Where Do You Stay (8 page)

The dumpster is already more than half full. Monte holds on to the edge and jumps so he can look inside. “Hey, there's a candlestick,” he says. “I'm going to get it for Mom.” He pulls himself up and over the edge. “Hey, Jerome, come on in here. There's all kinds of stuff.”

It's hard for me to get myself over the top. Monte tosses out a crate that I use as a step stool, and finally I am inside.

Cabinets, blankets, lamps, pipes, screens. Mr. Willie said the house was just a shell, but really it's full of stuff. I pick up a wooden box that's small and white with green leaves painted in the corners. Inside are a few plastic beads and one of those diary books. I open the cover, and in curly writing it says
Sharon XOXO Wilson
.

I shut the diary quickly. I shouldn't be reading somebody else's private business, I know that. Underneath the box are a whole lot of moldy-looking books. I pick one up.
Catechism for Children
, it says on the cover. I open it to the middle and a dried worm falls out. I drop the book.

Monte finds a pillowcase to put our stuff in. Then I start opening every box to see if maybe Bach and Brahms are somewhere. We have to hurry because when
the dumpster is full they'll drive it to the dump. All that dust gets me coughing.

“You boys better get out of there,” Tom says, throwing in a stack of screens. “You could get hurt.” He looks at Damon. “You want to start on the shack tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tom smiles. “No need for the ‘sir.' Oh, and you know that book I was telling you about? I'll bring it for you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Damon says.

Monte's eyes meet mine like
Was that really my brother thanking someone?

Then I almost tell Tom that Mr. Willie stays there, it's his home, not a shack, and after it's gone, he won't have any place to stay. But Mr. Willie might not want everybody knowing his business. Anyway, he hasn't been around in a little while. My stomach flips. Maybe Mr. Willie found some other place to stay, someplace clean and nice and far away from here.

I climb out of the dumpster first. Monte hands me the pillowcase and scrambles over the top. We carry it home together.

Damon eats like he's been starving, chicken, potatoes, green beans, pie. He's real talkative at dinner, telling everyone how Ginny and Tom asked him to help them for the rest of the summer, hauling, painting, whatever needs to be done. “They're in a hurry to get the school ready,” Damon says.

Aunt Geneva looks at Uncle James. “The boy got himself a job,” she says.

After the dishes are done, Monte asks if we want to play capture the flag, but Damon says he's outgrown that stuff.

“So what do you want to do?” Monte asks him.

Damon is standing at the door. He's wearing a jacket even though it's almost ninety degrees. “I'll be back,” he says.

We sit on the porch and watch Damon cross the street. He reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out a cigarette, and lights it.

Me and Monte head up to the carriage house and wait for Mr. Willie in the dark. The air is hot, but there's a breeze in the treetops and it smells like rain.

“What if Mr. Willie doesn't ever come back?” Monte asks.

“He'll be back,” I say, trying to sound sure. “If he left, he would've taken his stuff.”

“When you left your house, you didn't take all your stuff.”

“I couldn't.”

“Why not?”

“They had an estate sale.”

“What's that mean?”

“They sell everything.”

Monte's picking up rocks and sorting them into piles in the dark. “Even the piano?”

“Yup.”

Monte throws a rock far into the woods. We hear it fall through the leaves. “My mom had no right to do that,” Monte says. “Because it wasn't even hers in the first place.”

“She needed the money.”

“Still,” Monte says. “It wasn't hers.”

We are quiet then, feeling the wind pick up.

“Jerome?” It's Miss Ginny calling from the mansion. We can hear her voice but we can't see her face. “Is that you?”

“Yes, ma'am. Me and Monte.”

“Just checking,” she says. “I thought I heard something out in the woods. You boys better be getting home. There may be a storm coming.”

“Are you sleeping here tonight?” I ask.

“Just working late,” she says. “We'll be leaving in a few minutes. Now go on home before it starts raining.”

Me and Monte sit up in our room on the beds. The window's wide open and the wind is blowing. Lightning fills the room with the thunder close behind.

“I'm scared,” Monte says.

“Me and Mama used to watch the storms come,” I say. Mama always said she didn't want to live someplace that didn't have storms.
They make me feel alive
, she said,
like I'm a part of the world.
But even when things aren't alive, they're still a part of the world, like fossils and arrowheads and bones and dried worms.

“It could be a tornado,” Monte says.

“It's not that windy.”

Then the rain starts.

Me and Monte look at the library books. I show him the picture of Rosa Parks and tell him the story about the bus and how Ms. Parks didn't give up her seat.

“I bet she was scared,” he says.

We look at her face. “She doesn't look like she is,” I say.

“But sometimes you can be scared and not look scared.” He turns the page and looks hard at the picture of Ms. Parks getting fingerprinted. “That policeman was wrong,” he says.

“The whole country was wrong,” I say. I tell him all
about separate but equal and Martin Luther King and the bus boycott.

“How do you know everything, Jerome?”

“Not everything,” I say. “But my mother told me all about history because if you don't know where you came from, you don't know who you are.”

The thunder is loud, coming quick after the lightning. Monte is holding on to me for dear life.

“You want another piano lesson?” I ask.

Monte nods.

“Okay. How about we try a real song this time. It's called ‘Little Pony.'” I put my fingers on the paper keys and sing the tune as I play. Soon me and Monte are playing away on our paper keyboard and singing at the top of our lungs.

Aunt Geneva has a big envelope in her hands. “Mail came early,” she says, coming up the stairs. “And we got something from the lawyer.”

Maybe Daddy decided he wants me back after all. You never know. Aunt Geneva sits on the edge of my bed, slits the side of the envelope, unfolds the letter on top and reads it out loud.

The case is closed. The coffin was closed. No nails or anything, just the lid was down.

“What's that mean?” Monte asks.

Aunt Geneva has tears running down her cheeks. “I know Sy is happy,” she says, putting her arm around me.

How does Aunt Geneva know if Mama is happy or unhappy? Mama is part of the dirt now, so she can't feel anything. Aunt Geneva's arm is heavy on my shoulders, pushing me down into the mattress with the polka-dotted
sheets.
Concentrate on your breathing, Jerome. That's right, in and out.

Monte takes the envelope and reads the letter himself, whispering the words. “It doesn't say anything about adopting anyone,” he says.

“It's a process,” Aunt Geneva says.

I scoot away from Aunt Geneva and look out the window. Everything is clean after the storm. There are branches all over the ground, and the Jacksons' tree split right in half. The wind must have been stronger than we thought.

“Jerome wants his name to stay the same,” Monte says. “And he wants a piano because you sold his.”

Aunt Geneva's voice is so soft I can hardly hear it. “I know about the name, Monte.” She takes a deep breath. “When Sylvia passed, I called a moving company for an estimate to move that piano to our house.” She stands behind me, looking out over my head. “Two hundred fifty dollars.” Aunt Geneva steps toward the door. “That's more money than I earn in a month.” She clears her throat like she wants to say something else, then takes the papers and goes down the stairs.

Monte is standing next to me, so I can see the goose bumps on his skinny arms. Then he starts shivering like it's the middle of winter.

“Let's see if Mr. Willie is back yet,” I say, reaching for my T-shirt.

•

I knock on the door of the carriage house.

“He's still not home,” Monte says.

I push the door open and look around. The shirt is gone. The blanket is not on the mattress. Beethoven is not on the shelf. “He's gone,” I whisper, feeling the wind go right out of my lungs.

The shorter man takes the first swing at Mr. Willie's stone wall. Two more hits and the whole thing crumbles.

I close my eyes, but I can feel the dust between my teeth. One by one, Mr. Willie put the stones in place, smoothing the cement, fixing that wall like it used to be. We have to show them the beauty in these stones, he said, the way they fit one next to the other like a mosaic.

“Good thing Mr. Willie isn't in there,” Monte says.

“Be quiet,” I snap.

Damon is looking down, kicking at the dirt. I want to say
Are you happy now, the bum can't stay here anymore
, but he's shouting to Tom across the street. “Did you tell Mr. Willie?” he asks.

“What's that?” Tom asks, cupping his hand around his ear.

“Did you tell Mr. Willie?” Damon repeats, louder.

“Wilson?”

Damon nods.

“No, I haven't seen him lately.”

“Did you tell him that you're taking down the shack?”

“Tell Wilson? No, I didn't.”

•

It takes less than an hour to level the carriage house. Tom and Damon and the men fill the dumpster with the rubble. All that's left when they're done is a pile of stones and a couple of cinderblocks. Me and Monte and some neighborhood kids kick around in the dirt for a while, but there's nothing to find.

“Let's go home,” I say finally because my head is starting to ache.

“Where do you think Mr. Willie went?” Ashley asks.

Wesley shrugs. “Probably found some other shack to stay in.”

“He doesn't have any money,” Monte says. “How do you know?” I ask.

“Everyone pays him with sandwiches and stuff.”

“Not everyone. I bet he has money in the bank,” I say.

“If he had money, he would have got himself an apartment,” Ashley says.

“Maybe he liked this place better.” I kick at a stone. “Maybe he wanted to stay someplace familiar.”

Saying that makes me choke up. I want to go back to my old house, but there's someone else living there now. I could knock on the door and say
Mind if I look around? This used to be my house.
But a house is just a shell without the people in it. And Mama is gone.

In the afternoon, Aunt Geneva takes me and Monte school shopping. We go to three different stores, trying to find the lowest price for pants and shirts. “We can't have you two going to school in rags,” she says, holding up a red shirt with a collar. The smell in the store is making me feel bad. I keep sitting down every chance there is.

“What's the matter?” Aunt Geneva asks. “Not much of a shopper, are you.” She smiles. “Sylvia wasn't either. ‘Just pick me out something, Geneva,' she used to say.”

Finally Aunt Geneva settles on navy blue polo shirt and khaki pants for each of us.

“Now we're like twins,” Monte says.

“Except I'm twice your size, remember?”

“Twins aren't exactly alike,” Monte says.

When we get home, I have a stomachache. I lie down on the living room floor, and the room is spinning. I close my eyes. When I wake up, my throat is on fire. Aunt Geneva puts her hand on my forehead. “You sure do have a fever,” she says, leading me up to bed.

I lose track of days. It could be one night or two, I'm not sure. Aunt Geneva comes in and out, and Monte too. I hardly open
my eyes. Mama was sick for so long, sick from the chemicals they put into her veins.
Play me that song, Jerome, you know the duet we practiced for so long, the fast one by Grieg.
Over and over, one part, the other, together when she was strong enough to sit next to me on the bench. David and his sisters heard our music and came to the door to listen.

Aunt Geneva brings me juice. It hurts my throat to swallow, but I'm thirsty so I have to. Monte is lying still on the bed next to me, trying not to move.

“Jerome,” he whispers.

“Don't bother him,” Aunt Geneva says.

“Jerome. I have to tell you something. Mr. Willie came by. He was looking for you.”

My head aches like it never has before.

“Mr. Willie said he'd be back.”

“When?” I whisper.

“He didn't say.”

I take a small sip of juice. “Where's he staying now?” I whisper.

“He gave me this.”

Monte hands me a small piece of paper. I unfold it and hold it up to the light coming in from the window.

Underneath his name, he drew a staff with a few musical notes on it.

I shut my eyes again. Reading Road is a very long street. Me and Mama used to take the bus down Reading Road to the City Garden Center for our plants.
Besides the hostas, we could get some bleeding heart. What do you think, Jerome? We could get a few lilies too, for the back.

When I wake up, it's the middle of the night. My mouth is dry, so I take a tiny sip of water. It doesn't hurt, and I drink the whole cup. Mama had to drink eight cups of water a day.
That's too much, Jerome,
she said.
I can't drink that much.
I said
But the doctor says you have to, Mama. Please.

Monte has his leg over on my mattress. Damon's mattress is empty. I scoot to the edge of the bed and go over to the window. Something big and white is in the yard. I rub my eyes. Could it be a refrigerator?

I pull on my shirt and shorts, tiptoe down the stairs, and open the front door. The air is warm and humid. I walk barefoot across the wet grass.

He said it was a big white upright. That's what Mr. Willie said. He and Sharon used to play duets on that big white piano with Bach and Beethoven and Brahms looking on.

But how did it get into the middle of our front yard? If someone brought it in a truck, I would have heard it. I would see tire marks in the grass.

I look up at the mansion. It wouldn't be too hard to
roll a piano down this hill, one person to push and one to guide. It has wheels on the bottom.

I stand in front of the keys, set my hands in place, and play a scale. The D doesn't work and the piano is completely out of tune, but that's okay. I take a deep breath and start playing.