Root (12 page)

The project insisted I skip work all that
week. They paid me leave even though, as a part-timer, I didn’t
qualify. I should have been grateful, but having nothing to do only
aggravated my restlessness.

In the daytime, I basically wandered, catching
cat naps on the patio furniture of abandoned houses I knew,
showering under lawn sprinklers, raiding gardens for cukes and
zukes between my twice daily runs to the Burger King.

There weren’t many logistics to organize. Mom
had pre-arranged for a minimal funeral, followed by a cremation.
There would be no wake, but some of our old neighbors were hosting
a little post-ceremony get-together at their house—a sad little
party for folks that knew her.

Uncle Ed and his family were staying behind in
Ohio this time. He apologized profusely. He was so damned busy, he
said, and with the two deaths so close together, it was just
impossible for them to attend. I told him I understood even though
I didn’t. This was Darlene—his only sister, his only
sibling.

On Thursday, we finally held her pathetic
little funeral. Mom had wanted it humble, and she had certainly
gotten her wish. Some of dad’s buddies, a few friends from work and
some families from the home school network showed up, but that was
all. Turned out, mom was almost as big of a recluse as
me.

A Unitarian minister came to the funeral home
and got us to share some stories about Mom and participate in some
free-form praying. Marianne was there, and so was Jenny. I could
barely bring myself to glance at them, never mind talk.

After the funeral our old neighbors, the
Trudeaus, hosted a little memorial luncheon. I went a little nuts,
pigging out on all the dishes to pass that people had brought. It
had been ages since I had seen so much free food in one place. And
it was so nice to be in air conditioning for a change.

Marianne cornered me in the kitchen at one
point, her eyes so earnest and desperate to help me. I wish I knew
how to let her, but I was turned so inward, it just wasn’t
possible. There was no room in my head or my heart for anyone real.
It really was too bad. She seemed like such a good soul.

I ended up conking out on the Trudeau’s couch.
When I woke up, everyone was gone. I had a pillow propped under my
head and a throw draped over me.

It was twilight and already dinner time. The
Trudeau’s invited me to spend the night, but I told them I had
plans to stay with friends. Mrs. Trudeau made me take a couple of
roast beef sandwiches, an orange and some cookies.

I trudged back to the Handi-Stor, all wired
and miserable. The turbulence in my skull was intolerable. I
couldn’t calm it down. I had the sense that it would never go away
unless I did something major. This was unsustainable.

Of course, there were drastic, i.e. permanent,
means of escape, but I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. But maybe
leaving Ft. Pierce would help. There was no reason for me to stick
around here. Maybe a change of scenery would shake things
up.

Ohio seemed like the most logical place to go.
Uncle Ed still lived in Berea, the suburb of Cleveland where I had
been born. I would be going back to my roots, so to speak. Maybe
Ohio would save me, if nothing else would.

How to get there, though, was still a little
bit iffy. I had a meeting with the probate attorney the next day to
see if there was any chance of hanging onto Dad’s pickup. There
were still credit card bills to pay, so there was a chance it would
have to go up for auction. They were holding the truck for last
while they tallied up the rest of our assets.

I had hung onto the spare key and kept it in
my front pocket. It was my talisman. I would twirl it constantly in
my fingers like a worry stone.

Gideon was already gone for the night when I
reached the storage facility. Jules, the elderly Haitian night
watchman, was barricaded in his booth with his fan and portable
TV.

He wasn’t much of a guard. He never made
rounds; didn’t seem to even notice the world beyond his lighted
windows and TV screen. He just manned his booth every night and
went home every morning. It was surprising that the place didn’t
suffer more break-ins.

I gave Jules no reason to turn hero. I made a
wide berth around his watch station, keeping to the shadows as much
as possible. There was a loose panel of chain link at the back of
the complex that was common knowledge among us squatters. I slipped
underneath, and made my way to the middle-most bank of sheds that
was home.

I undid the lock, lifted the door of the bay
and crawled under, plunking down on the mattress after setting up
the window screens. Hot air wafted in from the sun-warmed
pavement.

I laid back and thought of Ohio. I remembered
that park in Berea where Grams and I would feed the ducks and
squirrels with crumbs of stale Wonder bread from polka-dotted
plastic sacks. I used to pretend that acorns were space capsules
and maple seeds helicopters.

And then I lost it. I don’t know why, I just
lost it. I had barely cried during the funeral itself, but now I
sprung like a leaky hose. I heaved and writhed and punched at the
walls, bloodying my knuckles.

I spent whatever energy I had left, my anguish
settling down to mere snuffles. I kept checking my watch, wishing
for sleep that refused to come. Midnight became 12:08 which became
12:37 and then 12:49.

I rolled over, leaving behind a patch of
sweat-dampened mattress. My shirt clung to my sticky back. A quick
rinse and some clean clothes might help. There was a hose down by
the main office. I grabbed a musty towel and a clean T-shirt left
the locker.

As I turned the corner down the alley, I
noticed the gate of one of the side entrances ajar, its padlock
undone and hooked onto the mesh fence. I went over to lock it.
Gideon had probably left it open by mistake.

I heard voices. Three guys stood around the
open trunk of a Honda under the glare of a flood light. Their
conversation halted when they spotted me. I froze.

“
What you staring at?”

“
I’m not … I wasn’t … “

“
Get out! Get the fuck out of here.
What the fuck you doing here? No trespassing!” One of the guys
pulled a baseball bat out of the trunk. Another guy stepped back
from the car into the shadows, something bulky and angular tucked
under the front flap of his hoodie.

I was a twitch away from turning and
running.

“
James?” said the third guy. It was
Jared, leaning against the car with his tattooed forearms crossed.
“What’s up man? Still chasing gators?”

“
I had off this week.”

“
Vacation, huh?”

“
Nah.”

“
What the fuck?” said the guy with
the baseball bat. “You know this guy?”

“
Yeah. James here is an old buddy of
mine. So what’s up, man? What the fuck you doing here this late?
You sleeping here?”

“
Um, yeah. Kinda.”

“
Oh, that ain’t cool,” said the guy
with the bat. “Morrie said he’d keep the bums out.”

“
I bet it’s that fucking day
manager,” said Jared. “He’s got a soft heart, like me.”

“
Soft in the head.”

“
Go fuck yourself,” said Jared. He
tossed the stub of his lit cigarette at the guy with the bat. “So …
James. What up? Your mom kick you out of the house?”

“
What the fuck is it with all the
small talk?” said the guy in the hoodie. “Get this asshole out of
here so we can finish up.”

“
Shut up, Marek. I’m talking to my
friend.”

“
There is no house,” I said. “We got
foreclosed. And my mom … um … she passed about a week
ago.”

Jared shook his head. “First your dad, now
your mom. That’s some hard luck, man. Need a smoke?” He held out a
pack of Camels.

“
Um … thanks … but no
thanks.”

“
Listen. You can’t stay here man.
Bad shit goes down in these places. Way too easy to end up in the
wrong place at the wrong time, like almost happened here. Can you
imagine if I wasn’t here to vouch for you?”

“
I ain’t gonna be staying here much
longer,” I said. “As soon as estate crap gets sorted out, I’m
leaving … I’m going out of state.”

“
Yeah? Where you headed?”

“
Um. Ohio, probably. My uncle live’s
there.”

“
Ohio, huh?” Some inscrutable
calculation went on behind Jared’s eyes. He looked at his friends.
“Giulio got any peeps up there?”

“
Dunno.” The guy with the bat
shrugged. “Probably.”

He turned back to me. “So how you getting
yourself up there?”

“
Hopefully, with my dad’s pickup. If
I can shake it loose from the creditors. It might have to go up for
auction. Mom willed it to me, but … there are bills to
pay.”

“
Yeah, well. Good luck with that.
Bankers got their hooks into everything these days.”

A cell phone buzzed. The guy in the hoodie
checked his screen. “Enough with the chit-chat. Giulio’s ten
minutes out.”

“
Okay … um … listen James. You gotta
make yourself scarce. Alright? You never saw us. Never tell anyone
you saw anyone here after hours. Understand?”

“
Not a problem,” I said. “I’m just
gonna rinse off a bit with that hose over there and then I’ll be
out of your hair.”

Jared stuck his hand on my shoulder and
steered me around. “No can do. You gotta scram. We got company
coming.”

“
But—”

He shoved me back the other way. “I’m serious
Bud. You can’t come here at night no more. Come back in the
daytime. Okay?”

***

I only pretended to leave, circling around the
back of the facility to the storage bay. I crawled in, pulled the
screens in after me, and slid down the overhead door.

I was stuck back in my personal tomb without
the shower that would have made it bearable. I made do with wiping
myself down with a grimy towel. Morning couldn’t come soon enough,
and it didn’t.

I propped the door open with a pebble to let a
little bit of fresh air seep in. I squirmed on the mattress, trying
to get comfortable.

I went into one of those half-trances where
dreams mix with reality, but it was not an actual visitation. I was
thinking about Karla, going over and over in my head every detail
about her face, her voice, the layout of her little abode. I got
excited when I mistook a few stray itches for roots. I took every
loud thump for Reapers.

I heard a truck pull up outside the fence. A
storage locker slid open. Something trundled down the alley. Heavy
objects thumped into a trunk. Doors slammed. The gate rattled shut.
Cars pulled away. I was left with my pounding heart, my snuffling
breath and the roar of the highway.

I tucked a moving blanket under my arm and
left the locker before dark. I slipped back through the fence and
walked the two miles to the graveyard where Dad was buried. There,
I washed up at one the spigots for folks to water
flowers.

I was dead tired, but the idea of sleeping
over corpses creeped me out. But there was this old magnolia tree
with roots so thick and gnarly, there was no way anyone could be
buried beneath it. I spread out the blanket and found my escape in
the form of sleep, blessed sleep.

***

It was light out when I opened my eyes. Beyond
the low-hanging branches, palmettos and cypress bent in a stiff and
steady breeze. I crawled out from under the tree. My mind was
blank. I couldn’t remember dreaming.

The mosquitoes had gotten me pretty good. My
ankles were covered in hot and itchy welts.

The sprinklers were starting up on the far
side of the cemetery. I knew the routine well. I used to come out
here a lot to think. Over the next half hour they would advance in
a slow motion wave across the entire graveyard. The grounds crew
wouldn’t be in for another hour or so.

I stumbled down to Dad’s grave, a slight mound
covered in a patchwork of turf. A simple marker, flush to the
ground, bore his name. There was no headstone. Weeds had already
overgrown it and there were clumps of mud that looked like the
scrapings from someone’s boot. I cleared it off so Dad’s name was
legible again. Some day I’d get him a real headstone.

I didn’t want to break the bad news to him,
but Mom wouldn’t be joining him here. She had asked to have her
ashes scattered someplace green. I hadn’t decided yet where that
would be, but it wouldn’t be here. She had this thing against
cemeteries; said she wasn’t going to spend all of eternity in some
boneyard.

When my head cleared, I remembered I had an
appointment with the probate lawyer. I touched my face. A little
scraggly, but not too bad. I had last shaved the morning before,
but my facial hair had always been kind of sparse. Though, I
suppose I could grow a wicked soul patch if I wanted.

I tucked my shirt and brushed the burrs off my
pants, deciding that I looked good enough for a lawyer’s office,
particularly a weasel like Jeffrey Ohrenberger.