Slow Way Home (6 page)

“You reckon she’ll follow through with this?” Poppy asked.

“I don’t know what to think. She mentioned some man. Claimed he had plenty of money.”

“They all had money, didn’t they?” Poppy snorted, and for a second I thought he might be laughing. “Don’t worry none. If she means business, then we’ll just find us a lawyer.”

“A lawyer costs big money. Big money.” Nana almost moaned the words. “I expect we could mortgage the land if we had to.”

Crickets outside my bedroom window roared at the silence that followed. The land that Nana’s daddy sharecropped and saved years to buy. I pictured the rough and faded number on the porch floor, 1918.

The wavy numbers, carved with his own pocketknife, were a permanent memorial. I could almost reach out and touch his long wiry beard every time Nana told me the story of the day her daddy became his own man. “No matter what the world may take away from you, they’ll never be able to strip you of where you come from,” she’d always say at the end.

Hours later when stillness fell upon the house, I was relieved to awake and find the sheet still dry. Easing the door open, I saw a light glowing in the kitchen. The big black Bible was laid open like a place mat on the table. With her back to me, Nana sat cupping a white card. The words were too faint to read, but the gold seal stood out all bright and shiny. The same gold seal that the Senator, Mrs. Strickland, had pointed out to us when she passed around her business cards. The state seal that was there to remind us that, as long as we lived in North Carolina, we could count on liberty and justice.

Four

M
iss Belinda jumped up from her pew and began hitting the tambourine. Chatter from the instrument ignited her husband even more. “Jesus said ask all in my name and it shall be given to you. All! You want a mountain to move? Then tell it to move! You want healing? Then tell your mountain of disease to move on out! You want to have your bills paid up? Then explode your mountain of debt with faith!” As the tambourine chimes died down, so did his tone. “But you can’t doubt. No, sir. Doubt will do nothing but put a roadblock on the blessing.”

As Brother Bailey wiped the sweat off his brow, I slid along the pew and rested my head in Nana’s soft lap. I knew the routine. The excitement had faded, and it was safe to recline. I had learned not to lie down on the pew until he finished his yelling. The words he hissed whenever he got into one of his fits would always end up coming out in a fine mist of spat. So I had learned to wait to take my position, just like Brother Bailey said we had to wait on our blessings.

Poppy liked to say that Nana had been going to Rock Creek Holiness Church ever since Moses was a baby. Wednesday night, Sunday, Sunday night: we were engraved in the count that hung on the little brown attendance board every week. All the ladies in the church wore their hair the same way Nana did, long and pulled up in buns. Whenever I had to get up to use the bathroom, on the way up the aisle I
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liked to turn around and study the tight, round buns behind me.

White, red, black, blonde, and even light blue, they looked like speckles from a rainbow spread out across the congregation.

After the service we stood in the small church foyer until the last member had exited out of the glass doors. The scent of muscle ointment and Juicy Fruit gum still hung in the air. Nana eyed the sanctuary, where Brother Bailey and Miss Belinda wrapped microphone cords until they coiled in submission.

“I need to talk with Brother Bailey a minute. You go on and play outside.”

The red car divided the space between Brother Bailey’s brick home and the pines that lined God’s home. In the moonlight black stripes twirled up at the sides of the car like a bolt of lightning. It was Murphy’s car, Brother Bailey’s son. He was fresh back from Vietnam and, as I heard Nana once say to a friend on the phone, “never will amount to nothing.” The light in the car came on for a second, and I could make out two heads. Easing towards the car, I ran from pine to pine, using each one for cover. A flash of excitement filled me, and I wished Mac was here. He would make me brave enough to do something really funny, like jump on the back of the car and yell like a crazy man. I pictured Mac and me then taking off running and landing shoulder first in a pad of pine straw, laughing until breathing itself was painful.

Without Mac, I settled on mapping out a game of private detective, fixing to capture a white-trash criminal, with the trees as my cover. When I jumped from behind a broad tree, fingers held like a gun, I found I was too late. Someone had already been captured.

Through the back window. Murphy was kissing Trudy Beatty on the neck. Her head was all thrown back and the flow of long red hair cascaded to the edge of her white bra. I stood frozen, watching him pull and twist at the top. Uneasiness swept over me and, though part of me wanted to look closer, all I could do was run. I skidded on the slick pine straw and almost tripped over a fallen limb before reaching the church. When I got to the glass doors, I held the cold handle until my breath regained a regular rhythm.

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Slipping into the back pew, I tried to focus on the image of Brother Bailey and Miss Belinda with their arms draped over Nana in a way that reminded me of a football huddle. No matter how weird it looked, the sight didn’t bother me as much as seeing Trudy in her underwear and Murphy slurping on her neck. To distract myself, I fished a discarded bulletin from the tiled floor and began making a paper plane. All the while, Brother Bailey’s voice circled over me waiting for a place to land.

“Now, sister, the Lord knows all the grief that girl has caused you.

He won’t put more on you than you can bear. But you have to show Him you’re serious.” Brother Bailey lifted his fist high into the air, and Nana nodded.

“The Almighty took six days to make the world, so I want you to pray six times a day that Sophie won’t come against you. That she won’t take that boy.”

“Glory,” Miss Belinda shouted.

Her words fired up Brother Bailey like a gas stove. “Faith can move mountains, but only if you got enough of it. Call it by name now. Say she won’t take my boy.”

As Brother Bailey and Sister Belinda stood over her, Nana mumbled and then grew louder. “She won’t take my boy.”

Brother Bailey had his hand on Nana’s shoulder. “I don’t know, sister, I always figured your girl had herself a Jezebel spirit. But hear me out, her evil ways shall not prosper against you.”

I pressed my sneaker harder against the back of the pew in front of me. Creasing the edges of the paper plane, I licked the point with expert precision. It was sturdy, with a sharp point at the end. Ready for takeoff. As Brother Bailey grabbed the side of his belt and pulled the baggy pants high around his waist, I leaned back with all my might and threw my creation. It glided high above the rows of benches and sailed even with the attendance board. I pictured myself in the pilot seat steering it towards an exotic land yet to be discovered. But before I could call out Mayday, it happened.

Just as Brother Bailey opened his mouth, the plane crashed into
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the side of his neck. He slapped as if an overgrown mosquito was after him.

“Brandon, what in the world? You could’ve put out Brother Bailey’s eye with that thing,” Nana said.

But his eye remained strong as ever. Eyes that were too close together and too small for any normal person pierced right through me.

The way he squinted, I knew he thought that my meanness came natural. I was a part of the Jezebel spirit. I’m not like her, I wanted to yell. But the real proof was resting at his feet. Cream-colored paper filled with prayer requests and joyful hymns.

The day the deputy with brown cowboy boots appeared at the door, I sat Indian-style in front of the TV. Even with the papers in hand and the stricken look that made Nana’s mouth open, she still tried to pass it off. “Just some business stuff. Don’t you worry,” Nana said and then slipped the thick white envelope underneath the black telephone.

That night at supper we talked about a sick sow, the farmer down the road getting his leg cut on bob-wire, and the decreased price in cattle.

Never any mention of the chance that the car with the blue door might appear again and that my mama would swipe me away forever.

Nana continued to follow Brother Bailey’s orders to the letter. She even took time to pray at the Farmers Market. She would slip into the truck halfway through the day and close her eyes real tight like she was in a deep trance. Scattered conversations bounced around the high concrete walls until the words themselves sounded to me like they were coming from a gigantic blender.

“What’s wrong with her?” Poco whispered. He irritated me the way he liked to kneel down next to the side of the truck and watch Nana’s mouth move and twist in silence.

“Leave her alone.”

Poco wiped the sand off of his jeans. “Is she sick?”

“No, dummy. She’s praying is all. She’s just religious, okay.”

“How come she don’t have her beads?”

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“What beads?” I asked, afraid Brother Bailey had messed up part of the instructions.

“The rosary. Daddito has one.” Poco pointed towards Mr. Calato’s truck and the beads hanging from the rearview mirror. “I bet he’d let her borrow them. Is she praying about your mom coming back?”

“No.” I jumped from the truck tailgate. “How come you know about that?”

“I heard Daddito and Miss Naomi talking about it. She said your grandma is worried. Worried to death even.”

I stomped my foot so hard the jar from the concrete raced up my leg. “She’s not that worried. My mama is here just for a little while.

Just for a visit.”

Poco sighed like he was older than his own grandfather. “Yeah.

Just like my dad.”

Before we packed up, I saw Nana and Poppy in front of Mr.

Calato’s truck. They stood right in front of the discolored beads that dangled from the rearview mirror while Mr. Calato propped his boot on the edge of the bumper. Poppy leaned forward, his forehead almost touching the sweat-stained brim of Mr. Calato’s cowboy hat.

“You figure some of your kin, down say in Miami, might be able to help us?” Poppy’s words were slow, but his eyebrows stretched with anticipation.

Mr. Calato didn’t say a thing. Nana coughed a couple of times as if to signal Poppy to try again.

“It’s just that we hear . . .”

“Brandon your boy. Just like Poco . . . my boy. If this storm don’t blow over, help will be close.”

Nana squinted and held up an open hand as if to grab Mr. Calato’s words before the early morning breeze had scattered them away.

Five

M
iss Douglas had told us important people were coming to school that day. All the high-ups, she called them.

Her chalkboards were as black as a starless night, and all the erasers were lined perfectly along the metal sides. The big map of the United States was pulled down, and Miss Douglas gripped the wooden pointer until her knuckles looked milky.

“Boys and girls, who can tell me the capital of Texas?” Miss Douglas asked with the end of the pointer hovering over Louisiana.

She craned her chicken-looking neck towards the opened door. A shuffle of footsteps and soft whispers echoed down the sidewalk.

Dewayne Pickings raised his arm, and the musky scent caused me to jerk my head towards the windows. “Ooh, ooh,” he moaned. “I know.”

The voices grew louder, and I heard Mr. Jenkins, the principal, tell the group that Miss Douglas was one of the best. When the shuffles stopped outside the opened door, the soft blonde hair stood out from the group of men with wide ties. Her smile scanned the room, and for a second I thought maybe she recognized me.

The lady senator. She was standing right in my classroom with a dress so yellow it almost matched her hair. What if she remembered me?

She’d remember what Nana had told her about my mama and what trash she was to show up and take me away. She’d tell Miss Douglas, 42

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and then whenever she came to my name on the roll call each morning, Miss Douglas would mimic the guidance counselor’s slanted smile of pity.

“Uh, yes, Dewayne.” Miss Douglas pulled at her skirt and the pointer fell deeper into Louisiana.

“Baton Rouge.”

Miss Douglas’s wide eyes looked even bigger behind the glasses.

“Now, Dewayne. We studied this state just last week. Try again. This time let’s put on our thinking cap.”

Dewayne propped his hands on the roll of skin that hung from his chin and pretended to tie a ribbon underneath a cap that only existed in his mind. “Baton Rouge, Miss Douglas.”

She cleared her throat and glanced at the special guests. “No, it’s Austin. Austin, Texas. Now let’s move on to . . .”

Dewayne’s arm shot back up and his scent must have hit Miss Douglas too, because she snatched her head towards him real fast.

“You’re pointing to Louisiana, not Texas. What’d you expect?”

Dewayne asked.

The group of high-ups snickered, and Miss Douglas adjusted her glasses before faking a chuckle herself. “Well, Mr. Dewayne Pickings, you’re right as usual. I can always count on my little scholar to keep me on my toes.” Miss Douglas tilted forward and giggled along with the guests.

And then as the group turned to leave, the lady senator looked at us once more. The powdered face was lined even with my desk.

When her eyes landed on me, she clutched a necklace of pearls. There was no half-turned smile of pity. Just a slight nod and wink before she turned and followed the others.

After the visitors left, Miss Douglas claimed one of her sick headaches and passed out clumps of worksheets. The way she looked at Dewayne while she counted the sets of papers reminded me of the way Brother Bailey had looked at me the night I nearly poked his eye out with the paper plane.

Halfway through one batch of worksheets, my name rang out over
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