get started.”

“What grade is it up to?” I ask.

“We'll start with kindergarten and first, then add one more grade each year.”

“I see,” Mr. Willie says.

Ginny is waiting for him to say something else, but Mr. Willie is quiet. Tom goes back to his drilling. She takes some boxes out of the van. “We are in a real hurry to get at least the front room ready for the beginning of the school year,” she says.

“What about the rest of the house?” I ask.

“That may have to wait,” Ginny says. “How long?”

“I'm not really sure,” Ginny says. “First we'll have to see how it goes.” That's what the doctor said.
See how it goes. You'll lose your hair after the second treatment.
For sure?
Nothing's ever sure, Mrs. Mason. That's what I've seen happen.

Mr. Willie is starting across the street. “Where are you going?” I ask.

“I have some business to attend to,” he says, heading toward the bus stop.

“Can I go with you?” I ask.

“Not today,” Mr. Willie says firmly. He puts his hands in his pockets and turns the corner.

Ginny asks if I'd like to help.

“With what?” I ask.

“I was thinking you could help with the sanding,” she says, “if it's okay with your mom.”

I almost tell her that I can't ask my mom because she passed. Then Ginny will look at me like my teachers
at school, whispering behind the door until I come close, saying
Poor boy, what's he going to do now?

I want so bad to go into the old mansion, to search for the piano that must be there in one of those back rooms. “I'll ask,” I say, running down the hill to Aunt Geneva's.

“If they're making a school out of that mess, I'm all for it,” Aunt Geneva says. “Just be careful, Jerome. I don't want you using any power tools, saws, nothing like that. You hear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”