Neverland (3 page)

So the big house on Gull Island was yet another albatross for Grammy Weenie, and none of us was surprised when we learned that Great-Grammy Wandigaux used Confederate dollars to purchase it back in the long ago—and it looked like it. The house sagged as if it were beginning to sink into the ground. It was always sweltering in August, and the Retreat, which was the name of the place, had warped steadily year by year since early in the century, until it was bowed like a grounded ship. A poorly conceived Victorian mess, the Retreat had lost its color through tropical storms and lack of care: It was a muddy khaki hue, like the oversized shorts Sumter’s mother forced him to wear around the house rather than the cutoffs the rest of us ran around in. Aunt Cricket would sniff, “In a classless society there’s always going to be folks without class,” and my father would do his best to belch at such moments. The house was sturdy, however: It had survived four tropical storms, two hurricanes, and three fires set by locals at various times in its long history.

Most of the islanders were black and considered by my Grammy Weenie to be quite backward and filthy. To her, they were always going to be lower-caste victims of their own lack of civilization and cultural advancement, stemming back from their origins in the Dark Continent.
Coloreds
, which Grammy Weenie called any race other than her own, were very much like children themselves and needed watching over. Grammy Weenie was what you might call—if you felt charitable—an unrepentant racist who believed it was a white woman’s duty to uphold such bigotry in the face of the modern world’s loss of values. She would be equally vocal in her denunciation of groups such as the Klan, and if you were ever to point out how similar her prejudices were to theirs—as Daddy often did—she
would tell you point-blank that you were just too young to understand the beauty of paradox.

But the Retreat: From the road up, even at night, it looked misguided and senile and ready to drop. And ugly—even the surrounding trees wanted to get rid of it; they pushed against the long windows, and poked the gambrel roof. The screen of the front porch was torn and tattered, so if you sat out there at night, you’d get eaten alive by mosquitoes.
Skeeters
, Grampa Lee used to say. After his death, Grammy Weenie would continue the tradition and say, “Like Old Lee used to say, ‘Skeeters,’” while she swatted at the bloodsucking menaces.

Helping us unpack the car, Uncle Ralph—smelling of Bay Rum and bourbon and Coke—slapped me on the shoulders and said, “Either you’re gettin’ in some whiskers on that upper lip, boy, or two caterpillars’re matin’ right under your nose.” I didn’t think it was funny, and Daddy offered me a smile as he pulled the big hard brown suitcase out of the open back of the wagon. The smile was meant as a “Yeah, Beau, he’s a jerk, all right, but it’s okay, you’re not related to him by blood.”

Missy and Nonie ran ahead to where Grammy Weenie was sitting on the porch, and I heard my mother say to Aunt Cricket, who had run out to coo at Governor, “Why isn’t Mama coming down?”

Aunt Cricket whispered so loudly that all of us could hear it, shooting the words out a mile a minute. “Oh, Evvie, Mama’s just not the same without Daddy. Don’t
I
wish he was with us, the way she’s been driving us all up the walls the whole week and getting after Sunny for just being a healthy boy . . . and it wasn’t much of an accident, she just gets, you know,
dramatic
when she wants attention.”

Sumter was noticeably missing. Last I’d seen him, summer before, he was still embedded in Aunt Cricket’s shadow.

Uncle Ralph mumbled to Dad, “Sumter
was
the accident.”

My mother passed Governor to her sister and went running up to the front porch, where Missy and Nonie circled around Grammy Weenie as the old lady leaned forward in her wheelchair; the wheelchair was new—and directly related to the Sumter accident.

Uncle Ralph tossed me a small bag to carry. “Think quick!” He lifted the twins’ two small pink suitcases and walked alongside my father, and I followed behind. The ground was muddy from a recent rain, and because my shoes got sucked down an inch or two with each step, I made sure my footsteps stayed within my father’s well-ground-in enormous steps.

“What’s the story here?” Dad asked. His typical question:
What
’
s the story
,
young man
?

Uncle Ralph glanced over his shoulder at me, and I was afraid he’d say, “Little pitchers have big ears,” but he didn’t. He turned back to my father, both their steps slowing. “The old witch claims Sumter tripped her on the stairs, and Sumter says he didn’t mean to leave his Slinky lying there—all that crap kids give you. To tell you the truth, Dab, it’s been like living with Gramma Adolf Hitler for the past month—maybe she won’t be so high and mighty now.”

“That’s Christian of you, Ralph.”

“Not you, too, Dabney? I’m gettin’ it from all sides this summer. I thought at least a
guy
would know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“I know what you’re talking about.”

They walked the rest of the way up to the house in silence, and I tried to stay within my father’s muddy footprints, but I heard a noise above me and almost fell in the mud when I looked up.

It was Sumter at one of the upstairs windows. He looked like he thought he was a preacher blessing us: He was flipping the bird, although as in all things he did, he didn’t have it quite right. His middle finger was extended all right, but rather than having the back of his hand facing me, he’d turned his palm outward. I wanted to remember to tell him that it looked like he was flipping the bird at himself. I set my suitcase down and waved to him because I knew he meant it as a gesture of welcome.

Once inside, Mama immediately pulled Grammy and Aunt Cricket into the den. Daddy rolled his eyes and sat down on the largest suitcase.

Uncle Ralph said, “We have some bourbon, Dab.”

Wearily, my father nodded to this offer.

“I’d like a Coke, please,” Nonie said.

“No Cokes in this house.”

“And no soda this late,” Daddy said. “You kids can go in and have some milk or water if you want, but no sodas.”

Nonie and Missy trooped into the kitchen after Uncle Ralph.

I sat down on the sofa next to the big front window. I was dog-tired and longed for a soft bed, but knew I would have to wait until the girls had finished their milks and Mama had finished her first “discussion” with her sister and mother.

The voices in the den were gradually rising until it was just like the walls were talking. Grammy’s was the first to rise into the audible range. “You know what they did to Babygirl? The doctors ruined her. And to your daddy?”

“They helped his pain, don’t be foolish.”

“One does not
help
pain. Doctors never brought anything into this world except drugs and knives, cut and paste and make you feel good while they take all your organs out. Well, no thank you, no thank you.”

“Has she been this difficult all summer?”

“Stop talking about me as if I am not here. I’m your mother, and you show me some respect or I swear when I do go, you will have me haunting you for the rest of your lives.”

Then there was a pause. Daddy and I pretended we were not listening in at all. From the kitchen came the clicking sounds of Nonie and Missy snooping through all the cabinets.

“Well,” I heard my mother say, “I just think you should see some kind of doctor. You need to get X-rayed . . . ”

Uncle Ralph returned from the kitchen with two large glasses of rusty liquid: bourbon and Seven. He handed one to Daddy. “Sumter’s probably in bed already, otherwise I’m sure he’d come down and be social. We’ve been here six days and already he’s in trouble, but I suppose it’s good for boys to get in a little trouble. Long few weeks ahead, though.”

“There’s always fishing,” my father replied. He took a sip from the glass and sighed. “You’re gonna be a good boy for me, Beau?”

“Naw, I think I’m gonna set fire here ’n’ there and rip off a few Piggly Wigglys and maybe axe down a few locals.”

“Like father,” Daddy said as he raised his glass, “like son.”

“Sometimes,” Uncle Ralph said, looking at me and trying to be good-natured when I knew he was just being mean, “you’re kind of spooky, you know? Hey,” a dangerous word from my uncle because it meant he was shifting into an unknown gear, “how’s your, um, little medical problem going?”

“
Ralph
,” Daddy moaned, shaking his head and offering me a dopey grin.

“Just fine, thank you,” I said as icily as I knew how. My sisters made fun of my early bed-wetting, and my uncle made fun of my bad circulation. “It’s nothing to have a cow about.”

Mama came back out of the den without Aunt Cricket or Grammy. Governor looked like he was off in baby dreamland. She called to the girls, “Come help me with the linens, and Beau, you and your sisters make your beds and then lights out, and
no
, I repeat,
no
reading under the covers. Lights out, understand?”

 

“I
HATE
, absolutely
hate
family vacations,” Nonie said as she tossed the sheet across the length of one of the twin beds in the girls’ bedroom. “Gawd, we have to be
nice
to these people. Well, all I can say is there better be good TV shows down here this year.”

“You mean good reception,” Missy said, flattening the edges and tucking them in between the mattress and box spring.

I wasn’t helping at all, but then, I never did. I always watched my sisters make the beds and then did a haphazard job on my own. “I wonder why he hasn’t come out.”

“He’s uncouth,” Nonie shrugged.

“I think he’s just plain common.”

“Melissa Jackson, if you were as smart as you think you are, you’d know being uncouth
is
being common. Anyway, he’s weird.”

“Yeah, he’s so weird he smells. Don’t you think he’s weird?”

“Uh-huh, yeah, but he’s always up to something,” I said, and could not explain further why I sought out my cousin’s company on these trips to the Retreat. I usually got in trouble for things he did, and he wasn’t anything like the kids I made friends with back in Richmond. Mama always said that blood was thicker than water, and I guessed at the time it was true, because, in spite of Sumter’s oddness, there was something familiar about him, and he was the closest thing to a brother I had, if I didn’t count Governor.

 

I HEARD a noise in the hallway and went to investigate. Sumter was probably spying on us. But the only thing there, sitting against the banister, right outside the bedroom door, was Sumter’s raggedy brown teddy bear, Bernard. I swear he’d had that bear since he was three years old and had yet to relinquish it. It had been spit up on and dragged through prickers and mud and sea; half of one of its ears was torn off, and stuffing leaked from its behind.

Figuring I’d flush Sumter out, I greeted the bear. “Well, hey, Bernard.”

But I got no reply from either bear or cousin.

“You seen him yet?” Nonie asked me, sliding my bedroom door open, rapping on its frame at the same time. Sumter and I should’ve shared that room, as tiny as it was, but because of the fracas over what would become known as the Slinky Misunderstanding, my Aunt Cricket had moved him into her room.

My sister went over to the window and drew the shades. Sunlight hit me like a bully in a schoolyard: I was down for the count. My limbs were like rocks.

Morning
.

“I think I’m paralyzed like Grammy.”

“You’re not. And she isn’t paralyzed, either. She hurt one of her hips, and you got two of those anyway. I asked you a question.”

“I can’t move.”

“I couldn’t care less. You seen him? I think they
killed
him.”

“I saw him last night,” I said, needles and pins pricking at my arms as I finally managed to lift them. “When we came in, he was at the window in Grampa Lee’s old room.”

“Grammy said he should get more than a talking to. She wants to take the
brush
to him.” Grammy Weenie’s silver-backed all-natural bristle brush was legend in two generations of Lee descendants. It had touched not only my mother’s and my aunt’s and my sisters’ and my hair, but also all our behinds at one point or another. Only when my father finally interceded did that form of punishment stop. We lived both in fear and awe of that brush, and whenever Grammy Weenie asked one of us to bring it to her, even though we felt safely beyond the age of spankings, I have no doubt that my sisters, my mother, my aunt, and my cousin all relived for a moment some shuddering memory from early childhood.