Beyond Summer (15 page)

Benjamin ducked his head, trying to shuck the lecture like water off a duck. “Stranger danger. Like in Mrs. Hampy’s class.”

Thank goodness for Mrs. Hampy’s Head Start, back in Hugo. “Exactly. No more talking about the green-pants lady, all right? Not one more word.” Both boys nodded. “Now go find your shoes, okay? We’re gonna run over and get you guys signed up for school, since Daddy caught a ride and left us the truck today. On the way home, we’ll buy some cookie dough and make some cookies to take over to the new neighbors, ’kay?” Really, I should of been finishing up the painting first, but right now, even though I’d probably end up looking like an idiot for sticking my nose in, I wanted to know what was going on across the street.

I had a wicked case of curiosity.

By the time I got everyone’s shoes on, gathered the boys’ shot records and school papers, and made it to the pickup, the blonde was back in her Escalade. She didn’t even turn her car around—just peeled out and headed down Red Bird, driving like a maniac.

While I was backing out, I took an unofficial survey of the stuff being unloaded from the moving van. Whoever they were, they had seriously nice things—heavy white wood furniture with gold leaf around the edges, a huge flat-screen TV, an entertainment center that was big enough to take up half our living room, a crib from the fancy baby store. The kind of crib every mom dreams about, but not every mom gets. I could picture our baby daughter asleep on the lacy sheets, sunlight filtering through the canopy, turning pink and falling on her skin. Maybe, by the time my baby came, they’d be interested in selling that thing. . . .

People who could afford stuff like that didn’t have yard sales, though. They gave their castoffs to charity. If I asked about the crib, I’d look like the welfare redneck neighbor.

The guy with the big ponytail of braids noticed me staring, so I took my foot off the brake and let the truck roll down the street. Crossing the bridge, I checked out the tree lines and the park. Everything was quiet. No sign of any mysterious green-pants lady delivering books and wooden animals up and down the street.

“Cut it out already, Shasta,” I muttered to myself, and Benji looked at me in the rearview. The green-pants lady had to be in his imagination. He could of had a dream about someone passing a book through the window screen and thought it was real. At least now he and Ty both knew they needed to quit making up stories about her.

At the corner of Red Bird and Vista, there was a break in traffic, which I figured meant today was my lucky day. Turning left onto Vista took an act of Congress most times. I let off the brake and pulled out, and the next thing I knew, the blonde in the Escalade appeared from out of nowhere and swerved around me. She just about took off my bumper, and forced me to hit the shoulder by the parking lot of the white church. Inside the Escalade, heads rocked like Weebles, then snapped back into place as the car zoomed off down the street.

“Geez,” I muttered, my foot shivering on the brake as the Escalade raced on, the car darting in and out of traffic, going way too fast. I reached for my cell phone to call the police—not the best way to make friends with the new neighbors, but there were kids in that car, and she was going to kill somebody, driving like that. Then I remembered that I didn’t have the cell phone today. Since Cody’d left us the truck, he’d taken the phone so he could communicate with his ride.

If she wrecks that car with kids in it, it’ll be just as much your fault as anybody’s, for not doing anything about it.
Before I even thought about it, which is usually how I do things, I’d whipped the truck into the church parking lot, pulled up to the office on the back of the sanctuary, barreled through the door, and panted out to the surprised guy on the other side, “I need to call the police. I just about got run over by a lady in a gold Escalade. She had a fight with her husband, boyfriend, whoever, and she has kids in the car. She’s gonna get somebody killed.”

The guy in the office, who looked like he belonged in an episode of
Little House on the Prairie
, dialed the phone and handed it to me. He waited, a little confused, while I stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on Benji and Ty as the 911 operator asked me what seemed like a million questions. By the time she was finally done, my head had stopped whirling. I caught my breath as I handed the phone back to what I now figured was the pastor.

“Thanks,” I muttered, pressing a hand against my stomach, because all of a sudden acid was gurgling up my throat. My head swirled again, and tiny sparks danced in front of my eyes. My skin went cold and clammy.
I won’t throw up, I won’t throw up.
This pregnancy was getting to the queasiness point sooner than usual.

“You all right?” the pastor asked, slipping a hand under my elbow—to catch me, I guessed.

“Yeah, I’m . . . ohhh, I’m . . . Is there a bath . . . a bathroom here?” I tasted breakfast in my throat. My body was going haywire.

“Right through that door, in the back of the fellowship hall,” he answered, pointing. “You need help?”

I shook my head, swallowing hard. “Can you,” I choked out, pressing one hand over my mouth, and pointing toward Benji and Ty and the car with the other. “Can you watch them . . . ?” I took off through the office, busted through the swinging door into the dark hallway behind the sanctuary, and made it to the bathroom just in time. It was the men’s bathroom, but I didn’t care.

When I’d pulled myself together and made it back to the parking lot, the pastor was standing by my car window, handing each of the boys a kids’ bulletin with a coloring picture on it, and a little box of crayons. “Better?” he asked, giving me a doubtful glance. I probably looked awful.

“Yes,” I said, and thanked him for watching the boys. “A little morning sickness, I think.”

“Ohhh.” He gave me an understanding smile, and right then I realized I’d just blurted out the big secret I hadn’t even told Cody yet. Oops.

I took a step toward my car. “So, listen, thanks for the phone . . . and the bathroom . . . and the help.”

“Don’t feel like you have to run off.” He followed me around to the driver’s side. “There’s still time to grab lunch over in the Summer Kitchen before they finish cleaning everything up. Spaghetti or beef noodles today. Anyone’s welcome.”

For about a half a second, I was offended. I’d seen the people gathered on the other side of the building, and it was obvious that the Summer Kitchen was some kind of charity lunch program. Did we really look like we needed free food? “Oh . . . well . . . thanks, but we’re headed off to the school to get these guys signed up for kindergarten and Head Start this fall.”

“New to the neighborhood, huh?” The preacher gave the boys an interested look.

“Just moved here last week. Over on Red Bird.”

His round cheeks squeezed his eyes into slits as he smiled. “Well, glad to have you.” He stuck his hand out to shake mine. “Pastor Al. Stop by and see us anytime. We’ve got lunch provided by the Summer Kitchen Monday through Friday, and after lunch, there’s story time and recreation for the kiddos. We’ll have an adult reading class starting in the evenings soon, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

Geez, did I look like I was hungry and illiterate? “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” When you’re young, and not white, and you’ve got a couple kids already, people assume you’re, like, a welfare case.

“We’re always looking for volunteers.”

Volunteers . . .
All of a sudden I felt much better. Volunteer? Me? “I’ll think about that.”

“Wonderful!” Rocking back on his heels, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Always happy to get some new fish in the net.” Grinning, he held up his necktie, which was printed with fishing rods and bobbers. “Sorry. Old fisherman’s joke, from an old fisherman. But it doubles as a pastor joke—two for one. We’ve got nursery for the kiddos during the reading classes, too. Free child care.”

“Those are the magic words,” I answered, and he chuckled.

“Always good to see new families moving into the neighborhood. Wasn’t so long ago it looked like this old church might die off for lack of interest. Neighborhood gets ragged, you know, and places go downhill, congregation gets old and tired, and the church turns quiet and sleepy.” With a loving glance over his shoulder, he took in the building like he was a painter looking at his masterwork. “Nobody falling asleep around here these days, I’ll tell you. With the Summer Kitchen open now, and the evening reading, GED, and English-l anguage classes, we’re a happening joint. No reason for anybody to sit around the house and be lonely in this neighborhood these days.”

I had the weird feeling he’d read my mind. With Cody gone so much, and all the little problems with the house, and being pregnant, I felt like I needed somebody to talk to. I couldn’t even call Mama, because talking to her or my brother or anyone back home would just remind me that I was keeping some big secrets, and I was doing that because I didn’t want anybody telling me I’d gone and done something stupid again. I needed a friend here, but it probably wouldn’t do any good to talk to the preacher, because preachers are like mothers—they think it’s their duty to tell you the things you don’t want to hear.

“Well, I’ll sure give it some thought,” I said finally.

“Door’s always open.” A siren blared up the road, and Pastor Al turned an ear to it. “Hope they’ve apprehended your maniac driver. Done too many car wreck funerals in my day, that’s for sure.”

“I hope they did, too.”

“You come volunteer with us.” He grabbed the handle and opened the car door for me. “Anyone who’d jump on a wild driver knows how to take control of a situation. You’ve got
tutor
written all over you. I can tell it.”

“Thanks,” I said, then got in my car and headed off toward the boys’ new elementary school, thinking,
I’ve got
tutor
written all over me?
It felt good to hear that. Back home, all I ever heard was what a bunch of wasted potential I was.

I could teach somebody to read. I really could. In high school, I was smart. During my study hall period, the principal used to send me down to the elementary school to help kids with their homework. In southeastern Oklahoma, some kids grew up so far back in the sticks, you needed a four-wheeler or a mule to get to their houses. Those houses were more likely to have a meth lab in the kitchen or a marijuana patch out back than they were to have books around. I loved when those kids finally realized that reading a story was something awesome.
You’re good with these kids
, the principal used to tell me.
They need to see that it’s okay for a young woman to be smart. That there’s more to life than having babies young and going to work for the pulpwood companies. . . .

The high school principal talking in my head was hard to take. I’d ended up doing everything he told me not to do. The whole laundry list. All of a sudden, my happy feeling came sinking down like a balloon deflating. It settled over my shoulders and started to weigh on me, getting heavier by the minute. I didn’t even want to go sign the boys up for school. I wanted to go home, and flop down on the sofa, and sleep off the blues the way my daddy used to sleep off a hangover, back before he moved off and left us.

The truth was that no matter how hard I tried, I never got it right. Everything I did was stupid and wrong, and here in Dallas, things were worse than ever. I didn’t have any friends, and neither did the boys. I missed my family, and I missed home. I’d thought getting a house would make everything better, but it wasn’t better.

When this baby comes, you’ll be all alone with it. There won’t be anyone to help you.
The idea went through my mind like a sudden thunderbolt, and then the rain started falling. The next thing I knew, I was turning the car around and heading back home.

“Where goin’, Mommy?” Ty asked, and I couldn’t even answer. The lump in my throat was about to burst. I wanted to hit the highway, start driving toward Oklahoma, and not stop until I got there.

“Mommy?” Benji whispered, stretching as far as he could in his seat belt. “Are you cryin’?”

I swallowed hard, sniffed, and shook my head. Above the church parking lot, the marquee read,

Tutors wanted.
I read it twice.

In the churchyard, a group of kids was sitting under a tree, listening to a woman talk. Her hands flapped wildly, making her long red muumuu swirl around her high-top tennis shoes. She twirled in a circle, and then ran around the tree, like someone was chasing her. When she reached the sidewalk, she froze, and the children froze with her. The only movement came from her long, gray-black dreadlocks, swirling like the snakes in Medusa’s hair. Watching her, I almost missed a perfectly good gap in traffic. Something about that woman was weirdly interesting. . . .

In the backseat, the boys were as fascinated as I was.

“Is a lady!” Ty cheered, weirdly excited. “What her do?”

“They have story time over there after lunch,” I answered, then stopped watching the storyteller and gunned it across to Red Bird. “She’s reading the kids a book, I think.”

Twisting in his seat, Benji strained to watch through the back window.

“Is a wed-dwess lady!” Ty observed.

“Yeah,” I said. “I guess she is a red-dress lady.” Why the boys had this strange new thing about naming people by their clothes, I had no idea, but story time did look interesting, and at least the red-dress lady, unlike the green-pants lady, was a real person. Maybe if the boys had someone real to talk about, they’d quit making up imaginary people.

Whenever I finally finished getting the house in shape, maybe I’d bring the boys back here, after all. It couldn’t hurt. The church was close enough for us to walk. We needed something to do on days Cody had the car. Maybe we’d even take a little break and try it tomorrow, or the next day. Just for lunch. Just for a little while.