Seeing Red (36 page)

He still looked dazed.

“Bill.” Miss Miller was at his side. “Don’t you have some papers about the property?”

“Papers?” he said.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

“Oh,” he said, lifting his glasses and settling them back on his nose again. “Yes – yes, I do.” He leaned into his car, took out a briefcase, and pulled a fat folder out of it.

Mr Harrison walked towards him. “Now, son, you’re not even from these parts.”

“But I am a lawyer, admitted to the Virginia bar, and I know how to research land titles, even fraudulent ones.” He raised the fat brown file in one hand and shook it. “I’ve got enough evidence here to raise doubt about the title of this land.”

“What are you saying?” Mr Cataldo asked, joining us.

“I’m saying,” Mr Reynolds said, “that there’s a cloud on the title.”

Mr Cataldo put a hand on his forehead. “What, exactly, does that mean?”

“It means there’s doubt as to who really owns this land. It means you take a risk if you buy this land. It means years and years of court battles.”

Mr Cataldo glared at Mr Harrison. “I’ll need a ride back to the airport,” and he headed for the Chrysler.

“A deal’s a deal!” Mr Harrison said.

Mr Cataldo took a deep breath and turned on Mr Harrison. “Forget it – I’m not touching this powder keg!” He took the papers from under his arm, held them up, and tore them in half with a rip that split the air.

The house was in an uproar all night. Mr Reynolds was on and off the phone talking to Mr Jones and even to Miss Georgia’s grandaughter. I convinced Mama that it wouldn’t be right to sell our place, that at least some of our land had to go back to Miss Georgia’s family because her grandaddy had bought it fair and square. The sheriff took Rosie home and Mr Dunlop to jail for the night to “cool off”. Miss Miller finally got J to go to bed and then took Beau home, but not before Beau grabbed my arm and grinned. “It’s just like the sign said. You sure did fix it right, Red!”

I guess things were fixed “right” but that meant we were moving to Ohio, which was about as wrong as anything could feel.

I don’t know if I slept at all. I guess Mama didn’t because early the next morning she was sitting at the kitchen table wearing the same clothes as the night before, just like I was. Normally she’d say, “Happy Thanksgiving!” but I don’t think either of us was feeling real happy.

She explained that Mr Jones and his daughter, Mrs Reed, said that even though part of our land belonged to their family, it didn’t have a house or a store built on it at the time their ancestors owned it, so they were going to pay for the worth of the house and What-U-Want, and some of the land. And we’d be able to keep a small piece of land ourselves.

“I think that’s fair all around, don’t you?” Mama asked me.

“I guess, but—” I was about to ask her if getting some money meant we could stay here, either buy a house or build a house of our own on what land we had left, but she spoke first.

“It won’t leave us with much money because we need to pay off our debts, so we’ll still have to move.”

I let all my hope out in one long breath.

“There’s good news, too,” Mama said, all fake cheery. “Beau will have a job because Mrs Reed wants him to keep working here. And the sheriff is convincing Mr Dunlop to go back to trucking.”

I shook my head. “He won’t because he can’t trust Darrell and—”

“Well, Darrell’s not around right now,” Mama pointed out, “and even when he is, Sheriff Scott is making a very convincing case to Mr Dunlop that if he doesn’t change, he might not have Rosie around at all, and I believe Ray got the message.” She looked over towards the Dunlops’. “Rosie’s going to be okay.”

I would’ve felt better if I knew I could stay and actually get to see Rosie. Or Beau. Or have a chance to be friends with Thomas when he visited in the summers. Now there was no hope because I’d be in stupid Ohio.

“And,” said Mama, “I’ve decided that I’m going back to school to become a teacher, so I can support my family. Until I get my degree, I’ll do some substitute teaching.”

I just stared at her. I didn’t know what to say. It felt like there was nothing but change happening.

“Now if you don’t mind, Red, I’d like to have the house to myself for a little while to say goodbye.” Her lips trembled along with her voice, even though she was trying to smile.

I swallowed hard because of the lump that was growing in my throat and stood up. By the time I pushed the door open she was talking again.

“I’m going to miss this place.”

I felt my head drop down.

“At least we’re all packed,” she said.

My head dropped down lower.

“I suppose,” Mama spoke as if she were choosing every word carefully, “we’ll load up the car and take as much as we can in each trip, and then keep coming back for more.”

I turned around and looked at her. “All the way to Ohio?”

“No,” Mama said, and a slow but steady smile crept across her face until she was full-out grinning. “To Beau’s.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Thanksgiving

“Rosie! Rosie!” I was banging on her front door even though it was barely dawn. “We’re staying!”

I heard a squeal from inside, and Rosie flung the door open, her bathrobe only half on over her bright pink nightgown.

I explained everything to her and she kept blinking like she might still be dreaming, but her little heart lips were making a big smile. “You’re really going to live with Beau?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.” She shook her head, grinning. “Your mama is one strong woman.”

“Yeah.” I grinned. “She is. Oh, and not only are we staying, your daddy’s leaving – he’s going to start trucking again! Sheriff Scott is making him.”

This time she squealed and jumped up and down on the front porch, clapping her hands. And then she grabbed me and hugged me, for a long time. I didn’t mind. I hugged her right back, for a long time.

When I walked back towards the altar stone I saw the NASCAR mug sitting there on top of some papers. I picked my way over the remains of the shop to get my coffee, and saw it was sitting on my paper, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”. I picked up my mug, sat down on the stone, and flipped to the last page to read what Miss Miller wrote. There wasn’t a grade. And I don’t think that was because she wasn’t my teacher any more. All I did was write down what really happened and how I felt about it. You don’t give a grade on real life. But if she had given me a grade, I bet it would’ve been an A. With all the words she used like
honour
and
truth
and
respect
, how could it not be an A?

I stared at our house, the house I’d grown up in, the only house I knew. It was going to feel strange having other people living there. I guess knowing that they belonged there all along made it easier to take. Sitting on the altar stone, I was glad that I’d finally found Freedom Church, even if it did mean that our shop burned down. And even though it meant I’d found out who killed Miss Georgia’s grandaddy. Us. But I also knew I wasn’t Old Man Porter. I might have his name, his blood, and his hair, but I wasn’t him. I was the man of the family now, and I got to decide what Porter stood for.

I took a sip of my coffee and thought of Daddy. On Thanksgiving Daddy always made us say what we were thankful for. I was thankful that we’d be staying in Stony Gap. And that Rosie was going to be okay and Beau had a job. It still hurt that Daddy and Miss Georgia were gone. And that I’d lost Thomas, too. Maybe someday I could be friends with Thomas again. At least now that I’d fixed things right, I figured Daddy would be proud of me. I took another sip of coffee, and I swear I heard Daddy’s voice far away.
I hear ya, son
.

I heard a loud voice from inside the house. It was J whining. Mama was trying to calm him down. I guess some things would never change.

I remembered that Mama wanted to be alone, so I yelled, “Hey, J!”

He pushed the kitchen door open and stood there in his green briefs and red T-shirt. “What?”

“Come on out here.”

“I don’t want to. It’s cold.”

“Then put on some clothes.”

“I can’t find any! Mama packed everything.”

“I got something to show you,” I said, “but you have to come out here and see it.”

He gave me his whiny look and sighed. “Oh, all right.”

“And get some shoes on!” I called after him, like Daddy used to.

J trudged out in snow boots and a yellow bath towel slung around him like a cape. With his green briefs and red T-shirt he looked like he was trying to be Robin from
Batman
. I thought about what Daddy used to call me and I couldn’t help smiling.

“So who are you trying to be, J? The Boy Wonder?”

His pouty mouth slowly turned into a grin. “Yeah.” A shiver ran through him. “But I’m still cold.”

“Well, come on up here, Boy Wonder. You can lean against me.”

J hopped up next to me.

“I got a story to read you.”

He looked at my paper. “Aw, that ain’t no story. That’s your homework. I saw Miss Miller give it to Mama last night.”

“It’s real good, though. And it’s true, too.”

J narrowed his eyes at me. “Does it have any shooting in it?”

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

His eyes popped wide open.

“And guess what else? You’re in it.”

His eyes got even bigger. “Are you?”

I nodded.

“And Thomas?”

I thought for a moment. “That’s part two,” I said.

“And it’s all true, even the shooting?”

“Yup. So you want to hear it?”

He nodded so hard it felt like the whole rock was shaking. Then he shivered and leaned against me. I even put my arm around him like Daddy used to.

The sun was rising with red and orange streaks in the sky, and I breathed in the smoke from Rosie’s wood stove as I started reading our true story out loud.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

There are defining moments in our lives when something hits us with such force that we will never forget it – exactly where we were, who was with us, and what emotion we experienced. One such moment for me was as a child in South Africa. At that time, the country was governed by a system of apartheid, which meant keeping blacks, whites, and Asians apart from one another and giving them different levels of privilege. It was not something I fully understood until my first day of school. At the end of the day, I was in the kitchen with my mother, reporting to her, with some concern, that all the native children must’ve been ill because not one of them had been at school.

I remember looking out the window at the surreally brilliant sunshine, beyond my mother’s pained face, as she explained apartheid to me, a system that was unfair and unjust but that we were forced to follow, and how that meant I would not see any black children at my school. I felt such profound powerlessness, magnified by the fact that my mother, an adult, the one I looked to for protection, for making things right and for making sense of my world, was also powerless. It was a shocking and frightening feeling to learn that adults could be so ridiculous and that these same adults governed my life. Under the fear, I felt anger.

A couple of years later, in the late 1960s, we lived in Virginia, and I was feeling proud to be American. I remember another conversation with my mother, also in the kitchen, where I smugly announced a critical difference between South Africa and America: We did not have apartheid in America. I’ll never forget her turning from the sink and locking her eyes on mine. “Oh, yes, we do,” she said in a voice shaking with emotion. “We just don’t call it that.” After she explained the injustices in our own country’s race relations, I experienced those same emotions of shock, fear and anger, which I took out on our mailbox. Our mailbox was not quite right after that, but I felt it matched the state of our country. Things were not quite right.

What I realize now is that my mother likely saw me through the kitchen window, and while every aspect of my behaviour – being violent, destroying property, making a scene, acting unladylike – was something she normally would have stopped, she let me continue. She understood. And as a mother now, I can feel the pain of having to explain the world’s ugliness to a child, without being able to make things right.

Several years later, in the early 1970s, the same time as the setting of this book, we were living in Alabama. There I witnessed racial slurs as well as the genteel cover-up of racism, both of which stunned and angered me. By then I knew it was a part of my world, but it still upset me, especially the feeling of powerlessness. What could a kid do? Except maybe share and explain one’s beliefs and stand up for people who were being wronged. I didn’t know it at the time, but those are actually very important and powerful things that a kid, or anyone, can do.

I wrote this book so that readers might see that, no matter what your age, you can make a difference. If you think something is wrong, change it. If you think people are being wronged, change that. You have the power to change things about your world. That doesn’t mean you’ll always win – often, you won’t – but even making an attempt to “fix it right” does have an effect. Above all, you have the power to be whatever kind of person you want to be. No one can take that incredible power away from you.