by Nic Stone
And she turns on a GOS (Grandma Orthopedic Sneaker) and heads back to the RV.
* * *
They ride in silence for a good while. Scoob doesn’t know what to say, and anyway, his head is spinning, so it’s not like he could form sentences if he tried.
Someone tried to blow up a church with little kids in it? Also, what did G’ma mean about “fixing” whatever happened with G’pop?
Then there’s the whole license plate thing. Scoob looked: there’s definitely a Vermont tag on the Winnebago now. Which is strange enough to think about without considering G’ma’s use of the phrase make a run for it, and yet that’s dancing around in his mind too.
He sighs and pulls the road map G’ma gave him from his backpack. Opens to the Alabama part and circles Birmingham. Draws a little church over it.
“You making your own annotations over there, kiddo?” G’ma says, breaking the un-ask-able question spiral Scoob’s tumbled into.
“Oh…yeah,” Scoob says. “Guess I am.”
She nods. “Ya know, I’m really glad you’re here with me.”
He swallows down his unease and forces a smile. “I’m glad I’m here too, G’ma.”
Which…is partly true? He’s definitely glad he’s not at home in James Robert Lamar Jr.’s personal version of house arrest. Though he can’t help but wonder if G’ma really did send that text message to let Dad know they’re okay. Why he’s thinking about this now he couldn’t say, but…
He’s gotta ask. “G’ma, did you ev—”
“I wanted to take this trip with your daddy,” she says.
“You did?” Why he’s surprised, he doesn’t know. Dad is G’ma’s son.
“For years I wanted to,” she says. “But I never did. Never even mentioned it to him.”
Hmm. “Why not?”
“Couldn’t muster the courage,” she says. “Didn’t wanna face the questions I knew he’d ask. Especially about your G’pop.” She shakes her head.
Now Scoob’s uncomfortable again and he’s just figured out why: Ever since they were at the church, she’s been telling him stuff she normally wouldn’t. Almost like they’re friends instead of grandma and grandkid. It’s one thing to talk to somebody his age as a friend—he and Shenice obviously talk all the time. But a grandma? Grandmas are even more grown-up than regular grown-ups—how’s he supposed to even respond?
“Anyway, for a minute at that Yankee restaurant, I felt like he was with me. Took me right on back.”
Scoob is confused now. “What do you mean, G’ma?”
“The way those people were staring at us? The man with a face the color of a pig’s rear end, and the ugly woman with the hooked nose?”
Scoob can’t help but smile at her descriptions.
“There was a brief moment when I looked at you and saw your daddy.” She turns, and her blue eyes rove over Scoob’s face in a way they never have before. “When your daddy was a little boy, and he and I would go different places, people were usually nice to me but crummy to him,” she says. “And when they’d find out he was my son…well, let’s just say I’ve seen the nice-to-nasty switch flip a few more times than I care to think about.
“There was one time—your daddy was about five, I think. He and I were a few towns away from home because I’d gone to interview for a teaching position at a new school and couldn’t find a babysitter. Anyway, we go in this grocery store, and Jimmy was upset because I told him he couldn’t have a candy or something. Typical kid stuff.” She waves her hand like no big deal. “He was pulling on my dress and whining a bit, and this store owner comes over with a wooden paddle and says, ‘This little n-word bothering you, ma’am? I can take care of ’im….’ Except he said the word.”
Scoob’s eyes go wide.
“I’ll never forget it. Your daddy was hiding behind my legs, scared outta his wits at that point. When I kindly told the man that Jimmy was my son and we were just fine, thank you very much, the old buzzard looked at me like I’d cursed his mama, and kicked us plumb out of the store. Can you believe that?”
“Uhh—”
“I mean, the nerve of that man!”
As G’ma seethes, Scoob stares at her little hands on the steering wheel, then down at his own. Where his are the color of a kinda-old penny, hers, though brown-spotted, are so pale he can see the blue of her veins.
And it’s not like he never noticed before. It just feels like a bigger big deal than he knew possible. Scoob, after all, is darker-skinned than his dad.
Why does it feel like everything’s changing super fast?
“You’re an incredible kid, you know that?” G’ma says out of the blue.
“Um…thanks, I guess.”
“You remind me so much of him.”
“Of my dad?” (Which is not a compliment as far as Scoob is concerned.)
She shakes her head. “No, no,” she says. “Of your G’pop!”
“Oh.” The sudden subject switch is disorienting, but Scoob tries to go with it. G’ma’s smiling, and yes: it’s clear from the past twelve hours there’s a lot Scoob doesn’t know about his grandfather. But still: the guy spent most of his life in prison. Somewhere Scoob never wants to go.
One thing’s for sure: no matter how many nice stories G’ma has about James Robert Lamar Sr., Scoob’s not so sure being like him in any way is a good thing.
Dad calls again—G’ma’s phone is actually turned on this time—just as the nice man from the camper parked at the next site over in the Bonita Lakes RV Park finishes connecting G’ma’s sweet ride to the sewer hookup. Which is perfect timing from every angle: the enchiladas Scoob and G’ma stopped for are ready to make a swift exit, and there’s no public toilet for him to use. As such, he’s able to slip into the Winnebago bathroom as soon as he hears G’ma say, “Yes, Jimmy, we’re fine. Cool your jets, will ya?”
Scoob tries to tune out, but of course that makes his hearing sharper. (Funny how that works, isn’t it?)
“…What do you mean is he having any fun?”
“…Oh, now you’re just being ridiculous…”
“…No, I do mean that. You’re much too hard on the boy.”
“…Fine, fine. You’re the father.”
“…Did she now? I’ll let him know—oh, I shouldn’t let him know—?”
And then her voice cuts off as Scoob hears what must be the RV door shutting.
That last part gets his wheels turning. What she is G’ma referring to? Shenice? His mom? What does Dad not want him to know? Besides anything fun or exciting.
His stomach burbles angrily.
By the time he exits the bathroom—after loading it down with “odor-absorbing” air freshener that doesn’t seem to be absorbing anything—G’ma’s back inside and decked out in her camo gear. “Suit up, kiddo.” She tosses Scoob a bundle of…he has no idea what.
It does have straps, though. Which he grabs and holds it up.
Camouflage overalls that match hers.
“Well, what are ya waitin’ for?” G’ma says. “Hop to it!”
Scoob looks down at his current attire: navy NASA T-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and sneakers.
“Just switch out of the shorts,” she goes on. “I won’t look.” She turns around.
Scoob can’t think of anything to say—or anything else to do—so he changes. “Um. I’m done.”
“Great!” G’ma says, spinning on the toes of her Velcro shoes with a clap. “Grab your backpack so we can stick my box in it, and let’s head out.”
Why they need to take the treasure box with them, Scoob isn’t sure, but he doesn’t bother asking. Also doesn’t bother asking what Dad said. G’ma’s clearly on a mission.
He does as he’s told.
“So…where we going?” he asks as they reach the edge of the campground and step onto a
trail that leads into some rather dense-looking woods. Maybe he should’ve peeked at the back of the RV to see if she’s switched the plates again…what if she did and is trying to get rid of the evidence now?
“Oh, just on a little adventure,” she says. “You spend a lot of time handling man-made devices that won’t help you in a true emergency. I think it’s high time you learn some survival skills.”
Well, that doesn’t sound scary at all….
“Your G’ma’s gonna teach ya a thing or two, Scoob-a-doob. Come on.”
They lapse into silence and walk for a solid fifteen minutes before Scoob realizes he’s missing a golden opportunity to get some of his questions asked.
A bird crows overhead like Go ahead, dummy! so Scoob clears his throat. “Was that my dad who called?”
G’ma waves a hand as if swatting away a fly. “That old sourpuss. You’d think the man had a very unhappy childhood with the way he behaves sometimes.”
“What’d he say?”
“Nothin’ important,” G’ma replies. She stops to pull something out of her pocket, and Scoob almost smacks right into her.
Up into the air her hand goes, and she rotates this way and that. She’s holding a compass. Which, once she picks a final direction, she returns to the pocket, then licks her index finger and puts it just above her head.
Okaaaay…
“This way,” she says, leaving the trail and heading straight into the forest.
Scoob doesn’t move. He looks left and right, up and down. From where he’s standing, he can see the sky and a well-trod path that he knows will lead him out of these woods no matter which way he follows it. Where G’ma’s at, though? The tree canopy is so thick, it basically looks like night in there. That’s not to mention all the fallen branches and raised tree roots waiting to trip him. (One still-painful arm gash is enough.)
Or the snakes waiting to bite him.
Or the…bears. Waiting to eat him.
“Well, come on, ya diddle-diddle!” G’ma yells from wherever she is. That camo outfit’s working too well for Scoob’s liking.
He gulps. “Maybe we should stick to the path, G’ma,” he shouts back. It’s here for a reason.
“Don’t be a goose!” she replies. “Better to be in here than out there in the open where the grizzlies can see ya plain as day.” Then there’s a cackle that echoes so menacingly, Scoob could swear it sends a shudder through the treetops.
He inhales extra deep. What the heck was he thinking letting G’ma drag him out into the Mississippi wilderness? This is the same lady who tackled him that one time they were playing baseball in her backyard and he tried to block her from reaching first base!
He takes a step into the woods. “Where even are you, G’ma?” he shouts.
“Follow the sound of my voice,” he hears her shout. “That’s Survival 101: use your available senses. If you can’t see something, you gotta be able to figure out where it is by other means. In this case: use your hearing.”
She goes quiet.
“Uhh…G’ma?”
Nothing.
Scoob starts to sweat. He knows she’s somewhere in front of him, but he wasn’t listening carefully enough to tell if she’s to the right or to the left. Considering how tightly packed these pines—which look suspiciously like towering dragon-giants in this moment—are, moving even the slightest bit in the wrong direction could be disastrous.
G’ma was probably (hopefully!) kidding about the grizzlies, but still: he doesn’t want to get eaten.
The trail is right behind him. He could hop onto it and trek right on back to the RV, which, relative to his present surroundings, is the world’s lushest palace full of what Dad would call “first-world luxuries.” All he’d have to do is shout to let G’ma know he’s headed back. Has to pee super bad or something.
Then again, knowing her, she’d tell him to pick a tree.
He’d also be leaving her alone out here to be eaten…
He’s getting a little mad at her now. For putting him in this predica—
“CA-CAAAAW, CA-CAAAAAAAAAW!”
Definitely not a bird, and definitely a bit ahead and to his right.
Scoob steels himself and heads in what he hopes to the high heavens, as Dad likes to say when he’s being more over the top than usual, is the right direction.
He finds G’ma standing in a small clearing with her veiny little fists on her hips. Just beaming like Scoob won an Olympic gold for Not-Dying-in-a-Scary-Forest. Which should definitely be a real sport—it’s way harder than running around in a circle. Scoob would know: he went out for track last year.
“Attaboy!” she says.
Scoob rolls an acorn around with the toe of his sneaker. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Now come on over here,” she says. “It’s high time you learn to build a fire.”
This is when Scoob actually takes a gander at their surroundings. The open space he and G’ma are standing in appears to be some sort of campsite. There’s even a spot smack in the center where a bunch of medium-to-large rocks have been arranged in a haphazard ring. Reminds Scoob of the brick fire pit at the edge of Shenice and Drake’s backyard.
“You knew this place was here, G’ma?” Scoob says.
“I did once I found it,” she says as she starts walking around the outer edge of the space, peeling off what look like curls of paper from some of the trees as she goes. She also plucks up handfuls of brown grass. “Set your bag down and get to gathering up a bunch of twigs and any dead leaves you see, will ya?”
“Uhh…okay.”
“And make sure they’re dry. You can make a pile right in the center of the fire pit there.”
As Scoob sets about his task, his mind returns to all the things he doesn’t know but wants to. Like who/what Dad was talking about.
“Keep an eye out for some good sticks and fallen branches, too, Scoob-a-doob. And if you see any good-sized hunks of wood, bring those over as well.”
Now Scoob’s thinking about Shenice and how this one time, she climbed a huge tree in the woods behind G’ma’s house in search of the “perfect jousting stick”—she’d watched some old movie called A Kid in King Arthur’s Court and become obsessed with “the injustice of the lack of girl knights.” Problem was, she got up so high, she freaked. Scoob had to climb up to be a prototypical knight and lead her back down. Then literally an hour later in those same woods, Scoob fell into a creek, and she had to save him.
Scoob and Shenice always had each other’s backs. And fine: Scoob had begun to see her in a different way. Which is why he did what he did when Bryce pushed things too far with Drake and seemed to be threatening her.
Why couldn’t Dad understand that?
“How’s it going?” G’ma is now bent over the ring of rocks arranging the tree-paper and grass and some of the twigs and leaves Scoob piled in the center. He looks at the handfuls of sticks he’s holding. No idea he’d picked up so many.
“Uhh…fine, I guess.”
“Come on over here. Let’s see whatcha got.”
Scoob does as he’s told, and when G’ma sees what’s in his hands, she claps and bounces on her little G’ma toes. “All right, come come. Lemme show you how it’s done.”
Scoob brings the sticks over, and she makes him squat down to watch as she arranges them into an upside-down cone-type thing (which just makes Scoob want ice cream). There’s something about tinder and kindling and oxygen, then she’s arranging some bigger hunks of wood that came from who knows where, and pulling a box of super-long matches out of Scoob’s bag. How the heck did those even get there?
Sizzle, crackle, pop…
And there it is.
A fire.
“Whoa,” Scoob says as it catches in earnest.
“Betcha didn’t know your G’ma had the
m kinda tricks up her sleeve, didya?” She puts a hand on her lower back and straightens up. Slowly. Reminds Scoob of her former attic door—had to push it a little harder than all the other ones, and it always groaned as it opened like it was annoyed at being bothered. “Not as nimble as I used to be, but this old bird can still start a darn good fire.”
Scoob just stares into the flames. Because learning this new thing about G’ma just makes his head spin around all the other new stuff he’s learned.
“I tried to teach your daddy how to do this when he was a kid,” she goes on, “but he wanted no part of it. Never been the outdoorsy type.” She plants her hands on her hips, and now she’s staring into the flames as though searching for something.
Scoob recognizes the question-asking opportunity. “Was he mad when he called this time?” he asks.
“He’s always mad, kiddo.”
She can say that again. “But why?”
G’ma just sighs. Which makes Scoob’s Dad questions bubble up and overflow. “Why’s he so hard on me? Why doesn’t he listen? Why is nothing I do ever good enough? Why doesn’t he understand me? Why won’t he give me a break?” Scoob’s eyes prickle, but there’s no way he’s gonna cry right now. He grits his teeth to keep the tears in.
G’ma’s staring at him now. “Come on over here and have a sit-down,” she says. “Actually, help me down first.” She stretches her arms out to him.
“You sure about that, G’ma?” What he doesn’t say is Are you gonna be able to get up?
“Yeah, I’m sure.” G’ma takes Scoob’s hands and slowly lowers herself to the ground. “Now hand me that trinket box from your bag, and then you sit with your back against mine, so we’re both supported.”
Scoob complies.
Behind him now, he hears the creak of G’ma’s treasure box, then she’s passing him something over her shoulder. It’s a black-and-white photo—in a plastic sleeve—of a white man leaning against a super-old-school car with his arms crossed. Scoob turns it over. The back has Clyde Alexander—1952 written in the top right corner, and what looks like an image of Texas cut from a map. There’s a city—Kent—circled in the west of the state, not too far from the Mexico border.
