Close to Famous (6 page)

He nodded his head. “Foster is a very interesting name. I bet there's a story behind your name.”

It was Mama's maiden name. There's a big story about my middle name, but I'm keeping that to myself.

“Miss Charleena didn't have to change her name when she went to Hollywood. Some actors do.” He pushed past me. “Is it okay if I go first? Miss Charleena gets nervous if I don't come back right away.”

I stepped aside as Macon checked the bill, signed his name, took the grocery bag, and said, “We'll talk again, Foster.” He dashed out the door.

Jarvis rang up my order. “The lady he works for, Charleena Hendley, is our local entertainment.”

“
The
Charleena Hendley?” It was Mama.

“The one and only,” Jarvis said.

“A famous actress lives here instead of Hollywood?” I couldn't quite believe it.

“She lives here, but she brought some of Hollywood with her.”

“How can you not know Charleena Hendley?” Mama asked me.

I shrugged. There are lots of holes in my education.

“I love her movies. I read she left acting and moved back home after her rotten husband dumped her for that supermodel, Bliss. I didn't know home was
here.
” Mama drove past the shut-down factory. “What that woman's got inside is amazing.”

That was some compliment coming from Mama, who had more inside than most people dreamed about. It was in her like special cream filling.

Once, back in Memphis, she let it all out.

She was onstage waiting for Huck. It was a rehearsal; I was the only one in the audience. It started with a mic check. Mama sang into the mic and something magical happened. She was singing so good, the piano player sat down and started following her; the bass player did, too. The drummer ran out onstage and pounded out the beat. Mama threw back her head and sang it strong and true about a woman who'd been done wrong by a man, but she was going to be all right.
Oh yeah. She was going to be all right.

I stood up and applauded, and so did the other musicians. I was shouting, “Encore, encore!” Mama laughed and took a bow, but then Huck marched out onstage in his tight, white Elvis outfit, shouting, “What's going on here?” They went into “Love Me Tender,” a big Elvis hit. I watched Mama step back into the shadows, letting all the light beam on Huck.

But nobody forgot Mama's song.

I wish somebody could take an X-ray of my heart to show me all I've got inside.

Mama says it's more than I can imagine, which is why my middle name is Akilah. It's an African name that means “intelligent one who reasons.” I've tried to tell Mama that with my grades, I don't deserve that name, but she just says, “I know what's in you, Foster Akilah McFee.”

My daddy wrote that to me in a letter when he was in Iraq. Not that I could read it—Mama read it to me—but I have the part memorized where he said,
You live right, now. You work hard. Don't waste your talents. I know what you've got inside.

I haven't asked Mama to read me any of Daddy's letters for a long time. She started crying bad the last time she did. She got as far as, “Dear Foster, today we played baseball and I got a home run. It's strange playing baseball with fighter planes zooming overhead.” Mama lost it right there.

I used to take out Daddy's letters, unfold them, and let my fingers go back and forth over the lines. Daddy wasn't rich when it came to money, but he was rich in his heart. I think when it came to his heart, Daddy was an official millionaire. Mostly, when I remember him, I remember him happy.

Mama called Mr. Purvis back twice, but he said no one had seen the pillowcase.

I guess that part of Daddy is lost to me now.

I DON'T KNOW how Macon found me. I'd just washed my hair and wrapped a towel around my head, and there he was at the door wearing jeans, sneakers, and a blue T-shirt that had this across the chest:

 

I went outside. He stared at me. “You look different without your hair.”

“It's not like I lost it, it's under the towel.” Now I felt weird with a towel wrapped around my head.

He smiled. “You like my shirt?”

“What's it mean?”

“
Docs
is short for
documentaries
. Docs rock.”

Okay.

“Do you know why documentaries rock?” he asked. “They're about issues. You can't be a documentary filmmaker unless you have issues.”

“What kind of issues have you got?”

Macon looked down. “Well, the thing is, I need to find some issues. I need to push the envelope and get angry about things and turn that anger into a film.” He sat on a log and looked around. This boy didn't seem too angry.

“I want to know if you want to be in my movie.”

I'd never had anyone ask me this. “Do I have to have issues? ”

“It would help.”

“I'm not sure I've got good ones.”

“What makes you angry, Foster?”

“Teachers who say you're not trying when you are. People who pretend to be good and turn out to be bad.”

“I don't like those things either.” Macon leaned forward like he wanted to punch something. “You know what makes me mad? When you've got a big dream and nobody takes you seriously.”

“I hate that, too.”

Macon took a deep breath. “Culpepper's got issues. We've got this new prison that was supposed to come in and help the town with jobs and support local businesses, but it hasn't done much of that; mostly it's made people nervous and angry. It's changed the way people feel about the town. We used to be the place where Colonel Culpepper's Jams and Jellies were made, and they were great, Foster. But now the factory is gone, so many people got laid off, and the prison didn't hire many locals. It's hard to get work here. It's hard to see things changing! That's what I want to make my movie about.”

“That sounds important.”

He sighed sadly. “It is. But nobody will talk to me about it.”

“I'm talking to you.”

“I
mean
adults.” Macon stood, which didn't make much difference. “And there's another thing. I don't go telling everybody this, Foster. I haven't saved enough to buy a movie camera yet and my mom won't let me use her camera phone, so even if someone would talk to me, I couldn't film it!” He put his head in his hands.

“How do you make a movie without a camera?” I was just curious, but Macon's cheeks got red.

I started drying my hair. “Like what?”

“You don't seem very interested in this! Here I am talking to you about my big dream and you're drying your hair!”

“It's wet!”

“I'll come back when it's dry!” Macon stormed off. Elvis the cat slithered toward me. From inside the Bullet, I heard Mama's cell phone ring.

“Foster,” Mama shouted, “get that, will you?”

I ran inside and found the phone. “Hello?”

There was a pause on the other end, then I heard the low, familiar voice. “Well, little Foster, this here's your old friend
Elvis
. I got something I think you want.”

I FROZE AT the sound of Huck's voice.

“Foster, now I've been trying to find you and your mama.”

I didn't say a word.

“Girl, are you there?”

I held my breath so he couldn't hear my breathing. I was sure he could hear my heart pounding.

“I know you're there, sugar. You just listen to old Elvis. You listen to the King.”

I heard clanging on the line.

“Know what that is?”

I pictured him swaggering around in his Elvis getup. I didn't say a word.

“Let's see if you can guess. It's a pillowcase with the words
Las Vegas
on the front, and inside—”

“That's mine!” I hollered.

He chuckled. “Let's see here—there's some kinda little flag and some letters and—”

Mama walked in. “Who are you talking to?”

“Shhhhhhhh!”
I covered the phone.

“
Who is it?
”

“Huck,” I whispered. “He's got the pillowcase.”

Mama froze.

“You put your mama on the phone and we can work this out.”

I wanted Daddy's pillowcase bad, but not as bad as I wanted never to see Huck again.

“Give me the phone, Baby.”

I looked up at Lester's daddy's stupid, dead fish and realized it was dead because it got fooled by a worm on a hook. I'm not getting fooled.

“Give me the phone, Baby.”

I backed away from her. “No ma'am.”

“
Foster!
”

“Now,” Huck was saying, “your mama and I can work this all out. You know us—we fight one minute and make up the next. It's no big deal.”

I flipped the phone shut and said close to the hardest thing I've ever said in my life. “I don't need the pillowcase, Mama.”

The phone started ringing again.

I turned it off. Mama sat down on the couch and touched her hurt eye. “What did he say?”

“He said you could work it out.”

She shook her head. “How did he get the pillowcase?”

“I didn't ask.”

Mama touched the fringe on the hanging sheet. I wanted to yank a sheet around our whole lives.

“How come you didn't turn Huck in when he hit you, Mama?”

“I don't know.” She sounded so tired. She walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

I walked to the kitchen.

I put on my shooting star apron, got out my baking pan, opened the refrigerator, and took out tortillas, tomato sauce, salami, and cheese.

“Today on
Cooking with Foster
we're going to make smiling pizzas for sad days.” I put two tortillas down on the pan, spread red sauce over them, and sprinkled on mozzarella, garlic powder, and oregano.

“Be careful the cheese doesn't go over the edge or it'll spill over on the pan and start smoking. That can make your whole kitchen stink. I'm going to turn the oven dial to four-fifty.” I did that, smiling. “And now I'm getting my best knife”—I held it up—“and I'm slicing a thin round of salami into a smiley shape just like this. Don't make it too thick. I'm putting that on the pizza and cutting two small circles and putting them down for eyes.” I looked at it. “We need eyebrows, don't you think?” I looked around, got some sliced olives, and put them over the eyes.