Slow Way Home (3 page)

Mac was holding a Mason jar high above his head as if offering a torch to light our way.

I tried to gauge the moment their greenish lights would blink, and soon Mary Madonna reached out for the lightning bug I had laid claim to. “That’s mine,” I shouted more because I thought she would expect me to than for any other reason.

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“Tough titty said the kitty and the milk’s not free.” She kicked up her tan leg and pulled up the edge of her dress before running off.

Even her run had sassiness to it. Named for Aunt Loraine’s Catholic side of the family, Mary Madonna was a princess in two people’s minds: hers and her mama’s. My cross to bear, Nana would tell me whenever I complained about my oldest cousin.

“No lightning bug’s gonna just fly in your jar. You gotta go for it.

Go on, catch it,” Mary Madonna said, dancing circles around us.

Watching her hold the hem of her red-and-white dress and run in circles with flashes of blue-green from the lightning bugs all around, I felt steady and strong. There was an ordinariness to it all that satisfied me as much as the food from Sunday dinner.

After the stars filled the sky and the last lightning bug had been captured, Mac stretched out on the floor pallet Nana had made for us out of hand-sewn quilts in the living room. Like always, Poppy warned of the dangers of color TV. “You boys gonna go blind sitting too close to that thing.” The jars filled with our catch were right next to us, and during commercial breaks we’d recount to verify how many bugs were still flashing.

Mary Madonna reclined against Nana’s chair and instructed Nana how to properly comb the knots out of her long blonde hair. It was a package deal. I could be sure that whenever I asked Mac to spend the night, Aunt Loraine would see to it that Mary Madonna would have her pink Barbie suitcase in hand, leading the way across the trail of flattened weeds that separated our grandparents’ home from theirs.

“This girl has the prettiest head of hair. You sure must get that from your mama’s side of the family. Lord knows you don’t get it from me. I always had the wiriest hair.”

Casting a watchful eye on Mac, I casually rubbed the top of my hair, satisfied that there were a few waves.

“This mess of mine never would do a thing but nap up just like a colored woman’s hair,” Nana said as she pulled the comb out of Mary Madonna’s mane.

“Ouch, Nana.”

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“Sorry, sugar.” Nana smoothed the injured spot with her broad, weathered hand.

Mary Madonna tilted her chin and stared at the TV screen. I wanted to reach over and yank it but good.

“You got pretty hair, Nana,” I said.

She looked up at me as if I had cussed. “Well now.”

“See there, Pearl.” Poppy nudged Nana from his easy chair.

“You’re a regular silver fox.” We all laughed at Poppy, even Mary Madonna. The laughter made me feel light-headed. I thought of the colored pills Mama used to take whenever her nerves would run high and wondered if they made her feel the same way.

“Oh, me,” Nana said. Her coarse gray hair was twisted in a braid and pinned into place on the back of the head. The first time I had one of the bad dreams, Nana came into my room with it all loose and hanging wild down her back. The stark whiteness of her hair, bathed in the blue moonlight that seeped in through the blinds, reminded me of a ghost. Before I came to my senses, I told her I didn’t like long hair. She laughed and wrapped her arms around me. The roll of skin on the side of her back was cushiony. “Sugar, it’s just part of my religion, nothing to be scared of. It’s my covering. The Bible says so.”

Her callused hand squeezed mine, and she lay with me until the past rolled away and sleep returned.

After the television was turned off, Poppy moved towards the porch-light switch, and Nana assigned beds. Mac would sleep with me, and Mary Madonna would take the sofa.

While Nana searched for sheets in the hall closet, Mary Madonna twirled her damp hair and sighed. “I’d sleep on that old hard floor if I was you.” Cupping a hand to her mouth, she closed her eyes and smiled. “He pees all over hisself. Just like a little bitty baby.”

“He does not, you farthead,” Mac said, and then quickly looked at me for confirmation.

I shook my head and glanced at the blank TV screen, trying to lie without coming right out and doing it.

Curling the edge of her lip, she let loose. “Don’t tell me. Mama
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said he wakes up like a crazy person. Screaming and spraying pee all over the place. Poor little thing.”

That baby-sounding voice. Mama’s voice. Before I could help it, I snatched the brush from the coffee table and whacked it against her golden arm. She screamed, and Nana pulled us away from each other.

“What in the world is going on in here?”

Mary Madonna tried to fake-cry. “Ain’t you gonna spank him?”

she moaned.

“I tell you who I’m going to switch, the whole mess of you if you don’t get yourselves to bed. Now scat.” Nana waved her hand for effect, and Mac and Mary Madonna scattered. But I stood still as could be. Fury was one emotion I had mastered, and a play act was something I could detect by the slightest change in voice pitch.

Hours later I rolled over to find the pillow missing and a wrinkled sheet beside me. Tiptoeing into the living room, I found Mac stretched on the old quilt, his hair spiked and legs twisted like a slinky.

And at the edge of the hall I paused to look real hard at the black ro-tary phone. In a moment of weakness I glared and waited, staring until the white panel and black numbers blurred my vision like an early morning mist.

The first time the school secretary called my name over the fat brown speaker box in Miss Douglas’s class, my heart began racing. Dewayne Pickings had reported that the principal used an electric paddle on him with no fewer than forty-five spikes in place for added torture.

And seeing the brown cardboard that now replaced the lunchroom window, the same window Dewayne broke with a rock just because he wanted to see it shatter, I figured he was an expert on discipline.

The hissing sounds from those around me didn’t help slow my heart rate, and I gave them a sneer as I stuffed the denim bookbag Nana had made me.

But at the front office there was no electric paddle, not even the principal for that matter, only the school secretary, who sold pencils 16

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and pads of paper each morning, and Poppy. After he explained that I had an important appointment, I watched Poppy write unsteady letters that spelled his name across a white pad. My chest swelled when I read the name in Poppy’s scratchy penmanship. After I was born, Mama didn’t give me the last name of my real daddy. She gave me the same name as hers, Willard. It was the best decision Mama made concerning men. The name Willard became an asset the day Poppy and Nana picked me up from the bus station. Fewer questions from nosy people like the school secretary. I was one of them, and the same name proved it. For all people knew, I was their own son. I heard Nana talking about some lady at her church who’d had a child during the change. People probably thought I was like that. A child that changed their lives.

We exited Stalwart Elementary that day to find a green boat attached to Poppy’s truck. “Bought it this morning when they auc-tioned off old man Randell’s belongings.” Poppy ran his hand down the boat’s side. “Figured you’d help me try her out.”

A tradition was soon born, and during Friday homeroom I’d try to guess if this would be the afternoon Poppy would show up to whisk me away. Nana only gave in to our ritual after I begged a little more than usual. “You just make sure you don’t get behind with your lessons,” she said, inspecting the string of fish we proudly displayed.

Some days we’d sit in that aluminum boat on Ricer’s Pond, and Poppy would talk about a new hog he had bought or the olden days when he ran the filling station and fixed fancy cars that passed through town. Mostly we’d just be quiet and listen to the locusts buzzing deep in the tall grass and watch the water crack and shatter with the landing of our lines. Only one time do I recall Mama floating into the conversation.

Poppy pulled the green cap with the John Deere logo low on his head. “How’re you managing?”

“Fine.” I didn’t look up as I reached inside the faded cottage cheese container and found a worm wiggling to the bottom.

Poppy’s voice cleared, and I heard the steady drum of his boot tapping against the boat floor. “You know, it’s a real shame your
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mama’s turned away from us. Used to be a good girl and then . . . But, now, none of that has a thing in the world to do with you.”

Residue from the earthworm made my hand stick to the pole, and I gripped it even tighter. I cast the line extra hard hoping the pop would drown him out. The sound echoed, and a white bird flew away from a patch of lily pads.

Poppy reeled in his line and stared straight ahead. “Never figured out why she started using dope.”

I jerked the line and gasped all at the same time. For added effect, I jerked the line and pretended to strain.

“The way I see it, she just let a bad habit run away with her.”

“I got something,” I moaned.

The boat rocked as Poppy slid to offer assistance. Grabbing the light rod, he cut his eyes towards me.

Staring into the murky water, I shrugged. “Must’ve broke free.”

There was no need to talk about Mama. I was getting my fill of that from the guidance counselor, Mrs. Hanson. Every Monday while the others lined up for the lunchroom, I was pulled aside, and together Mrs. Hanson and me would have lunch in the conference room by the principal’s office. If the door was open when we walked past, I’d search the wall high and low for the electric paddle. The only thing that came close to being something that could cause bodily harm was a golf club tucked in the corner next to the flag.

Mrs. Hanson was wrinkled but had hair as pink as cotton candy. I liked how two curls on each side of her head twisted and hung free like clumps of grapes. But I did not like how Mrs. Hanson would ask me how I felt about Mama and then turn her head and make an attempt to smile. Her smile always ended up lopsided and looked like any minute she would bust out crying.

“How’s Nana and Poppy doing?” she asked between sips from her chocolate-milk carton.

“Fine.” I studied the pictures that lined her wall. A girl, little babies, and one old man who most likely was her husband. “Who’s that?” I asked pointing to the girl centered at the top.

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“Umm. That’s Rachel, my oldest granddaughter.” The way she clasped her hand with the napkin still caught between her fingers told me that Rachel was the detour.

“How old is she?”

“Fourteen. Lives in Chattanooga. And can dance like you never did see. Wins all sorts of talent shows. Told me the other night that she’s going to be a majorette.” She wrinkled up her nose and giggled.

“She sure is pretty.” And while I learned how Rachel was a walking miracle on account of her being born too early, the big hand on the clock that hung over the file cabinet continued to move forward.

On Saturday afternoons the squeals and yells from Mac and Mary Madonna were the only invitation I needed. I’d run down the path Uncle Cecil had mowed between my grandparents’ home and their trailer, pulling my T-shirt over my head in mid-flight.

Three sprinklers fanned water in all directions. We would run up and down Uncle Cecil’s mound of dirt, pretending to dodge the falling water. At the top I’d stand so tall I could see Nana’s front porch, all the while envisioning I was a king of some ancient terrain. A shove from Mary Madonna would quickly end my reign. “Quit hogging up all the water,” she’d scream.

Once the mountain had turned to quicksand, Aunt Loraine would stand on the back steps of the trailer and hose us down. No matter how careful I was not to get too much mud on me, she always said the same line when it came my turn to get hosed. “And you, young man. I’ll just have to use the spray nozzle on you. You’re downright covered in filth.” As the pellets of water stung my legs, I never let on that she was doing anything out of the ordinary. I’d jump around like it was fun and act like she was playing some kinda game. And it was a game in which she always had the last say.

Aunt Loraine was a tall woman who puffed out her hair until it looked like one of G.I. Joe’s helmets. Her pug nose turned up just enough to remind me of one of the hogs Poppy kept pinned behind the house.

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Her face was painted and pasty, just like Samantha’s mama’s on
Bewitched.

Although I never shared this comparison with Mac or Mary Madonna, I kept it in the back of my mind. With a woman like Aunt Loraine you never knew when you might need an extra supply of ammunition.

Although Aunt Loraine believed in makeup, she did not believe in public transportation. “Public transportation is for coloreds and white trash. The last time I checked, my children were neither,” she said when Mac asked about riding the school bus. Since I got off the bus at the farm alone, Nana felt strongly that someone had to be at the end of the driveway to greet me. “Too much meanness going on now days,” she’d say. So every afternoon, humid or freezing, I disembarked to find her waiting inside the car with a cold Pepsi.

She held up the bottle. “Did you do good in school today? I got a slice of pound cake waiting on the table for you.” And every day she waited while I checked the mailbox. It was another part of the ritual in living with them. Supper at six, bedtime no later than nine-thirty; everything was set by time and carved out of history. But nothing in the schedule prepared me for an uninvited guest.

Just as I got to the black mailbox, I saw it sitting beyond the trees lurking like a cheetah stalking prey. Between the clump of maples across the road sat the old car with a different-colored door. The driver’s head was partially hidden by the branches. Closing the mailbox and walking towards the air-conditioning of Nana’s car, I heard the roar as the beat-up car engine turned over. A puff of blue smoke drifted beyond the treetops. Stillness wrapped around me just as it had the day I saw the rattlesnake slither in front of the mailbox.