Signed, Skye Harper (13 page)

(what did she even look like now? All I knew were the last glamour shots from December, mine and Nanny’s Christmas present. A lot could happen to you in six or seven months) maybe watching Mark Spitz swim across the screen on our old black-and-white TV back in the Florida room.

Nope. Couldn’t see it.

“She’s your
momma
, Winston,” Nanny said again, and her whisper was fierce.
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110

What Makes You a Momma is Being One

No matter what anyone says, you can’t be a momma if you’re not a momma.

I’m just saying.
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111

At the Shell outside of town, Nanny filled up the motor home.

“It cost us a pretty penny to get here,” she said.

I didn’t say anything except, “I’m using a real john.” The same thing I said every time we pulled into a service station.

“I’ll come with you, Churchill,” Steve said.

I didn’t answer.

Thelma, who is private with her own pottying, ran to the side of the parking lot, looking for grass. There was nothing. “You’re gonna have to use the rock,” I said.

She gave me an embarrassed look.

“Sorry. I know how you feel. I don’t even want to be here.”

I slipped across the hot pavement. I could feel the burn through my flip-flops. And all across my back. And in my heart. A black burn there. Black as hell.

This is for Nanny,
I thought.
For Nanny. For Nanny.

I sure was choosing a poor time to feel unhappy about our trip. Perhaps I should have thought this earlier and stayed home with the chickens. Not that I would have been allowed to do that.
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“Your hair looks different, Churchill.” Steve had jogged up next to me.

His words melted me. A little.

“Really?”

“Not so . . . big.”

“Ummm.” How should I answer that?

I stood outside the bathroom door.

“She had an affair.”

“What?”

Steve looked toward the pavement. “Lots of affairs.”

Thelma wandered around sniffing things. Nanny called her with a low whistle, and Thelma trotted back to the motor home, dodging cars as she went.

“My father said everyone he has ever loved has not loved him enough. Not enough to be faithful.” Steve swallowed.

Everyone.

Including my own grandmother. I cooled like I stood in Leon’s Deepfreeze.

“Who do I choose?”

I had no answers. Just guilt from something I hadn’t done.

Steve grabbed my hand. Pulled me up so close not even a travel pamphlet could fit between us. Right where everyone could see. Right where Nanny could see. The cooled-off part of me melted. I closed my eyes.

“You gotta be nicer to Miss Jimmie,” he said. He wrapped his arms around me, put his face next to mine. His
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skin was hot in the sun. If I touched him with my tongue, would he taste of salt? “This is her girl. Her daughter.”

Wait. A. Minute.

The motor home horn sounded. Nanny had seen us.

“Steve . . . you don’t . . .” I couldn’t end my sentence. I didn’t know what he knew about my feelings. Not with this new revelation.

But wasn’t he doing something similar with his momma? And his daddy?

Sort of. Kind of.

No, not a thing like this.

I pushed against his chest, but he held on. Not tight. Perfect. I could have pushed him all the way away, but I didn’t want to.

“She left me.”

“I know.”

“And Nanny.”

“I know.”

The horn blared again. Someone hollered out, “Cool it, sister.”

“But your grandmother wants this really bad. And so do I.” He pressed his lips to mine—a perfect kiss. In front of the whole world.

“Stephen!” said Nanny. “Stop that right now!”

But he didn’t. Not right away. He kissed me a little longer, a melted-caramel kiss. Then he walked me to my bathroom door and we went our separate ways.
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112

Truth

In the almost-clean bathroom stall I decided that, for the next few minutes, until we met my momma, I would be super nice about what might happen.

And Steve was right. My hair looked real good in this dry heat.
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113

Tragedy

MURDER AT THE OLYMPICS.

That’s what the headlines read on the newspapers. All of them. Front-page news.

That’s what people said at the filling station.

My steps slowed like I walked through wet cement. The cement poured down my throat and into my lungs. It hurt to breathe. What had happened? What did this mean? Who would kill athletes?

Who could kill anyone?

The sun was too bright. I was blind.

And all I could think was, what about Mark Spitz?
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114

Death

Nanny said, “Don’t worry,” patting at me, but I could see she was scared too.

Black September. Jews. Palestinans.

People kidnapped. Dead.

Mark Spitz is a Jew.
That’s what my brain thought, but my mouth couldn’t say anything.
A Jew in Germany.

We watched the news on a small TV with aluminum foil wrapped on the rabbit-ears antenna. Everything on the screen looked fuzzy.

All of us, Thelma and Denny included, plus six men and one woman holding a baby, watched. Waited.

ABC didn’t know anything about our athletes at the moment.

We’d have to tune back in.

There was a blurry shot of a man in a dark ski mask.

My heart wanted out of my chest. I couldn’t feel my hands until Steve locked his own over mine.

They kept saying the same thing over and over.

Black September. Jews. Palestinians.

People kidnapped. Dead.

Dead.

Maybe even Mark Spitz.
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115

True Worry

I lay on the bed.

Looked at the ceiling.

Swallowed down the worry.

Cried and waited.
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116

Meeting

“We’re pulling into the liquor store parking lot, Churchill,” Steve said.

I refused to look at him.

“Your mom’s gonna want to see you.”

“Winston.” Nanny’s voice cut into the room. The motor home shut down. “I see her. I see her right there.” Then: “You stay, Thelma. Denny. Out of the way.” I heard the side door open and close.

“I think you have to get up,” Steve said from the curtained doorway.

“I know.” The sun was too bright for what happened in Munich.

“Think about it later. I’ll stick with you.”

“I’m not so sure . . .”

Thelma jumped on the bed and nosed right up to my face. “Hey, girl,” I said, and the tears fell faster. “You back?”

She hrumphed down next to my body, and I put my arms around her and forced myself to stop crying, my face buried in my traitor dog’s neck, her collar jabbing right into my cheek.
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117

Doing It

I would do this.

I could do this.

Now. Right now.

“Come on,” Steve said, and he slipped his hand into mine, and pulled me to my feet. With his thumbs he dried my face. “I’m not wiping your nose for you,” he said. He smiled that brilliant smile. “You can do this.”

Yes.

I could do this.
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118

Momma

I recognized her right away. It was like looking in a mirror. A grown-up mirror.

“Momma,” I said, as Nanny said again, “Judy,” and Steve said, “Hot damn, Churchill, now I know what you are gonna look like in a few years and I am even more in love.”

“In love?” I said.

Steve grinned in my face. Squeezed my fingers.

Momma was on us before Steve could say anything more. Hugging me and Nanny up so tight I couldn’t even pull in a full breath.

“Baby girl,” Nanny said, and she was crying. Crying!
My
grandmother. A pecan-size lump clogged up my throat seeing my nanny so emotional. “I been missing you something awful,” Nanny said. I could see that was true. Grief and relief were written all over my grandmother’s face. And that missing, right there, clear as words on a Las Vegas billboard.

Denny worked at the hot parking lot, and Thelma kept herself situated in the shade of the camper. Her ears were laid back, and when she caught my eyes over Momma’s shoulder, Thelma showed me her teeth. Nope. She didn’t look happy, either. Maybe our renewed friendship was already over.
{ 201 }

“Look at you, Winston,” Momma said, holding me by the shoulders like long-lost mommas hold on to their kids in the movies. Her nails dug into my flesh. “You are beautiful.”

I didn’t say anything. Just squinted at her. Looked at my momma through a squeezy set of eyes that offered only a bit of sight.

Denny pecked.

Nanny didn’t even bother to wipe at her tears. She let them run down her face like she wasn’t crying but rejoicing instead. And maybe she was. Whatever, her tears fell like a rainstorm before the tornado weather and I knew if it were possible, Nanny would cry hail.
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119

Feeling Reluctant

Momma tried linking arms with me but I wouldn’t let her. Instead I latched on to Steve. I expected Nanny to notice and signal with a cough that I should let loose, but she was overcome with her own daughter, who wrapped both arms around Nanny,
my
grandmother—the woman who had cared for
me
since age four—and Nanny didn’t even give me a sideways glance.

Sheesh! This was betrayal like Thelma with Steve.

Once sitting in the motorhome, AC running full blast, Momma grabbed ahold of Steve, who turned the color of a ripe persimmon. When I glared at him, Steve excused himself to the potty and came back, his face redder than when Momma held on to him.

What was wrong with me?

Was I . . . could I be. . . jealous of my long-lost mother?

Didn’t I want her home?

Ding dang it, I knew the answer to that one. No.

But didn’t I want Nanny to be with her girl?

I swallowed.

Yes. Yes, I did.

And no. No, I did not.
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Nanny was
my
own, my grandmother-mother. My real momma had left her. Us. She had left me, too. And I wasn’t but a little thing.

Now, Momma laughed and chatted like it hadn’t been more than a decade since I had seen her.

A decade!

Ten years!

“Let me take you all to lunch here on the Strip,” Momma said. “My treat. And I’ll show you one of the places I work. Two more shows, a few dinner services, and we can leave this godforsaken hellhole.”

Nanny eyed Momma. “You mean it, Judith Lee?” Nanny’s voice was like a low wind, almost not there, one doing nothing to touch the heat that rose around the motor home, making the distant buildings look shimmery.

“Mommy, call me Skye,” Momma said, and she smiled like she posed for an Olan Mills portrait.

Nanny seemed surprised and opened her mouth, then she shut it and didn’t say a word.

“You too, Winston,” Momma said. “You call me Skye too.”

“I won’t,” I said, knowing I was saying the very thing Nanny wanted to say. Beside me, Steve linked pinkies but I shook him off. It was way too hot for that.
I
was way too hot for finger linking.

This was all Momma’s doing!
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I reached over and full-on took Steve’s hand in my own, even though we were both sweating. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

“I changed my name, Winston, Mommy,” Momma said. She gave the Strip a little nod, like the area approved. And maybe it did. “Some time ago. It’s official.” Momma swept her arms out. “I am Skye Harper. Let’s get this monstrosity rolling on closer to the Tropicana. That’s where I work. There’s a few places down the street where you can park.”

Nanny rubbed at the motor home tabletop, then stood and climbed into the front seat. “Can’t believe you did that, Judy,” she said. Her voice sounded the size of a dime. “I named you after my dead sister.”

Momma let out a sigh and, like that, I remembered.
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120

Memories

I remembered the feeling. The always there, uncomfortable feeling between my momma and the woman who had raised me.

I remembered standing between them—little arms raised—saying, “Santa Claus’s birds is watching you two.”

I remembered Momma saying, “Damn it, Winston, you are three years old. There ain’t no Santa Claus, and the sooner you get that into your head, the better.”

I remembered loving my momma. And hating her too.

I remembered it all in that little sigh of hers.
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121

Praying . . . and Such

It was a short drive. Long enough for us to hear the news, and for Momma to say, “Turn that thing off. Let’s think pleasant thoughts,” so I didn’t get me the update I was dying to hear.

She chatted about this building and that one, about some guys named Siegfried and Roy, then spun around to face me, her hair flying like a golden wave.

“Guess what, Winston?”

I shrugged like I didn’t care. ’Cause I didn’t. Try as I might.

“Guess who I see all the time?” She folded her hands beneath her chin like she was praying. Well, if she was getting all religious, I hoped she’d pray for the sun to dim or the heat to lighten up.

“Who?” Steve said. His hand felt like he tried to send me a message. I shook him loose of me.

Momma smiled so pretty my heart pinched. Great! I was gonna die of a heart attack out west where I didn’t know a soul. Where my dog hated me, my nanny would probably leave me off, and my almost boyfriend decided my momma was beautiful.
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Boyfriend?

Had I really thought that?