Seeing Red (4 page)

Darrell snorted. “Do you need to go, Red?”

“Not that kind of pee!” I snapped.

Rosie made a warning rumble in her throat, and her hand started moving again.

“Okay,” Darrell said, “so far we got P-E-P. Pep? What kind of answer is that?”

Rosie’s hand stopped, and I read out the letter. “
T
, I think. Maybe it’s an
S
. It’s kind of between
T
and
S
—” But it moved again and I followed it with my eye. “Not
P
again! It must be
O
.”

Darrell shook his head. “This ain’t even a word. P-E-P-S-O. Pepso?”

“I think it was
T
, not
S
,” I said.

“Doesn’t make any difference,” Darrell answered. “P-E-P-T-O. Pepto. That’s – wait a minute!” He hooted. “Pepto-Bismol! That’s what’ll keep your mama from moving! Get it? Like bowel movement? You take Pepto-Bismol when you have the runs!”

“Darrell!” Rosie yelled.

He was laughing so much he rolled over backwards. That’s when he farted. I don’t know if he did it on purpose or if it just came out, but there’s something about farts. Even when you’re feeling real serious, it’s hard not to laugh at them.

I started to grin but bit my lip because Rosie wasn’t laughing. She stood up and stomped her foot. “Darrell Dunlop, you ruined everything! It would’ve worked if it hadn’t been for you!”

He could hardly talk through his laughing. “Okay, I’ll leave so you can go on with your stupid spirit calling.” He let one more rip before getting up and walking off, still chuckling.

“It’s too late now!” Rosie yelled after him. “No spirit is going to come to this place tonight, thanks to you!” She grabbed the Ouija board and stormed after him, her beads slapping back and forth.

I didn’t feel like laughing then because there I was, all alone by Daddy’s headstone. I touched the smooth, glossy surface of the black-flecked granite.

F
RANCIS
S
TEWART
P
ORTER,

LOVING HUSBAND OF
B
ETTY
A
NN
P
ORTER

FATHER OF
F
REDERICK
S
TEWART
P
ORTER

–––
AND
J
OHN
B
ROWN
P
ORTER
–––

FEBRUARY 11, 1933–JUNE 28, 1972

And I knew then that there was nothing Daddy could do any more. I was the one in charge. So I told him again, “You can count on me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Darrell’s Idea

I hardly slept that night, and early the next morning I was staring into the kitchen cabinet, my hands hanging onto the doors, groaning. With a jolt, I realized I was doing exactly what Daddy did on mornings after he’d worked late or was out playing poker until all hours. So I did what he always did. I fished around for his NASCAR mug, which Mama hid in the back because she said it was chipped and we should throw it out, grabbed the jar of Nescafé, and put the small pot on the stove with just a little water in it so it’d heat up fast. And I put the lid on the pot, which Daddy said was the trick to having it heat even faster. While the water heated I put a spoonful of instant coffee and two spoonfuls of sugar in the mug, stirring up the brown and white granules until they were mixed together. The water was already hot by then. I realized too late that I’d only heated enough to fill the mug halfway, so I filled the rest up with milk.

It tasted a little like melted coffee ice cream, which isn’t as good as mint chocolate chip but isn’t bad. After a few sips, I noticed that it had an after bite. The taste stayed with you, almost like the coffee had turned back into little grains and attached themselves to your tongue and the insides of your cheeks, and even if you tried to suck them off they stayed put. “Man, Daddy,” I muttered, “no wonder your breath smelled like coffee all morning.”

“Are you talking to Daddy again?” J stood in the doorway in his red briefs and matching undershirt.

I almost spilled my coffee. “Of course not. I’m just muttering.”

“What’s for breakfast?”

“Beats me,” I said, taking another sip of coffee. Mama hadn’t cooked since Daddy died, and J was a real picky eater, which didn’t help.

J grabbed his plastic Flintstones bowl from the drain board and slammed it on the counter. He’d gone back to using his baby plates all the time now. “I’m starving!”

“There’s cereal,” I said.

“I don’t like milk!” He slammed his bowl again. No wonder Daddy called him Bamm-Bamm after that noisy kid in
The Flintstones
.

“How about oatmeal?”

“Ew!”

“Then have some toast.”

“I don’t want toast!”

“You’re pretty picky for someone who’s starving.”

Rosie knocked on the screen door to the kitchen, and J ran over to whine at her. He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed for her to see him in his underwear. “Red won’t fix me anything to eat!”

“I will, too, you just don’t want anything!” I sounded as ornery as J.

Rosie came inside and smiled at J, bending down so she could look him in the eye. “What do you like to eat in the mornings?”

“Pie!”

Rosie bit her lip and flashed me a look.

“Come on, J, you know Mama hasn’t made pie since Daddy…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Mama used to bake pies all the time to sell at the What-U-Want. People came from all over for those pies for birthdays, holidays, funerals, any special occasion. Now folks didn’t come by as much, since there were no pies and no Daddy to fix cars.

J stuck his bottom lip out. “I miss those pies.”

Rosie gave him a hug. “Everyone does, honey. What else can we get you, huh?”

“I dunno. Sump’in special.”

I saw the bananas on the counter and remembered what Daddy used to make for us. “Hey, J, how about some bananas in orange juice?”

“Yeah!” J said, jumping up and down.

Rosie smiled at me, which went a long way towards putting me in a good mood. I took another swig from my mug and her eyes settled on it.

“You’re drinking coffee now?”

“Yep.”

She thought about that for a moment and then nodded like it made total sense.

I couldn’t help smiling as I sliced the bananas.

J ran circles around the kitchen table, making noises like a hot-rod revving up so loud that Rosie was able to get away with whispering, “I’m sorry the séance didn’t work.”

I shrugged. “That’s okay.”

J ran into the counter next to me, pretending to crash, just as I dropped the pointy end of the banana out of its skin into his Flintstones bowl.

He just about flipped. “I’m not eating banana poop!”

“J, there’s no such thing as banana poop.”

“Yuh-huh, there is, too! It’s that black stuff at the bottom of the banana.” He picked the banana piece out of his bowl and showed me the tiny bit of black at the pointy end. “See? That’s where it poops.”

Rosie giggled.

It wasn’t worth arguing with J, so I took the poopy end and put it in my bowl.

“Ew!” He hopped in circles around the kitchen, yelling, “Red eats banana poop! Red eats banana poop!”

I swear, it was hard trying to be nice to J. I splashed some orange juice in his bowl. “Come on,” I said to Rosie, “let’s get out of here.”

Rosie was still giggling, but as soon as we left the kitchen steps and crunched our shoes onto the gravel, she turned serious. “Darrell wants to see you.”

“Darrell?”

“Yes.” She folded her arms and looked over at the row of pines that ran from our shop to her shed. “He says he has a better idea than a stupid old séance.” She was pushing her lips together the way she did when she didn’t want the crying to come out.

“It wasn’t stupid, Rosie. It just didn’t work out is all.”

She gave me her little smile, and I followed her along the path of scrubby pines that stretched in a line from our shop to the Dunlops’ shed, except where it broke for the narrow bit of creek. Unlike the stupid pine tree stuck to my window, I always thought that this line of pines was something good, like a lifeline. Except for one thing: I loved our shop just as much as Rosie hated their shed. It was the place her daddy beat Darrell. Without that rope of pines connecting them, our places were about as far apart as heaven and h-e-double matchsticks.

We jumped the creek because it was nothing but a trickle, and I looked at the shed as we walked past. “Did Darrell…have to go to the shed?”

She shook her head.

Just then, I heard a scraping sound from inside the shed, and I jerked back.

“It’s Daddy,” Rosie whispered. “He’s still going through the boxes of Civil War stuff he got from Grandaddy at Easter time.”

“Well,” I said, giving her a grin, “he better watch out for those raccoons.”

She laughed out loud, now that the shed was far enough behind us. “It’s just old papers, anyway. He wanted guns.”

Darrell jumped out from behind a tree, and I couldn’t help but flinch.

He smirked, glanced down the row of pines to our shop, and looked at me. “I know how to stop your mama from selling.”

My heart lifted, even though it was Darrell talking. “How?”

He grinned so evil his dark face looked like his daddy’s. “No one will buy a place that’s destroyed.”

My heart sank again. “I’m not destroying the repair shop, Darrell. I want to keep it.”

“Not real destroying, stupid, just things that’s easily fixed but make it look ugly. You know how a place can look bad because, say, it ain’t been painted in a while or a screen is hanging off the window?”

I nodded, wondering if he was talking about his own house, because it sure was a sorry-looking place.

“Well, you just need to trash it up a bit.”

I thought for a minute and suddenly Darrell’s idea didn’t sound so bad. “Yeah,” I said, “Mama’s been doing some painting, trying to fix up the house. Maybe it’s time for me to do some painting of my own.”

“Naw, Red, you don’t want to go fixing the place up—”

“I’m not saying that. I’m thinking…spray paint.”

Darrell got his evil grin again. “We got lots of spray paint in our shed.” He hitched up his jeans around his beanpole waist. “And I got me some experience.”

I kept expecting Rosie to jump in and stop us, but she only chewed her lip.

Darrell spat like he always did to look cool. “You should come by Kenny’s. Meet me and my gang there tonight. We’ll help you with the plan.”

He’d never invited me to Kenny’s Pizza & Pool with him and his buddies, so I was quick to say yes.

“Eight o’clock tonight, squirt. Be there.” He pointed his finger at me and clicked, like he was holding a gun and cocking it. Then he turned and swaggered off as if he was Clint Eastwood in
Dirty Harry
.

“Come on,” said Rosie, grabbing my arm, “I want to go to your store and get a Hershey’s bar for Mama as a little treat before Daddy leaves. He’s going hunting and won’t be back until tomorrow night because he’s sick of – because Mama’s sick. It’s a strain on him, her being sickly all the time. He never gets away. He deserves a break.”

A break? It wasn’t like he did anything. Rosie was the one who took care of her mama. Why was she always covering up for him?

I listened to the slapping of her Dr Scholl’s sandals as we walked down the path. I couldn’t help looking at her because she seemed, I don’t know, a little different. Maybe older? Or maybe it wasn’t her looks. Maybe it was something else. That was it! “You smell, Rosie!”

Her sandals quit slapping, and she turned to stare at me.

“I-I mean, have you been making lemonade or something?”

Her open mouth quickly turned into her little heart smile. “Ohhh, it’s Love.”

I felt my face get hot, and I knew it was already pink, going on red.

Rosie laughed. “Love’s Fresh Lemon, silly. It’s the brand of shampoo and talcum powder I’m using now.” She held her wrist up to my nose. “Doesn’t it smell nice?”

“Y-yeah,” I said, even though I was backing away.

Rosie rolled her eyes but not in a mean way. In fact, she looked real pretty when she did it.

My face was still burning when we’d almost reached the What-U-Want and I noticed the silver Chevelle. It was Thomas’s grandaddy’s. He didn’t stop by the store as much now that me and Thomas didn’t hang out. And then I realized Thomas might be with him.