by Nic Stone
“Thank you, Jimmy. Thank for being here and being YOU.”
“I’m William, G’ma,” Scoob mumbles.
“I just can’t believe we’re here. That I’m here. The house is right there.” She shakes her head again. “After all these years.”
And now Scoob really can’t take any more. “G’ma, I don’t mean to be rude, but where is here? And what is that house? And why are we here? Now. In front of it.”
“That house is a piece of history, Scoob-a-doob.”
So she does remember who he is.
“It was built to house Medgar Evers’s family. Medgar was known for helping black folks get registered to vote back in the day. Also drew national attention to the horrible crime committed against the Till boy. Emmett. He was killed just a few hours north of here.”
Now she’s got Scoob’s attention. He knows all about Emmett Till because Dad gave him a lecture after the academic defraudment scandal: said as a black boy, even if Scoob claims he’s not doing anything wrong, the moment someone white says he is, he’s in trouble. He used Emmett Till as an example, and despite the fact that it happened so long ago, the story shook Scoob down to his bones. Especially when Dad told him Emmett really hadn’t done anything wrong, and the men who did the true wrongdoing—his killers—got off scot-free.
“Medgar was shot down dead right there in the driveway,” G’ma says, shoving Scoob out of his musings with so much force, his head swims.
“HUH?”
“House has no front door because the family thought it’d be safer if the entrance was in the carport. But even that didn’t protect Medgar. He was shot as he got out of his damn car.”
“Wow…”
“And it took thirty years for the man who did it to see any jail time.”
Scoob is speechless.
“I wanted to come here before,” G’ma continues. “I knew we’d be passing through. Had it circled on my map before we started the trip. Jimmy and I were together when we heard about Medgar’s murder, and it hit me how much danger your G’pop was in by existing. It’s the moment I knew I wanted to marry him.”
Scoob just shakes his head. He feels like he’s getting punched from multiple angles and can’t figure out where to block.
Then her chin gets to trembling.
“It was all my fault,” she says as the tears begin to roll. She stretches the alcoholic radio out and he takes it. Shoves it in the glove box.
She keeps going. “I was driving and determined to have my way, even though Jimmy said coming by here’d be a bad omen. He’d fallen asleep, so I went ahead and took the exit. Didn’t get a quarter mile before a highway patrol car pulled me over.” She shakes her head.
“I remember like it was yesterday: Jimmy piped up to ask why we were stopping, and I yelled at him to hush and stay hidden. I knew if those officers saw him with me, they’d come up with a reason to cart him off to jail. The sun was starting to dip in the sky, and I’ll never forget it because as the officers stepped up to the RV—there was one on each side—I wondered if it was the last sunset I’d ever see with your G’pop.”
Scoob swallows hard. “Was this a Sundown Town?” He’d seen the term in the Green Book and knew it referred to places where black people could be killed just for being there after dark, and no one would bat an eyelash.
“I’m not entirely sure. But it’s likely.”
“Man, I hate this world sometimes.” It’s his first time ever expressing it aloud.
“Me too, Scoob-a-doob. Those officers started asking questions, and I could tell they were suspicious. Jimmy wasn’t the only contraband I had on board.”
Contraband?
“They let me—us—go, but I was real shaken up. To this day, I feel like all the terrible stuff that came after was because of me. If I hadn’t taken that exit, we’d’ve never gotten pulled over, and I wouldn’t’ve been in such a terrible state. We wouldn’t’ve had to turn around. I’d’ve been fine, Jimmy. We’d’ve made it.”
Scoob’s too nervous to correct her this time.
He does think they should get away from here, though.
“We should really go, G’ma,” he says. His eyes latch on to the glove box, where the “radio” is sitting like a bourbon-filled brick. Stuff doesn’t even sound tasty. “Are you…okay to drive?” Because he obviously can’t.
She stares at the Evers house. Scoob’s not even sure she heard him.
“G’ma?”
“Fine, fine, we’re going.” She puts the RV in gear, and it jerks forward, making Scoob’s stomach somersault up into his throat. Between everything she told him and her white knuckles on the wheel, Scoob wonders if G’pop was right: maybe coming here was a bad omen.
They ride in silence for a short while—no music even—but when G’ma spots the exit sign for Edwards, MS, she gasps. They don’t take the exit, thank goodness, but as soon as they pass beneath the bridge, G’ma bites her lip. “Apologies, William, but I have to pull over.”
Scoob doesn’t move a muscle as they glide to a bumpy stop on the “shoulder” of the highway, or so Dad calls it. He truly wishes Dad were here now. This whole day has been a lot, and even Dad’s signature scowl would make Scoob feel more stable.
“I know I said we were gonna keep it moving, but that exit we just passed…” She faces him. “That city was our stopping point last time. It’s where we turned around.”
Scoob’s not sure what he expected her to tell him, but it wasn’t that. Nice to know he’s finally gonna get an answer to one of his questions: “Why did you turn around, G’ma?”
“Your father.”
“My father?”
“Yep.”
“But I thought you took the trip before he was bor—Oh. I see.”
“I wasn’t paying attention to the date when we had to stop in Meridian, but after that encounter with the officers in Jackson, sickness crashed over me like a runaway freight train. As we pulled off here in Edwards so I could get some air, your G’pop mentioned the date aloud because it was his late father’s birthday. That’s when I realized I was three days overdue for my cycle. Knew right then that I was pregnant.”
“Wow.” Scoob is riveted now. “What happened?”
“Well, we were nervous about having a baby—certainly hadn’t planned on one—but it was also exciting. Problem was, we didn’t know if we’d be able to find a doctor who would treat a white woman carrying a black man’s child where we were headed. So we turned our RV around.”
“Dang.” Were there really doctors who would turn away a woman with a baby in her stomach? “That’s deep, G’ma.”
“It was a haaaaard decision, kiddo. We knew returning to Atlanta might be trouble for a number of reasons—some your G’pop wasn’t even aware of. But we also knew we’d have a doctor. Jimmy said he’d never forgive himself if something happened to the baby. So that was that.”
“Trip over,” Scoob says, really feeling it.
“Indeed.”
The sound of other vehicles whizzing by fills the cab, and G’ma peers over at Scoob. Which makes him wonder if she’s about to call him the wrong name, or crumple again.
But then she smiles. “This is the furthest I’ve ever gotten, Scoob-a-doob.”
He can’t help but smile back. For the first time since they started the journey, she looks really and truly happy. “Congrats, G’ma.”
She blushes and spins her chair around. “I’m gonna take a quick potty break and freshen up, if you don’t mind. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Cool.”
Once she disappears into the bathroom, Scoob tries to sift through some of the new stuff he’s learned and get his bearings. Yeah, G’ma’s happy—which does make Scoob happy…
But the word contraband still hasn’t left his mind from when they were in front of the Ev
ers house.
And now there’s more: mentions of trouble and reasons for not returning to Atlanta. Which reminds him of pickpocketing, petty theft, and poor decisions.
There’s stuff G’pop wasn’t even aware of, and strange sleep talk about fixing it…
Shifting license plates and suspicious diamond earrings.
By the time she slips back into the driver’s seat, grinning at him like it’s going out of style, all Scoob’s questions have condensed into one: Who even is my G’ma?
* * *
To Scoob’s surprise, G’ma decides to pass Vicksburg. “Nothin’ here but a Civil War memorial, and I think you and I have had enough P-US history for the day.”
She holds her nose when she says this.
But the sun’s begun to sink by the time they cross the state line and stop for tacos in Monroe, Louisiana. So he’s not surprised at all when she says she needs “a nap” and they head to an RV park right after. (Who knew there were so many!)
As soon as she vanishes behind her bed curtain, leaving Scoob at the table drawing in the margins of his map, he’s made a decision: he’s going to call Dad.
He waits until he can hear her faint snores before creeping to the cab of the RV and easing into the driver’s seat. He slowly reaches into the door…
The phone isn’t there.
He looks all around him. Checks every possible spot: cup holders, center console, glove box.
Nothing.
Did she hide it? Yeah, she was being weird about him making a call earlier, and, okay fine, has been weird about the phone in general, especially when it comes to Dad. But would she really put it somewhere he couldn’t find it? What if there was an emergency and he needed to call 911? Surely she considered that.
Didn’t she?
Bewildered, Scoob returns to the live-in part and, quietly, carefully checks every place of concealment he can see: cabinets, drawers, anything that opens. There’s no phone, but Scoob does make an unexpected discovery in the hidden space behind the kitchen TV: rubber-banded piles—four of them—of crudely stacked green paper rectangles.
Money.
He pulls his hand back like something’s bitten him and shoves the TV back into place.
Then he plops down into the dining booth. G’ma groans, but it barely even registers.
In a way, Scoob guesses it makes sense for her to have a lot of cash—she did just sell her house, and that’s all he’s ever seen her use to pay for stuff.
But then that word pops into his head again, with gusto this time: contraband.
This definitely feels contraband-y.
Or is he overthinking? He does know it suddenly makes sense why parents don’t want their kids watching R-rated movies—his imagination’s running wild. Which is not helpful in this moment. What if she, like…robbed a bank right before she came and got him?
He’s gotta do something. Heading to a neighboring camper or the campground offices to ask for a phone to use seems a little extreme—this isn’t exactly life-or-death. At least he doesn’t think it is…
Besides, after flipping through the Green Book, which is safely back beneath his pillow, and hearing G’ma’s stories about the olden days, Scoob’s not sure he wants to walk around this campground alone. Yes, there were five whole safe places listed in Monroe, Louisiana, but still: everyone he’s seen at this campground so far has looked like G’ma. And there’s no forgetting the way those people were glaring at him in that Alabama restaurant just two days ago.
He sighs and lets his head drop back. Which is when his eyes fall on G’ma’s treasure chest beside the kitchen sink. Normally he wouldn’t snoop around in her stuff, but…maybe she slipped the phone in there while he wasn’t looking.
He takes a super-deep breath, glances at the bed-space curtain one more time, and rises to grab the box. Decides to take it up into his bunk to scope it out because at least then he’s got his own curtain to hide behind and will have time to stash it if she happens to get up while he’s committing what feels like breaking and entering.
Once he’s sequestered away, he closes his eyes and sends a silent apology in G’ma’s direction, then holds his breath as he lifts the lid. Slowly, carefully, quietly, Scoob removes G’ma’s most treasured relics piece by piece and lays them out on his bunk.
Things he didn’t notice before: a weirdly large silver coin—half dollar it says (when the heck was that a thing?); a piece of heavy paper the size and shape of a credit card that, upon reading, Scoob discovers is G’ma’s old driver’s license; a stack of business cards rubber-banded together, all of which appear to be from jewelry stores; and there’s the thin gold necklace he saw her lay on the table earlier. The charm looks like a miniature skeleton key like the one Shenice has for the trunk that belonged to her great-grandfather, who was apparently some big-deal baseball player.
Then he’s looking down into maroon velvet.
The pink diamond earrings aren’t there. Which is comforting but also terrifying: What if his mind is playing tricks on him?
Also the opposite of comforting: there’s no phone.
A burst of fury shoots up from Scoob’s belly like a geyser to the brain. He hates everything and wants this dumb trip to be over.
After shoving all G’ma’s junk toward the bunk’s back wall—there’s no way he’s putting any of it back right now—and lying on his back, Scoob shuts his eyes. One thing’s for sure: William “Scoob” Lamar’s never felt so far from home.
Speaking of home, the next time Scoob opens his eyes, he seems to be back there. When he arrived, he’s not sure—can’t say he remembers the return journey—but there are all his most familiar things: impeccably neat entryway, empty peach bowl on the table…
Dad.
Scoob smiles: Dad’s reclined in his La-Z-Boy with his hands tucked behind his head and his eyes closed, listening to his favorite Smokey Robinson and the Miracles album—“This is real music, son. What you know about that?”—in front of a crackling fire. Humming along like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Much less a son he hasn’t spoken to in days.
Nervous, Scoob creeps down the low-lit hallway. Despite Dad’s clearly chill demeanor in this moment, Scoob’s seen the switch flip before: cool, calm, and collected to furious in a matter of moments. Dad’s never laid a hand on Scoob before—doesn’t believe in corporal punishment, as he calls it (“I taught him that,” G’ma once told Scoob)—but the ice that rolls off Dad when he’s angry…well, Scoob hates how small it makes him feel.
He stands right in front of the chair. “Umm. Hey, Dad.”
No response. Dad doesn’t even flinch.
Scoob raises his voice a bit. “Dad. I’m…I’m back, Dad.”
Nothing.
Maybe he’s asleep? Scoob steps right up to the chair, his heartbeat thundering in his ears like an angry storm. “Hey, Dad?”
Dad hums for a few seconds, moving his head in time to the music, and when he stops, he smiles.
Scoob takes a deep breath. Then gulps. Reaches his hand out to touch Dad’s shoulder.
Except his hand never connects with anything solid. Holding it up to his face, Scoob realizes with a start: he can see right through it.
Scoob looks down at his arms and torso and legs and feet then. It’s all see-through. He’s all see-through. Rushing into the hall bathroom, Scoob flips the light on and looks in the mirror.
He doesn’t have a reflection.
Like a ghost.
Out the door and around a corner into his room—which doesn’t look like his room at all. There’s a reddish-brown desk—same mahogany as G’ma’s treasure box—where his bed should be. Book-filled shelves line the walls where he’d normally see his superhero posters. Instead of his personal treasure chest, which is full of his action figures, Lego sets, and collection of o
bsolete computer parts Dad has given him, there’s a fancy-looking high-backed chair and ottoman.
Scoob rushes to the kitchen to check his personal pantry shelf. The one with his cereals and fruit snacks and the S’mores Pop-Tarts Dad wishes Scoob wouldn’t eat but buys anyway.
There’s nothing but a box of Grape-Nuts, a container of dry quinoa, and a gallon Ziploc bag of muesli (barf).
Even the board where Dad scribbles Scoob’s daily instructions is gone.
Every trace of Scoob seems to have been erased. It’s like he never even lived here.
“DAD!” he shouts then, tripping over his not-even-solid feet as he makes his way back to the living room. “Dad, please hear me!”
“I’m so sorry, Jimmy!” Dad says. His body isn’t moving, but his mouth is.
Though it’s not his voice.
It’s G’ma’s.
“What? Dad, it’s me, Scoob! It’s William, Dad. Your son—”
“I did the wrong thing, but I’m gonna make it up to you, Jimmy,” Dad says in G’ma’s voice again, turning to look at Scoob this time. Well…through him, apparently.
Scoob stumbles back. Dad’s eyes are pure white, no irises or pupils or anything.
“We’re already past where you and I got to before, William and me,” Dad continues. “You would just love William to pieces, Jimmy. He’s the best grandson there is. Reminds me of the best parts of you.” Dad rises from the chair with a pillow in hand and walks toward Scoob.
“D-Dad…Wha…what are you doing?” Scoob stumbles backward and falls as Dad advances on him, pillow held at the edges with both hands. He leans over and lowers it toward his son’s face.
Scoob squeezes his eyes shut.
“I just—I hope you’ll forgive me one day, Jimmy,” Dad is saying. “I’ll never forgive myself, but I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m gonna make it this time, and I’ll do what we planned, and then you’ll forgive me—”
“DAD!” The sound is muffled.
