A Soft Place to Land (46 page)

I kneel beside Keisha, feel beneath another of the green plants, and find another berry, just as delicious as the first one I ate. “We allowed to do this?” I ask.

“I ain’t never seen no one go in or out of that house,” she says. “And I ride my bike by here almost every single day when I go to my auntie’s. It’s a haunted garden. That or God put it here for us to find. Like the Garden of Eden.”

She’s talking crazy, but I don’t care. Keisha is lively and she is brave and there is nothing more I want to do than to sit here with her looking for berries beneath the green leaves.

“If we really were in Eden,” Keisha says, “we’d take off our clothes.”

“Well, we’re not,” I say. “We’re in Decatur, Georgia.”

“I’m gonna pretend,” she says, and she pulls off her shirt. Her chest is flat as mine.

“You take off your clothes, too,” she says. “We pretending we Adam and Eve.”

“Someone might see us.”

“Who gonna see us?”

“Let’s pick some of these berries and bring them back to my meemaw and we can eat them for breakfast with pound cake.”

“Where we gonna put em?”

“We could put them in your T-shirt.”

“I ain’t riding back home with no shirt on.”

“Fine. We’ll use mine. I’m not playing Adam and Eve, but I guess I don’t mind biking shirtless.”

She shrugs and starts picking strawberries. I take my shirt off and place it down on the ground. We lay our strawberries on top of it. When it is full I tie the ends around it and make it into a little satchel, which Keisha carries as we leave the garden. Once again she motions for me to shush as we walk by the old farmhouse. There is a plastic basket on the handlebars of her bike. She puts the T-shirt full of strawberries into that. Then we hop back on and start riding home, the early-morning air slapping gently against my bare chest.

•  •  •

When we arrive home, Meemaw is out front, fertilizing her hydrangea bushes.

“Well, I am sure happy to see you!” she says. “Though I really ought to switch you for running off like that.”

Meemaw never switched me in my life.

“We just went on a little ride,” I say.

Keisha jumps off her bike and holds it steady while she gets the satchel of berries out of the basket. Then she lets the bike drop to the ground. “We brought you a present,” she says. “They wild strawberries.”

“Wild strawberries?” Meemaw takes the satchel, opens it, and frowns. “These don’t look like no wild strawberries to me. You took them out of someone’s garden, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, before Keisha can make up another lie.
“But it was a really big garden. They won’t even know these are missing.”

“Lord have mercy, Bobby, you just cain’t do that! You hear me? Whoever grew those berries could have come running after you with a gun! People are protective of their crops, specially something hard to grow as a strawberry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I had started to feel bad about taking the berries during our ride home. Now I feel awful. I wonder if God will punish me for stealing.

“And you too, young lady,” says Meemaw.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Keisha, though she does not sound sorry.

“All-right then. Why don’t y’all go inside, wash up, and let me fix you some breakfast. These strawberries would taste right perfect on a slice of pound cake, but I think that might be sending you two rascals the wrong message, so how about scrambled eggs and bacon instead?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“Miss Keisha, you want to run tell your aunt that you are over here?”

“Aw, she won’t mind.”

“Well, why don’t I just phone over there and make sure. You know your number?”

Keisha nods.

“And no more sneaking off, you hear? You and Bobby can play together all you want; you just make sure a grown-up knows. And Bobby, you go put on a shirt. Your daddy is coming to pick you up at nine. I don’t want him to think I’m turning you into a wild Indian.”

Meemaw follows us inside. I go to my bedroom to get a clean shirt. I can hear Meemaw speaking in gentle tones on the phone. She keeps saying, “No bother, no bother at all. Those two are getting on like gangbusters. Oh no, don’t you worry.”

After Meemaw hangs up she fixes us our breakfast, then goes back outside to keep gardening, saying she already had a bowl of oatmeal. While we eat, Keisha and I play a game where we pretend that each sip we take of orange juice gives us the power to transform into anyone—or anything—we like. Keisha pretends she is a banana split from Dairy Queen, because that way she will always have its taste on her tongue because her tongue is part of the split. I pretend I am a bullhorn so everyone will listen to what I have to say.

“You just need to speak up, smart boy,” says Keisha. “You kind of sort of whisper your words. Who gonna listen if you do that?”

I shrug, then bend over and lick her arm. “Yum,” I say. “I got the part with strawberry syrup.”

“You crazy,” she says, but she is smiling.

There is a loud knocking on the door. Keisha’s auntie, probably. I hear Meemaw answering it. “Well, hey there, sweetheart! Didn’t expect to see you this morning, but I’m sure glad I get to! Where’s your daddy?”

“In the car. Listening to the Braves game. Is Bobby ready?”

It’s Hunter.

“Should be. I’ve got a pound cake for y’all. Come on in the kitchen and I’ll get it for you. Bobby’s in there.”

Hunter and Meemaw walk into the kitchen, where I stand by the sink, rinsing off my dish. Keisha is still at the table, finishing her juice.

“Keisha, this is Bobby’s brother Hunter. Hunter, this is my neighbor and Bobby’s friend, Keisha.”

“Hi,” Hunter mutters.

“Hey,” she says.

If Hunter weren’t standing there I would remind her that “hay is for horses.”

“Our church is having a picnic next week if you wanna come.”

“Where do y’all go to church, sugar?” asks Meemaw.

“Zion Baptist.”

“That’s a nice place. Nearby, too. I’m sure Bobby would love to go with you, wouldn’t you, son?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is it a potluck? Should I get my mama to fix something?”

“We’re bringing soda. You don’t have to bring nothing.”

“Daddy said to hurry,” says Hunter.

I glare at him but follow his order, going to the bedroom to get my bag. Keisha, Hunter, and me all walk out the door together. Meemaw’s phone rings just as we are leaving, so she waves good-bye instead of hugging and kissing me and watching me walk to the car like she usually does. Outside the house I wave bye to Keisha and tell her I’ll see her next week for the picnic. She tells me not to go strawberry picking without her, and then she picks up her bike from the front lawn, straddles it, and starts riding home.

She isn’t ten feet away when Hunter asks, real loud, “Why are you playing with that nigger girl?”

I know Keisha heard because I see her back jerk as she pedals toward her house, but she doesn’t stop or turn around or anything. I want to say something. To stand up for her. To tell Hunter he is a bully and a jerk. To tell Hunter no one likes him anyway. And I try. But I can’t make the words come out. And now she is farther down the street and I know that if I want her to hear me I’ll have to yell, and what if she didn’t actually hear Hunter? What if what I thought was her back jerking at his bad word was actually just her sneezing or something?

Daddy has popped open the trunk of the wagon so I can shove my bike in there. By the time I get it situated Hunter has already taken the front seat. I get into the back and, without meaning to, start crying, crying like the time I got separated from Mama at Davison’s Department Store downtown.

“What in the world is the matter?” Daddy asks, switching off the game and turning to look at me.

“He called my new friend a nigger,” I say, pointing at Hunter.

First time in my life I have ever tattled on my brother.

“You mean that little colored girl y’all came out with?” Daddy asks.

I nod.

“Is that true, son?” asks Daddy, turning his attention to Hunter.

Hunter just looks down at his lap, not saying anything.

“Tell me the truth, son. Did you call her that name?”

“Yes, sir, but she didn’t hear me. I said it soft, and she was already walking away.”

“Doesn’t matter if you whispered or shouted it, it’s unacceptable language and I will not have it. When we get home you and I are going to discuss this further in private, you hear?”

Oh boy. Hunter is getting the belt. Daddy doesn’t spank all that often, but when he does, he makes sure you remember it.

Hunter mumbles, “Yes, sir.” And then he shoots a backward glance at me that is so full of evil the hairs on my arms pop up, as if they are soldiers standing at attention.