Waiting for Christopher (4 page)

Acting on instinct, treating Raylene as if she were nobody special, anybody at all, Feena stooped down to help. “Here,” she said, handing back a spiral and an Earth Sciences text. That was when she saw it, a small book that had slipped out from the stack, a book with a familiar title:
Jane Eyre
.

“Have you read this?” Feena couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice, heard too late how condescending the question sounded. “I mean, this is one of my favorites.”

For a brief second, their eyes locked. Feena saw the mild startle, the caution of an animal that’s smelled or seen something in the distance, on Raylene’s normally implacable face. “No.” Raylene grabbed the book from Feena, scraping the rest of her books and pens and pencils out of reach, away from the help she clearly didn’t want.

“No?” Feena looked away, puzzled, penitent.

“Hey, I hate to bust your balloon and all. But this book is not one of my favorites. It’s not even mine.” Raylene picked up her things, stood up, then moved toward the girls who were waiting down the hall. Over her shoulder again: “I’m taking it back to the library for someone. Okay?”

“Okay.” Feena watched her move, proud and graceful as a dancer, toward the hangers-on. She wore a vintage skirt with a petticoat that showed just enough from under the skirt’s hem. There was a pocket watch on a chain around her waist, the kind of waist Feena had been dieting for, dreaming of, forever.

“Wait!” Feena saw it just as Raylene reached her friends. “Here.” Feena ran down the hall after them. “You forgot your Walkman.” She caught up, the cassette player dangling from its long neon earplugs. Next came a humiliating pantomime as she tried to disentangle herself from the Walkman. Clownlike, she twisted and untwisted the cord, then finally succeeded in freeing herself, only to watch the player separate from the cord and clatter to the floor again.

This time, the Walkman didn’t survive the fall, its plastic case breaking on impact and skittering away like the two halves of an eggshell. Raylene stared at the halves, then at Feena.

“Oh, my god.” Feena was on her knees in an instant. “What’s the matter with me?” She gathered up the innards, the pieces of case. “I was just… I mean…” Then, as if it could somehow reassemble itself into a working unit, she handed the whole mess back to its owner.

Without acknowledging Feena’s stammering, or even her existence, the slender girl accepted the smashed Walkman, glanced at it once, then shook her head. As she left with her friends, she held the plastic parts away from her body, the way people keep their distance from garbage. And sure enough, as the group passed the main office, Feena saw her drop the remains into the trash.

It was only after the others had disappeared, down another locker-lined corridor, that Feena noticed the paperback. It must have spilled from Raylene’s armful and was now wedged under the bottom of a trash basket. Feena pulled it out and studied the cover.
Their Eyes Were Watching God
was the title, and underneath was a picture of a beautiful black woman with a long braid down the middle of her back, a woman who looked just like Raylene.

For a moment, Feena considered chasing after the girls, returning the book. But then she remembered Raylene’s expression, the look of contempt she’d leveled at the broken Walkman. Rather than risk another dose of humiliation, Feena tucked the little book in with her own things and walked in the other direction down the hall.

All through next period, she did instant replays in her head. While the rest of English class was analyzing
Macbeth
, Feena was dissecting her run-in with Raylene: If only she hadn’t been late to class. If only she hadn’t tried to help. If only she’d ignored the book the other girl had dropped.

Had Raylene lied about
Jane Eyre?
Feena couldn’t remember seeing a library number on the dog-eared paperback. But she did remember the brief furtive look in those dark eyes. Was that brassy in-your-face girl ashamed of being smart? Of reading? Of being like Feena?

Of course she was, Feena realized. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be? Who would trade useless book chat (about a book that wasn’t even on the English reading list) for being one of the chosen ones? Second-best swimmer in school. Secretary of the student council. Resident Amazon. If she herself were any of these, Feena decided, she would have lied, too. But she knew, as surely as she knew she could never get a slip to hang that way, or move like music down the hall, that she and Raylene would never travel in the same circles. Never be friends. Not even acquaintances, now that Feena had confirmed her own status as a spastic moron. Why hadn’t she held on to that Walkman? Why hadn’t she been able to say she was sorry?

She
was
sorry, of course. Sorry she’d broken the Walkman. Sorry she had freckles and small breasts. Sorry she had a mother whose idea of togetherness was pressing the pause button on the remote. Sorry she lived in a laughable house that ruled out sleepovers and guests of any kind.

Even though the girl from history kept asking her over after school, Feena wouldn’t go because she couldn’t bear to return the favor. How could she invite anyone to the Pizza Hut? She’d made all sorts of twisted excuses: they hadn’t finished unpacking, her mother was sick, the house was being painted. Or fumigated. Or something. Finally, the girl stopped asking.

Which was why every day now Feena found herself doing the same thing after school she’d done all summer—reading. Sometimes she lay on the floor under the air conditioner in her bedroom; sometimes she took her book across the highway to the shady carcass of an abandoned restaurant, complete with a gutless kitchen stove and two booths you could sort of sit in if you avoided the curling edges of their slashed plastic seats. But mostly she just stayed in the Chevy and let the air run.

That’s where she headed as soon as
Macbeth
had been picked apart and eighth period ended. Still nursing her embarrassment, she decided to skip the play that had been assigned for the next day and read Raylene’s book instead. The author was a black woman; Feena saw her posed on the back cover in a flapper hat and beads.
A powerful love story
, it said under the photo.
One of the finest novels of all time
.

The heat built up behind the car’s window, even with the AC roaring and sputtering. Stretched across the front seat, both vents aimed at her face, Feena went into the trance she always did when she read. Soon she was lost. To the heat, to the drone, to everything but Janie Woods, the lonely heroine:

This Janie, Feena saw right away, was no frightened Jane Eyre. She was regal and proud and strong. She walked right into town by herself, with the whole neighborhood gossiping and staring.

No, nothing like poor stammering Jane—or Feena, for that matter. Janie wore her brave heart for everyone to see. Graceful and serene, she moved down the street, parading past a porch full of gawkers and busybodies, just like Raylene striding down the halls at school.

Feena was still living the book’s dream, still sitting with Janie on the stoop of her old house, listening to her hard story, when the woman and the little boy named Christopher came back to Ryder’s. Feena had no idea how long they’d been there before she looked up from the book and recognized the child. Not only because he still wore the same filthy T-shirt she’d seen him in last time, not only because he was still being yelled at by this foul-tempered mother, but because, she thought, she would have known him anywhere. Would have singled out that white hair, those solemn eyes, even if it had been years instead of weeks since she’d seen him.

This afternoon was different, though. The play Christopher and his mother acted out today had a new uglier script. The toddler’s mother was no longer slapping him; she was kicking. By the time Feena had turned off the car’s engine, slipped the key into the pocket of her shorts, and run to the gate, the woman was standing over him, screaming.

“Don’t you dare get up!” She shoved a sneakered foot into Christopher’s leg when he tried to raise himself from the asphalt. He crumpled like a rag doll. “I told you to stay right there and think about how rude you was.” Again he attempted to stand, and again she tripped him back into a sitting position on the pavement.

As Feena rushed toward them, she glanced around the park. She didn’t see Mr. Milakowski anywhere. The only adult she spotted was the mother of a small unsmiling girl who rode by herself in one of the fire engines. The woman scowled disapprovingly at Christopher’s mother, but when her daughter pointed, showing interest in the proceedings, she hoisted the child from the ride, grabbed her by the hand, and rushed off, as if she were hustling them away from an accident.

“You keep mouthing off, you gonna be pretty sorry.” The little boy was crying steadily now, scrambling to his feet but being knocked down again and again. It was as if his brain hadn’t gotten the message that it would hurt less to stop trying to get up. “Okay, Mister. See how you like it when you got no audience.”

Feena wished there were somebody—anybody—else around. She almost ran after the other mother and her little girl, but then she heard a car start up in the parking lot and knew it was too late. Knew she was the only one left, Christopher’s last hope. She remembered, as if it were a dream, running, pushing her way through a forest of adults.
Christy? Where’s Christy?
Trembling with an old, speechless indignation, she had no idea what she would say, how she would stop the angry woman. All she thought about, all she felt was the forward motion, the race to save him.

R
ighteous, angry words formed themselves in Feena’s head as the woman pushed past her.
I hope your little boy held up a bank or murdered someone, lady
. But now, just as she had the last time, Christopher’s mother was sailing off, her back to them.
Unless he has, you’ve got no right to treat a baby like that
. But before Feena could run after her, the woman turned and headed, thick legs churning purposefully, for the parking lot.

Christopher’s mother didn’t stop the way she had last time. She didn’t change her mind and come marching back to claim her son like so much forgotten baggage. Feena and the baby watched her get into a battered, beige convertible. They watched her start the car, and together, in silence, they watched her drive away.

When Feena turned to the little boy, he was still staring at the spot where the car had been. Not knowing what else to do, she knelt down and held out her hand. He took it. “Don’t worry,” she said, afraid he might startle, might run away. “Everything will be okay.”

He turned his solemn gaze on her now, as if deciding whether or not to overlook the ridiculous promise she’d just made. His eyes were so blue, so like a painting or a photograph, Feena was glad of the brown stain—juice or ice cream or who knew what—that ran from the side of his mouth almost to his right ear. It made him real. “Mama,” he said, regarding her with mild curiosity.

“Your mama’s gone,” she told him. Then, because this probably wasn’t what he wanted to hear, she added quickly, “Want to wait for her with me?”

He didn’t nod, but he didn’t let go her hand, either. And when she picked him up, when his sticky fingers closed around her neck, it felt as if he’d always perched there, solid and warm and only a little heavy in her arms. They might have waited for his mother where they stood, might have toughed it out, faithfully scanning the parking lot for her car. But it was too hot, Feena reasoned, studying the empty, sun-beaten rides, the stretch of gooey asphalt. It was too hot, and they’d be more comfortable in the shade across the highway, where they could stay cool and still keep an eye out for the tan Buick.

They crossed the street quickly and stood for a while on the other side. Then Feena remembered the can of orange soda she’d left in the abandoned restaurant. They’d waited only a few minutes, but suddenly that seemed long enough. “Christy,” she said, shifting his weight against her hip, “want to see an old castle? It’s got a whole garden growing right up through the floor.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just looked one more time at the parking lot, then headed down the highway. She didn’t stop until they’d reached the pile of fallen timbers under a broken neon sign that hadn’t flashed in years,
LER’S
, was all that was left on the sign’s first line;
AUNT
, it announced on the second. Sometimes, here by herself, she’d made a game of guessing what the full name of the restaurant had been. But now, the only thing she cared about was ducking into the shade.