by Nic Stone
Professional jewel thief. That’s an oxymoron if Scoob’s ever heard one.
“The police came in the dead of the night,” she continues. “They only found about four thousand dollars cash, which I think Jimmy might’ve been able to explain away if not for the jewelry. One of the pieces was a diamond tennis bracelet that I knew was too expensive to be written off by the store I took it from, but since we were leaving, I went for it anyway.”
Her sobs intensify.
“Jimmy tried to tell ’em he hadn’t taken the stuff, but of course they didn’t believe him. And they were doubly furious to find us together. Really. But I—I didn’t say anything, Scoob…”
Oh.
“I never said anything. Yeah, he was gonna go to jail no matter what—back then, if you were black and accused of a crime, you were guilty whether you’d done it or not, and he really had stolen the money…”
Oh.
“But all these years, I’ve never shaken my guilt over Jimmy being convicted of something he didn’t do.”
Oh.
“I stole that jewelry, Scoob. Not him.”
Oh.
“But I told myself coming clean would mean losing our baby. Kept myself convinced Jimmy wouldn’t’ve wanted that. The more time passed without the police after me, the easier that was to believe. Also figured it’d cause him trouble with the white inmates if I showed up at the jailhouse.
“So I never went to visit.”
Oh.
“Keeping the secret got harder as your dad got older and wanted to know more about his father,” she continues, “and I kept my answers vague, but you know how your dad is. He dug up his own answers and drew his own conclusions about the type of man James Senior was.”
“And you never corrected him,” Scoob says.
She shakes her head. “Didn’t have the courage. Your dad loved me, and I wanted it to stay that way, William. He was all I had. Jimmy got twenty-five years and there was no tellin’ whether a confession from me would even have helped. System wasn’t fair.”
Isn’t fair, Scoob thinks. Still.
“Jimmy died in that prison, Scoob. All because of me.”
And there’s nothing else to be said.
So after a silence that grows and morphs and shifts the entire landscape of Scoob’s life, when G’ma says, “I need to lie down,” Scoob helps her get settled.
No one realizes the black boy with a piece of glass in his foot is the Amber Alert kid until Scoob and G’ma get to the hospital and they locate her ID. Which surprises him. No, he didn’t give his real name or hers, but either they were in a remote-enough area that no one had heard the report, or old white ladies travel with little black boys all the time.
He really only lied because he didn’t want cops to show up and handcuff her on the spot, but looking at her now with tubes sticking out of her arms and nose, he can see how silly that was—nobody with half a heart would arrest a sick old lady.
And sick she is. The doctors and nurses drop their voices super low and whisper to each other when Scoob’s within earshot, so he doesn’t have a clue what’s actually wrong with her. But he does know that when Mr. Winston, the guy from the massive camper on the other side of the dune, followed Scoob back to check on G’ma, he immediately called 911.
It was Scoob’s first time in an ambulance.
Also his first time getting stitches. They cleaned and rebandaged his elbow, too.
And now he’s here. In a poorly lit room that smells like hand sanitizer on a sorry excuse for a recliner with his wrapped foot propped up. Everything around reminding him of how far he is from home.
From Dad.
Who will hopefully be here soon. Police showed up not too long ago, and Scoob told them he wanted to stay with G’ma. That she hadn’t kidnapped him. That they were on a road trip and he was fine.
He’s guessing they also had no idea what to do with him. So they left him be. For the time being, at least. All Scoob knows is the officer who asked the questions disappeared for a few minutes after getting Scoob’s answers, then poked his head back in the room and said: You can stay. We talked to your dad. He’s on the way.
Now all there’s left for Scoob to do is watch over G’ma until Dad gets here.
He stares at her closed eyes and perfectly still upper body. Her paper-thin skin, so pale he wonders if they need to attach a bag of blood to one of those poles and give her a refill. He still hasn’t really processed what she told him, but it’s almost like spilling the truth just…emptied her completely.
Which is the reason he decided he didn’t want to call Dad when the hospital people offered. He couldn’t guarantee all the secrets G’ma dumped into him wouldn’t surge back up and pour out.
* * *
When Scoob comes to he’s been covered with a blanket, and the pillow his head is on is wet with drool. Sunlight streams through the window, filling the room like it’s the rightful owner, and as soon as he gets his eyes all the way open, he has to shut them again. It’s way too bright.
From the glimpse he caught, G’ma’s in the same position she was the last time he saw her, the beeps and drips of her machines and IV steady.
He cracks his eyelids again. Looking at the bag with the clear liquid, it hits Scoob how thirsty he is. He needs to find some water. And food. And his neck is stiff from sleeping on what has to be Texas’s most uncomfortable couch. (He is still in Texas, isn’t he?) He doesn’t even remember lying down.
His stomach growls angrily, and the hunger spreads up into his ribs. He shifts to his back and groans.
There’s a response groan from the opposite side of the room.
Scoob freezes, eyes wide, heart thumping so fast, he knows if he were hooked up to the monitor, it would sound like a five-bell alarm.
Slowly, careful, Scoob lifts his head.
There in the chair—same one Scoob’s pretty sure he fell asleep in last night—is a light-brown-skinned (or beige, as G’ma likes to say), bearded man with his hands clasped over his midsection, and legs so long, the recliner part hits him midcalf.
He’s asleep, but he’s still got his shoes and glasses on. (Typical.)
Dad.
Scoob’s taken way aback by how quickly the air in his throat expands and his eyes fill with tears.
And of course as soon as the first ones spill onto his cheeks, Dad’s eyes open. “William?” he says.
Then faster than Scoob can register the movement, his body is leaving the couch and he’s wrapped in Dad’s arms.
Dad—who’s crying just as hard as Scoob is.
Home.
Despite the twenty-one thousand trillion questions tussling in his head, Scoob doesn’t say much as Dad drives him to a hotel near the hospital so he can “sleep in a real bed for a while.”
He does ask the most important one, though it tries to choke him on its way out of his throat: “Is G’ma gonna be okay, Dad?”
Dad’s neck muscles tighten. And his hands twist on the steering wheel of the rental car. The RV, Scoob learned, was impounded, which brings to mind stray animals trapped in cages and makes him a little bit angry—but perhaps that’s because he knows he’s not going to like what Dad’s about to say.
The old man sighs, and his hands relax like all the fight’s gone out of him. “She doesn’t have long, William. I spoke with her doctor on Monday and, well…” He stops talking. Peeks at Scoob out of the corners of his eyes. “You sure you wanna hear this, son?”
Scoob nods.
So Dad nods too. “Your grandmother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer six months ago—”
“Six months ago?”
“Mmhmm. And she told the doctor she didn’t want treatment. Wanted to ‘let it run its course.’ ” Dad shakes his head sadly. “Doc said she had no idea how your grandmother was even doi
ng because Mom—G’ma—quit coming in for checkups. She’d already reached stage three, and—” Dad pauses to take a breath.
Scoob doesn’t say a word.
“That means it was spreading fast, William,” Dad says.
“But she seemed fine,” comes Scoob’s reply, unbidden. If people have cancer, shouldn’t they seem sick?
“It’s like that sometimes,” Dad says with a shrug. “There aren’t always symptoms you can see.”
Now Scoob’s eyes are wet again. He’s pretty sure he’s cried more over the past twenty-four hours than he has in his whole life. “So she’s gonna die?”
The air in the car gets soupy, and Scoob can tell the question is hitting Dad harder than Scoob realized it would. Dad’s always so…practical. One plus one is two.
Scoob turns to look at Dad, who in this moment is just…a sad man with a sick mom. And it occurs to him: this has gotta be harder for Dad than it is for Scoob. Yeah, G’ma’s (still!) Scoob’s favorite person in the galaxy…But Dad’s known her so long, his first home was her belly.
“Eventually,” Dad finally says.
More stuffy silence.
Then: “I’ll finish making the arrangements once I’ve got you settled in. They’ll release her from the hospital this afternoon. No charges have been filed against her—yet.” He shakes his head.
If he only knew…
“I’m hoping they’ll let us drive the camper back to Georgia. They’ll likely confiscate it as soon as we get there because of—” Now his face is turning red. Which, oddly enough, makes Scoob grin just the slightest bit. This is the Dad he knows. Wound tighter than a yo-yo string. “Never mind, that’s neither here nor there right now. Point being, we’ll return to Atlanta, and your grandmother will stay with us until—”
He stops again.
“Until she’s not there anymore,” Scoob finishes.
“Yes. That. We’ll make sure she’s comfortable, and, uhh…”
Scoob watches the bump in Dad’s neck move up and down, up and down. Like he’s trying to swallow, speak, something, but can’t.
Which, to Scoob, is fine.
He doesn’t need to.
* * *
The drive back feels strange.
They are able to take the RV, and Dad hires a nurse to travel with them for G’ma’s sake. She stays asleep in the back for most of the trip, but when she is awake, she’s “lucid,” as Scoob’s heard the nurse refer to it. She doesn’t say a whole lot to anyone—mostly just gazes out the window at the passing landscape—but the handful of times she and Scoob make eye contact, she smiles at him. Sadly, but still, it’s a smile.
They make one extended stop back in Monroe, Louisiana, so G’ma can use a real restroom and Dad can catch a nap.
But of course Dad wants to talk first. As soon as G’ma and the nurse are gone, Dad comes and sits across from Scoob at the dining booth.
He doesn’t say a word at first. Which is fine; Scoob can’t get his eyes to lift past Dad’s beard. Which is why he knows the exact moment Dad finds his words.
“I’m, uhh…well, I’ll admit I’m not real good at this part,” Dad says, and now Scoob does lift his eyes to Dad’s because those certainly aren’t the words he was expecting.
Dad takes a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re okay, son,” he continues. “I know I don’t always do a great job of showing it, but you mean everything in the universe to me, William. I don’t know what I’d do—” He shifts his focus to the ceiling. Starts rapid-fire blinking and doing that gulpy thing that makes his neck-bump look like a bouncing Ping-Pong ball.
Scoob’s never seen Dad like this. Especially not when it comes to him. “I know I can be too hard on you, and I’m gonna try to be better about that. I just—when I couldn’t get in touch with you-all…those were the worst seventy-two hours of my life, son.”
Scoob’s turn to gulp. “So you told the police I’d been kidnapped?”
“Huh?”
“On one of our stops, I saw this news report. There was an Amber Alert, and they said G’ma was also being investigated for a string of jewelry thefts.”
“Ah,” Dad says. “So you do know about all that.” He tugs at his beard.
“Is it true?”
“What?”
“That she, uhh…” Scoob’s roving gaze lands on G’ma’s bed. It’s almost like he can see her confession scrawled across the duvet. “Stole stuff.”
Dad sighs. Sits up in his seat and narrows his eyes like he’s been asking the same question. “I honestly couldn’t tell you, son. Apparently there’s some surveillance footage at one place, and enough evidence in another to make a connection. I can’t definitively say she didn’t do it…it’s not uncommon for people to act rashly when they know they’re coming to the end of life,” he says. “She did sell her house, buy an RV, and take you across four state lines without alerting either of us to her sickness.”
There’s the old Dad. Hypercritical in the most low-key way possible.
“She didn’t kidnap me,” Scoob says with more slice in his tone than he intends. But since it’s out there: “I left voluntarily.” And just in case Dad isn’t catching what Scoob’s throwing, he adds, “I wanted to leave with her.”
Scoob watches the verbal punches land and immediately wishes he could pull them all back.
“I didn’t tell anyone you’d been kidnapped, William.”
“Oh.”
“I reported you both missing, but because of the other…investigation, they lumped the incidents together, decided it was possible you were in danger, and decided to treat it as a ‘family abduction’ case.”
“And you didn’t correct them?” Honestly, Scoob doesn’t know why, of all the things, this is making him so mad.
Dad studies Scoob’s face. “I’m going to tell you the truth even though it may make you even angrier with me,” he says. “All right?”
Scoob nods.
“I didn’t know that what they were suggesting was incorrect, William. I saw the security footage captured at one of the four stores she’s accused of stealing from, and—well, it’s hard to deny it’s her, son. I know the woman who raised me, but once I learned she was sick and hadn’t told me—hadn’t told us—I didn’t know what she was capable of.
“I knew you likely weren’t in any danger, and I also knew you left voluntarily and without coercion. What I didn’t know was where you were going and for how long. Because she wouldn’t tell me. And after she stopped answering the phone and wouldn’t return my calls, I began to wonder whether or not she planned to bring you back.”
Scoob doesn’t respond. It’s not like he knows these answers either.
“When I heard the phone had been found somewhere, I started assuming the worst—”
There’s a knock, and then the main door opens, and Dad rises to assist G’ma up the RV stairs. G’ma blows Scoob a kiss in passing, and then the nurse helps G’ma get resettled into the bed. Scoob can see the slightly yellow tint to her skin, and every time she moves, it’s clear her back hurts.
Once the curtain is drawn, Scoob expects Dad to sit back down across from him.
He doesn’t.
In fact, he doesn’t say a single word. Just returns to the cab, draws all the window shades, slides into the driver’s seat, and reclines it to the limit.
Guess they could all use a little time.
Hopefully it’s not more than they have.
They get seventeen more days.
Most of them good.
Scoob is strangely resolute as he and Dad return home from picking up the ashes. It was odd to him that there wouldn’t be a funeral, but when Dad showed him the spot in G’ma’s will where she requested for things to be this way, Scoob didn’t ask questions. Just picked an urn made from the same type of wood as G’ma’s treasure che
st.
He glances over his shoulder at where that urn is sitting on the backseat. Dad didn’t say a word as Scoob gingerly placed it there and strapped it in with the seat belt. It was the most Scoob felt like he could do. G’ma wasn’t able to move or speak during her final four days of life, so Scoob’s dream of strapping her into the car—in person, not ash form—so he and Dad could drive her past her old house can’t ever come true. This will have to do.
Scoob rotates back forward and a surge of tears blurs his vision as Dad pulls up in front of the place. Dad puts the car in park.
There’s a redheaded guy chasing a toddler around the yard. Which is newly fenced in. The house is also gray now where it was bright turquoise before.
It hits Scoob: this really isn’t G’ma’s house anymore.
The shakedown of her Winnebago didn’t turn up anything other than the $42,520 Scoob saw in the space behind the TV. And since there was nothing overtly suspicious about it—“Children of folks who lived through the Depression are known for keeping large amounts of cash where they can see it,” the detective said. “Our guess is this was her life savings”—the money and the RV, which G’ma had paid for in full, were both turned over to Dad.
He put the cash in a savings account for Scoob but hasn’t decided what he’ll do with good ol’ Senior yet.
“I can’t believe they painted the house,” Dad says, wiping his own eyes again. “And that hideous bland gray, too. We should go and demand they change it back.”
Scoob knows Dad’s not entirely serious, but it does get his wheels turning: how much harder must it be for Dad to look at the house right now? It’s the one he grew up in. And G’ma certainly didn’t consult Dad before she sold it with all his memories inside.
“Hey, Dad?”
