Slow Way Home (14 page)

“Are you really sure you want to go out there?” I yelled from my bike. We were at the pharmacy about to turn on the side street that would make the events from the night before cement in our minds.

Beau never looked back as he pedaled faster. As the bicycle flag flapped in the breeze, the sound of vinyl cutting into the wind echoed from a corner building.

Thick silver locks secured the garage doors at Rayford’s Body Shop. A closed sign with faded black letters hung from the office window on string that looked like knotted shoelaces. Two pit bulls with studded collars started barking before we put our kickstands down. A chain-link fence was all that separated us from their long teeth and the stacks of automobiles they protected.

The crumpled silver car that Johnny had waxed every Saturday was balled up next to the gate, waiting to join the torn vehicles on the other side of the fence. Beau walked over to the part that used to be the driver’s side. The steering wheel was dented inward like a melted 96

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penny. The driver’s door was missing, and in its place jagged pieces of metal pointed outward.

Beau’s steps were slow as he circled the front of the bashed-in hood. The engine stuck out and curled like a crooked tooth. A circle of cracked glass spread out across the windshield. My stomach tightened, and I tried to fight the image of Bonita’s head slamming into it.

Beau moved past the passenger door that had been sawed in half, past the missing tire, and ended up at the back bumper. The part that still looked like the same old car that his mama had driven all those times before. He stood at the trunk and rubbed his hand along the surface. Stood there like it was any other day. Like they might have been at the store and he was ready to put a bag of groceries inside the trunk.

The dogs snarled and barked louder when I turned towards them.

Foam from their anger clung to the chain-link fence. And no matter how mad my stare made them, their barks never did drown out Beau’s crying.

Hidden behind the broken car that had taken the life of the only father he had known, Beau cried and yelled until I heard him struggle to breathe. The sound of torment caused me to tuck my head in sympathy. Embarrassment made me move farther away. But before I got pass the chain-link fence, it stopped. As if nothing had happened, Beau got on his bike, brushed his nose with his forearm, and rode away. It was the last time I ever saw him cry.

Any crying that Beau lacked Mama Rose made up for. She walked into the funeral home leaning on Alvin’s arm and dressed in a black trenchcoat. A long black wig made her look more like a witch than a grieving mother. Mama Rose howled when they approached the pink-colored light that shone down upon Johnny’s coffin. I couldn’t fault her for carrying on so. Tucked inside the fancy lining, Johnny resembled the store mannequin that Mama Rose used to advertise the “I Love Florida” T-shirts. His hair was so perfect from all the hair spray that it looked like a wig from Mama Rose’s personal collection.

The veil that hung down over the coffin tried to convince us that
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he was the same old Johnny who just got in from fishing. Poppy patted Alvin on the back. “Don’t he look good? I mean to tell you, I hope they make me look that good when it comes my time.” But when Mama Rose lifted the edge of the coffin veil and saw Johnny’s sunken forehead, Poppy’s words were nothing more than wasted air.

She threw her head back until the top of the wig revealed natural gray and hollered louder.

Bonita sat on a folding chair draped in black velvet. Nana stood guard behind her holding a cup of water and a cardboard fan with a print of a sun-tanned Jesus on one side and an advertisement for First Citizens Bank on the other. Josh and Beau stared at the gray carpet as people passed by and patted their heads.

Harvey, the cook from Nap’s Corner, grasped the tip of Bonita’s fingers in his wide black hands. Bonita still had a cast on her arm and a patch to cover the damaged eye. The good eye was covered red from crying. As Harvey whispered into her ear, Bonita nodded and bit her lip. The woman who was introduced as Harvey’s wife was much louder. When she leaned down, her wide black hat touched the edge of Bonita’s hair.

“Baby doll, you remember me? Sister Delores. I came in last week to pick up that smoked turkey. Well now, if you need us, you call. You hear what I’m saying? Me and Harvey will come sit with you, we’ll pray with you, we’ll even cry with you if need be.”

Bonita used her good hand to unfurl a tissue and dabbed the exposed eye. If Bonita was touched by the appearance of the black couple, Alvin sure wasn’t. He squinted at Harvey and Sister Delores the whole time they were in the room. A scowl that seemed more eerie than the makeup that covered Johnny.

After the funeral I told Nana what had happened at the junkyard and how Beau carried on. “Well, you just let him be. If he wants to talk about it, he will. Otherwise just keep quiet about Johnny. People handle grief in all sorts of different ways,” she said.

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Back at school, Beau ignored all the stares and dodged any questions about Christmas break. In class he even asked a couple of questions about the lesson on Seminole Indians.

After class, I was stuffing my book bag when I saw Miss Travick lean down and wrap her arm around Beau. “Are you feeling better?

You know I’m here if you ever want to talk.” Ivory beads from her long necklace swirled within inches of Beau’s neck. He nodded and smiled wider than ever.

“Come on, slow poke,” he called out to me.

While we walked down the sidewalk, Miss Travick stood at the door watching us. I considered turning around and telling her about my mama’s made-up death. She would wrap her arms around me, and the necklace would tickle my skin. Her butterscotch scent would rub off on my clothes, and everybody would know that she had hugged me. But fearing that a moment of affection might turn into a full-blown case of pity, I decided to follow Nana’s advice and keep my mouth shut about grief.

Nana continued to pick us up from school long after Johnny was buried and the cleaned casserole dishes had been returned. Bonita not only didn’t want to talk about Johnny; she didn’t want to talk period.

She lay in bed most days and kept the bottle of painkillers closer than a baby with a pacifier. While Nana cleaned the house and washed clothes, she always kept Bonita’s bedroom door shut. Making up a question to ask Nana, I ran down the hall just before the door closed.

Through the crack I saw twisted sheets on the bed and a matted mass of red hair on Bonita’s head.

“Harvey made spoon bread today. Said he sure wanted to make sure you boys got some,” Nana said as we pulled up to Nap’s Corner. Tucked on the edge of a clump of oak trees and a bend in the river, the restaurant lived up to its name. It was a flat-top building with wooden pilings that formed a makeshift boat ramp designed to cater to hungry fisher-men. Faded red paint matched the rust that covered the front-door awning. Spanish moss from low-hanging trees fanned across the venti-lation pipes. As soon as we got out of the car, the smell of fried fish caused my mouth to convince me the place was a five-star restaurant.

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“All right, now,” Harvey called out from behind the counter. He was wearing yellow plastic gloves as he shucked oysters.

A woman with frosted hair and pink eye shadow smiled real big.

“Hey, girl,” she said and flipped the dishrag at Nana. Her voice went down a few levels when she looked at Beau and Josh and asked, “How y’all been getting along?”

“Fine,” Beau said and shrugged his shoulders. “I hear y’all got some spoon bread today.”

“Harvey made a batch just for you.” She turned to look at me.

“And honey, I know who you are. You’re all this girl talks about.”

Nana played with my shirt collar. “Yeah, Brandon, this is Karen.”

“I work the lunch shift with your granny,” Karen said. “And I tell you what, there haven’t been any cuter men that walked through that door today than the three I’m standing here looking at.”

“You better watch what you say,” the man behind Karen said.

When she turned around, the badge was the first thing I saw. He looked seven feet tall and was holding a felt hat with the words

“Florida Highway Patrol” etched on a gold pin. I felt Nana’s grip grow tighter on my shoulder. Words from the script circled my mind, and I wondered if Nana would help guide me by the pressure of her fingers. The image of the man from TV flashed through my mind. A ventriloquist Poppy had called him, and the doll that sat on the man’s lap and opened and closed his mouth was the dummy.

“Parker Townes, you better stop,” Karen said. “Hey, have you met Pauline before?”

“I don’t think so,” the officer said. His smile revealed long pointy teeth, and the way Nana gripped my shoulder as he approached she must’ve thought for sure that he would bite.

“How do you do,” the man said with a nod.

She cleared her throat. “Hello.”

“Pauline works the lunch shift three days a week,” Karen said.

“This here is her grandson, Brandon.”

Parker leaned down and looked right into my eyes. At first my eyes darted away from looking into the blue circles, but fearing that he’d think I had something to hide, I forced myself to stare back. His 100

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eyes pierced through me, and I hoped that he could not see all the way inside my heart. The same one that was running wide open.

I only breathed again when he turned to Beau and Josh. As Beau repeated the same old lies that everything was fine at his house and that his mama was doing better, I felt Nana ease her grip.

“Parker, order’s up,” Harvey called out from the kitchen. Opened oysters and a lemon wedge filled the plastic container on the snack bar.

“That Parker Townes is my weekly eye candy. Too bad you’re not working when he comes in,” Karen said in a stage whisper.

“Does he live around here?” Nana asked.

“Oh yeah. Just the other side of the post office. You know his wife up and quit him. Couldn’t handle little-town life. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, I said. I’m just tickled that he’s here, you know to keep crime outta town.”

Sweat gathered around the edges of Harvey’s gray hair. His skin glistened like well-oiled mahogany. “Here you go, boys,” he said. Beau grabbed the bag that had started to stain from the grease inside. Josh had already reached inside and started eating before I could get to it.

Harvey cut his eyes towards Nana. “Me and my wife want to know, how’s Bonita really?”

Nana stuck out her lips and shook her head.

“You tell her me and Sister Delores gonna be by real soon.”

Before we could get out of the door, the patrolman called out to us. “Oh, and Pauline . . .”

Nana gripped the door handle, and the neon sign that advertised fresh seafood buzzed overhead.

The patrolman smiled and pointed with a tiny fork. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”

Ten

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t was Beau’s idea to make the bag swing for Josh. Filling an empty oyster sack with dirt, I never let on that I used to have a tire swing back in North Carolina and fought the image of Mary Madonna and Mac now swinging on it. Josh’s bag swing would be even better. Like that guidance counselor with the pitiful smile had told me, sometimes the past is better left buried.

We heard the music from the red Impala before we saw the car.

Holding the edges of the coarse bag, I looked up at the same time Beau did. Organ music and drums mixed with the loud voice of a woman singer. The music made the vehicle seem like a mini version of the juke joint that fed our campground songs late at night.

“Hey, babies,” Sister Delores tried to shout. Her words garbled with the singer’s moaning. When the car engine was turned off, the music disappeared, but she sat there a moment longer and smiled.

“Umm, I’m crazy about that Mahalia Jackson.”

Beau lodged the shovel deeper. “Who’s she?”

Sister Delores struggled to get out of the car and paused just as her dress rolled up to reveal knee-high stockings. “Who’s she? Only the best gospel singer in the entire United States of the whole America.

Who’s she? Who’s she?” By the time she got of the car, she was laughing even harder. Tight black curls bounced around a face the color of peanut butter.

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“Hey, I remember you,” Beau said. “You’re Harvey’s wife.”

“You mean Harvey’s my husband.” She handed us grocery bags and talked all at the same time. Talked about the weather, the new workers hired down at the marina, and how lost everybody was at Nap’s Corner without Bonita.

Double-armed with groceries, Beau squinted at her. “I hope these ain’t for us.”

She tilted her head back until a long nose hair was visible. “Then what you want me to do? Leave ’em out here and let the seagulls tear into them?”

“We don’t take handouts,” Beau said.

“Boy, get yourself into that house before the cream melts and you make me go back to the store.” It only took one look at her raised eyebrow before Beau started walking towards the porch. “You tickle me acting all grown like you’re a little man or something.”

Inside the house Sister Delores took on the actions of an oversized flea. She jumped from the kitchen sink to the mop and then started on the bathroom. Part of me was aggravated at her for driving in with her loud music and trying to take Nana’s place as house manager.

When she began running water in the tub, the pipes let out a holler that vibrated the side of the house. Bonita’s door creaked open, and she stuck half of her head out. Her eye was padded with puffy skin, but the front of her hair stood at attention. “What’s all that racket?”

Beau pointed towards the bathroom. Sister Delores’s wide behind stared back at us as she leaned over the tub pouring cleanser and singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

Clutching the top of Johnny’s work shirt, which had become her uniform, Bonita eased into the hallway. “Excuse me.”