Upside Down in the Middle of Nowhere (5 page)

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said slow and clear to the wicked witch. “How would you like it if I took a stick an' hit
you
upside your fool head?” My voice was beginning to rise and my whole body took to shaking.

“That's enough, Armani,” Daddy said.

I walked back to Daddy and slipped my hand into his. I glared at the woman with my face all puckered up in disgust and stuck my nose up in the air. I didn't blink, not one time.

The woman finally tore her eyes away from mine. She lowered her head, nodding it from side to side, grumbling to herself. She lifted the front of her long, stained gypsy-looking skirt and shuffled on back around the corner where she'd come from. The poor messed-up puppies got quiet.

I took a deep breath and my heart took to beating again. “Sorry, Daddy.”

He squeezed my hand. “You don't have anything to be sorry about, baby.” Then he kissed the top of my head.

The friendly little bell rang above the thick red door when Daddy opened it. The warm, Saturday morning baking smell filled me up and brought my mind back to doughnuts.

Just like the blinking light outside promised, piping-fresh sugar-dusted doughnut holes and beignets filled the glass case. The shop
was full of people, but not one of them seemed to be interested in the goodness of fried dough. More than one person said the name Katrina, and I knew right then the talk was about the stupid storm.

Mrs. Louell was standing smack-dab in the middle of the room, preaching to everyone. I ain't trying to be hurtful, but the woman was so large she took up more than her share of the tiny shop.

“Well,” Mrs. Louell went on, “alls I'm sayin' is, soon as that storm hits them warm waters in the Gulf—humph. Well, y'all know it ain't gonna be good.” One hand was firmly planted on her generous hip and the other one was waving here and there, with the underpart of her arm wobbling like a bowl of brown Jell-O.

“Yup, yup,” is all her scrawny, soft-spoken husband said. It was probably the only thing he ever said, what with being around Mrs. Louell and all.

“Y'all best mark my words. We ain't ready for no big hurricane—humph. That's all I'm sayin'—humph.” She kept blowing out air like it was helping to make her point. I was bored to death with Mrs. Louell's rantin' and ravin' about that dumb storm.

Daddy and ol' Mr. Leroy were over by the red door in the corner that takes Mr. Pete upstairs to his living area. Mr. Pete's the best-smelling white man I've ever known. He used to live in a real nice butterbean-colored house with his wife, till she died from cancer a few years back. That's when he moved, and started staying above his doughnut shop. Memaw said he was never gonna find him a new wife living up there like that, but I didn't agree. I told her that someday I'd love to marry a man that came with his own built-in doughnut shop.

The corner door creaked open and Mr. Pete hurried through it, tying his blue apron strings behind his back. He stopped to shake Daddy's hand. “Mornin', George. Leroy.”

“Good morning. You doing all right, Pete?” Daddy said.

“Oh yeah, you know—just trying to get ready for this storm,” Mr. Pete said, and headed my way. “Hey, George, while you're here, go on upstairs and grab one of those tracking charts off my desk. I have plenty. Grab one for Leroy too.” He took his place up behind the counter and went to lining up a fresh batch of doughnut holes in perfect straight lines.

“Good morning, Armani,” said Mr. Pete.

“Mornin', Mr. Pete.” My eyes scanned the doughnut case. Mr. Pete picked up one of the hot sugar-dusted doughnut holes off the counter and offered it to me. I set it on my tongue where it dissolved, barely needing any chewing at all. I closed my eyes. “Mmm . . .”

Mr. Pete chuckled. “What can I get for you, young lady?”

“Well.” I looked over my shoulder. Daddy opened the red door in the corner. He seen me looking. He smiled and gave me the
I'll be back in a minute
signal by pointing his finger up in the air. I nodded and smiled back real sweet-like. He ducked so he wouldn't smack his head on the low door frame and he disappeared up the stairs.
Finally
.

I cleared my throat and turned back to the counter. I stood tall on my tippy-toes and said in my best hushed voice, “Actually, Mr. Pete, I'll be needin' two of your apple fritters, please.”

Smuggling the dang fritters out of the store and into the truck was only successful because Daddy was so distracted. I was gonna strangle Memaw for making me turn to criminal-type behavior just because she had a sweet tooth. I prayed I'd make it all the way home without the little white bag falling from under my shirt and landing on the truck floor. I got real nervous when I seen that Daddy was going the long way home.

“Why are we goin' this way, Daddy?”

“I need to stop and get gas. It'll just take a minute.”

I shifted in my seat, and the bag holding the fritters made a crinkle noise. It sounded like my stomach was made of crumpled newspaper. I froze and held my breath. Sweat left the top of my head and ran down past my ears.

Daddy started whistling some tune that only made sense to him. He smiled and looked sideways at me.

Before he got out of his truck at the gas station, Daddy said, “Armani, why are you hiding your Memaw's apple fritters under your shirt?” He smiled and winked and walked off to pump gas.

I seriously felt my heart stop right then and there.

Memaw was wearing a hole in the front porch, pacing back and forth. She was fussing—close to tears—looking all crazy, like she'd gone and lost her mind. All I could think was how much she must've been wanting them apple fritters. The little white bag felt like a brick wall sitting on top of the big white box of doughnuts on the seat between me and Daddy. If the fritters had caused her to get that worked up, we were gonna have to have a serious talk about the importance of pastries.

Memaw's hands flew up to her cheeks when she seen us pull up. I knew right then from the look in her eyes that whatever was happening, it sure wasn't about no apple fritters. My stomach twisted into a hard knot, and my heart went to pounding in the sides of my head.

Daddy flew out of the truck, leaped up over all four steps, and had Memaw in his arms before I could even get my stupid stuck door open.

“What is it, Mama Jean? What's wrong?”

“Oh, thank the good Lord you're home!” Memaw held a hand to her heart. “It's the baby.”

Kheelin.

The ambulance people about knocked me down the porch steps when they ran past me with the oxygen tank. Ever since the twins was born, Kheelin had been sickly and Khayla stayed as healthy as could be. Kheelin had at least twenty asthma attacks a week till the doctor gave Mama the inhaler. That thing was always with Mama, and Mama was never more than a holler away from Kheelin.

I tried to avoid Kheelin, 'cause I was afraid to love him. It seemed he was living with only one foot this side of Heaven. I ain't proud of it, but it was the truth. All that baby boy had to do was sneeze sideways, and my nerves would get set in motion. When he was first born, I wouldn't even hold him. Not that I would've had a chance to even if I'd wanted—not with the way Mama was always fussing over him twenty-four-seven.

Memaw was huddled up in her TV-watching chair with her hand wrapped tight around the silver compass-locket she never took off. A layer of sweat covered her face. Sealy stood beside her.

“Are you okay, Memaw?” Sealy asked, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. A lady paramedic on her way out the door stopped and looked down at Memaw. “Ma'am, are you feeling all right?”

Memaw forced a smile and nodded her head. “I'm fine, darlin',” she said, waving the lady away. “Don't mind me none. I'm just an old lady who needs a rest, that's all.”

The ambulance lady took Memaw's wrist and checked her pulse.

“Is she havin' an asthma attack too?” I asked. Nobody ever told me asthma was contagious.

Memaw pulled her wrist away from the helpful lady and said, “No, indeed. I'm not havin' an
attack
of any kind!” She slapped her hands down—one on each arm of her gold-flowered chair. She planted her feet firm on the floor and stood up, no grunts or nothing. She didn't even take time to let the blood flow down to her toes like usual.

As she strutted past me, Memaw put her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “I'll be in my room if ya need me.” She snatched the white bag holding her apple fritters off the edge of the counter where I'd put it. She stuck her nose into the air and disappeared around the corner.

My cousin TayTay, whose real name is Quantayvea, came over after the ambulance left. She's been my best friend since the day I was born. She used to live down the road from us, but when her mama—my daddy's stepsister—ran off the year before, TayTay moved across the river to Chalmette to stay with her grandma. Since then, I only got to see her on the weekends when she came to stay with her dad on the south side of the Nines. I didn't like calling him
Uncle
Alvin, on account of the way he treated TayTay. He was always passed out drunk somewhere, leaving his only child to fend for herself. And besides that, he was mean to her—real mean.

TayTay knew when
not
to ask too many questions. I liked that about her. I never did care much for anyone trying to get all up in my business. Like my second cousin, Danisha. That girl was messy, always acting like you was her best friend, then going around talking all kinds of trash about you behind your back.

It was fixin' to be lunchtime, and all us kids were scattered here and there in the living room. Georgie was helping Kheelin build a city out of blocks for his little cars to drive through, but as fast as the boys could stack them, Khayla knocked the blocks down. Georgie pretended to be upset by throwing hisself on the floor in a tizzy fit each time.

After a good while, Memaw came wandering out from her bedroom and sank into her chair. She let out a long, sleepy-sounding sigh.