by Lisa Wingate
I shut myself in my room, wedged a chair under the doorknob, and laid out all the pictures on my bed. The voices outside, the rumble of another bike pulling up, and the noise from a siren somewhere in the distance faded off. I studied the photos, felt myself sinking in, looking at the women standing there with my mother as she balanced me on her hip the day of my first birthday party.
I wondered what those women thought about me when we all stood there together. Did they think I was pretty? Or did they just feel, like Mama did, that I was a problem to have around?
Did they love my daddy? Was he right outside the picture frame, saying, “Okay, everybody smile!” Or was he miles away already, about to land himself in the wrong place at the wrong time and end up dead?
Pictures couldn’t answer questions like that, so I got busy looking for questions that could be answered. Where were the pictures taken? What were the names of the people in them? There were kids at the birthday party. Where were they now? Who were they? Friends? Cousins?
Maybe brothers and sisters?
Did my father have other kids before me?
There was a church in the background of one of the photos. I wrote down what I could read of the name on the sign and then moved on. In one of the pictures, an old woman was holding me, her hands dark and wrinkled against my white dress, her smile missing a few teeth. She looked really old, but her eyes were bright and happy.
It almost felt like I could remember her, like I knew how it felt, sitting on her lap that day.
There was a baseball field in the background. Greg Nash Park, the scoreboard read. I wrote down the name, turned the picture over, and looked at the back. The words written in pencil had almost faded, but I held the photo to the light and I could see the indentation they’d made. From Neesie. Mama Leela, 99 years old.
If the woman in the picture lived to be one hundred, there might’ve been something about it in the paper. They ran stories sometimes about people who were turning a hundred.
But the newspapers where?
I wrote down, Neesie, Mama Leela, hundred years old?
There weren’t any other clues in the pictures, but I looked at them until my eyes got tired; then I copied my father’s full name off my birth certificate and put everything back in the box. I slid the box into the top drawer of my dresser until morning, because Russ was back inside. He was trying to wake Mama up and get romantic in the living room, but she was out cold. He wasn’t happy about it.
I decided the best place for me was in bed, so I turned off the light and climbed in. I left the chair in front of the door and went to sleep.
In the morning, Mama headed off early. She was doubling up some of her housecleaning jobs into the first days of the week, because Russ and her wanted to drive to Oklahoma to sell at some flea market this weekend. Since it was her day to clean at J. Norm’s and fix him supper, I wasn’t supposed to go there. I got dressed for school, and then stood looking at myself in the mirror, and I couldn’t deal with it. I didn’t have my books, because they were at J. Norm’s with paint all over them. Now that DeRon was mad at me, walking down the halls at school would be like stepping into a war zone. Just thinking about it made me feel like I was gonna throw up, so I put my sweats back on and went out to the living room to get Russ to call me in sick at school. Russ wouldn’t mind, I figured. He was in a good mood. He was busy digging through some boxes of cheap flip knives and bandannas he’d traded for over the weekend. I told him I’d help get the stuff sorted and priced if he’d call me in sick, and we had a deal. Mama never knew a thing about it, which Russ thought was kind of funny, like we had a special little secret between us.
Tuesday morning, he asked if I wanted him to call me in again. He was heading over to DeSoto to make a trade with a guy from Craigslist, and then he was going to some warehouse auction out in Greenville, and if that went well, he and Mama would have some good stuff for the flea market in Oklahoma next weekend. He asked if I wanted to go with him and help out.
For about half a second, I thought about saying yes, but I knew it was a stupid idea. If you got in the truck with Russ, you were likely to end up at some biker bar, and besides, Mama didn’t like it if I got too friendly with her men.
“I better go catch the school bus,” I said, and my stomach knotted up like one of those shoestrings you’ll never get untied.
“Yeah, well, you’re about as much fun as the ol’ lady. If you see her this afternoon, tell her I’ll be late getting back tonight.” Russ belched and set his first brew of the day on the coffee table.
“She’s got houses to clean this afternoon, and then she goes straight to work cleaning classrooms. I won’t see her.” With Russ and Mama gone, there wouldn’t be any reason for me to hurry home from J. Norm’s tonight.
“You need some beer money?” Russ grabbed the chain on his wallet and started to pull it out. That was his way of saying I’d helped him out yesterday, and asking if I needed money for lunch. Russ could be all right, sometimes.
“Yeah, sure.”
Russ handed over a five and winked at me. “There ya go. Buy a round for your friends.”
“’Kay.” I slipped the money into my pocket, and since we were buddies and everything, I asked him if, sometime soon, he could help me get my driver’s license.
“What’s in it for me?” He looked between some pillows for the TV remote, then smiled a little under his bushy mustache. “Yeah, sure, kid. Soon as I get a chance, and speakin’ of cars, you tell that little punk in the Chevy Caprice if he don’t quit drivin’ by here, he’s gonna get a load of scattershot right through the front window, understand? You got something goin’ on with that boy?” Russ looked hard at me for a minute, and I didn’t like the way it felt. I backed a couple steps toward the door and shook my head. “You tell him you’re jailbait.” Russ pointed a finger at me. “He gives you any trouble, you let me know.”
“Oh . . . okay.” I headed out the door feeing itchy and strange under my clothes, partly because DeRon had been driving by the house, and partly because Russ’d never, ever asked me anything like that before. He only cared about stuff that had something to do with him.
When I got to school, the basketball boys were gone to some kind of college tour day, and I was glad, because that meant I wouldn’t run into DeRon. Everything seemed normal enough. I kept my head down and tried to get by without anybody noticing I was there.
In study hall, I talked the teacher into letting me use the computer so I could work on my research report. She let me do it, since she liked me. She never had to peel me off the ceiling, or chase me down the hall, or bust me out of a fight, which put me at the head of the class.
I sat at the computer desk and looked up the names on J. Norm’s list, and even shot some stuff to the printer while the teacher was busy with some jerk who’d passed out in the back of the room. I knew pretty quick, though, that finding anything useful about J. Norm’s people was gonna take a while. Mostly I just clicked from one dead end to another. I’d never have enough time to do it at school.
The teacher figured out I wasn’t working on a research report, and she kicked me off the computer just when I was about to look up the names and places on my own list. After that, I knew I wouldn’t have any more chances at a computer. I finished up the afternoon mostly trying to keep my head down and catch up on my work. By the time I made it to the last class of the day, all I could think about was getting out of the building as soon as the bell rang. Just because DeRon was gone earlier today didn’t mean he might not be back now.
Five minutes before class was supposed to get out, the teacher got a note, and the next thing I knew, she was handing the note to me and telling me to get my stuff and go to the office.
A million things went through my mind on the way down the hall, but if I’d of had ten years to come up with ideas, I wouldn’t have guessed what I saw through the glass when I turned the corner by the secretary’s desk. Standing right there in the principal’s office were DeR
on and one of the basketball coaches. The principal was rubbing his eyes like he was tired, and the coach looked like he was set to blow.
A half second later, I figured out what was going on. Someone was sitting in the chair across from the principal. He didn’t have to turn around for me to know who it was.
J. Norm. And my backpack was on the desk with red-painted stuff strung all over the place.
DeRon saw me coming. His eyes went narrow, and his lips got tight and straight, and I knew if he’d had a gun in his hand, I’d be dead already.
Chapter 13
J. Norman Alvord
Epiphany refused to offer the least bit of testimony against the boy. She meekly agreed with his version of events—that the spray-painted books were an accident, the result of a prank gone wrong. The can of spray paint had ended up in her backpack accidentally and it had exploded.
The coach, standing with his hand possessively on the boy’s shoulder, nodded along with that explanation and was anxious to hustle his player back to an ongoing practice.
I was the villain now—a fussy old man sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, offended, perhaps, that a boy from “off Hill” had disturbed my quiet, upscale street with a noisy, older-model car. Given Epiphany’s reaction to my school visit, perhaps it would have been better if I’d minded my own business, but it had seemed the right thing to do, taking the backpack to the school and seeing to it that the boy was held responsible for vandalizing the textbooks. I would have come first thing on Monday, but the principal had put me off until this afternoon. While waiting, I’d had time to work up a full head of steam. What sort of school would let such heinous activity go unpunished?
“This is a good boy,” the coach remarked. “He’s on his way to a D-one college scholarship.”
“Then perhaps he should mind his extracurricular activities accordingly,” I replied, and the boy delivered a silent, openmouthed reply. Behind the mask, his eyes held a wickedness, a simmering anger that caused me to press the point. “Perhaps we should ask Epiphany for her side of the story—without an audience present.”
Epiphany, however, had other ideas. Crossing her arms over her stomach, she sagged in her chair, looking at the floor. “It’s no big deal. There’s nothing to tell. It was an accident.”
The coach and the principal were pleased to accept that answer and give us the bum’s rush. Epiphany followed me to my car, stiff armed, and didn’t offer a word until we’d traveled the few blocks to my house.
“You shouldn’t have done it!” Her protest exploded as the garage door rolled closed. I parked the car exactly where I’d found it. With any luck, Deborah would never notice that I’d used the hide-a-key and gone out for a drive. In reality, extricating the car had been a lengthy procedure involving trickle-charging the battery overnight with an ancient battery charger I hadn’t even realized I owned, then carefully backing the car out of the garage and creeping slowly down the street. Since my recent spate of heart trouble, my reactions had gone downhill, I had discovered. Driving was more of a challenge than I’d thought it would be, but I was determined. I was not, however, receiving any cheers for my efforts now.
“You shouldn’t have lied for the boy, particularly after what he did to you. Why would you lie for him?” I demanded. “It isn’t right that you should be responsible for the books, and since that neophyte of a principal won’t force the boy to pay for them, then I will. I’ve already told the principal to give you new ones tomorrow, and—”
“I’m not your little charity case, all right?” Epiphany exploded from the car, slamming the door behind her. “I don’t need you taking care of me.”
“A girl who is afraid to go home at night does need someone’s help.” I climbed from the car, my legs weak after the afternoon’s excitement. “A . . .” Friend came to mind, but I didn’t use the word. “An advocate, at the very least.”
She didn’t answer at first, just stood there with her fingernails sinking into her hair. “I’ve got a mama, okay? I don’t need another one. And don’t say anything to her about this, either. She doesn’t want to know.” Without waiting for my reply, she went into the house, the slap-slap of her flip-flops echoing against the walls. She was in the kitchen next, slamming the pots and pans. I let her be and stepped outside, because Terrence was in the driveway, and I wanted to speak with him about something. I had an idea.
After I came in from conducting my business with Terrence, Epiphany seemed to have cooled down a bit. She was preparing some sort of boneless, skinless, nearly chickenless chicken breast. Another of Deborah’s healthy meals, no doubt.
“I think we should go to a restaurant and pick up something,” I said, hoping to make amends for having embarrassed her at school. I wasn’t wrong in what I’d done, but it had offended her. Having dealt with Deborah and Roy as teenagers, I might have known. “We could both stand to get out of the house.”
“Don’t think I don’t know you’re not supposed to be driving that car.” She flung open a drawer and began rummaging for utensils. “If Deborah finds out, she’ll have a fit for sure.”
“Considering the rest of our crimes these past few days, I think the car is the least of our worries,” I pointed out. “And Deborah won’t be by this evening. She has a symposium overnight in Fort Worth. I’ve promised not to do anything that can be construed as an attempted suicide while she’s gone.”
Epiphany stiffened, bracing her arms on the counter. “That’s not even funny, okay?”
It occurred to me that I hadn’t, in quite some time, considered potential means of hastening my own death. Epiphany and the mystery of the seven chairs had changed the roads my mind traveled. “Let’s go out for something to eat before Terrence comes by.”
“Terrence?”
“He’s agreed to loan us his laptop computer this evening. He had to run to an appointment just now, but he’ll be back in forty-five minutes to show us how to attach it to the Internet. It uses cellular communications.”
Epiphany’s face brightened with enthusiasm, and if she was still angry with me, it didn’t show. “Cool. All right. But if we’re going somewhere, I’m driving. You ran up on the curb three times on the way home, and slow as you go, one of those construction trucks might come along and wipe us out.” Switching off the burner, she set the pan aside, wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, and moved to the doorway, her hand held out in buoyant anticipation. “Where’s the car key?”
“Have you a license?”
“I’ve got a learner’s permit,” she replied haughtily, and patted a bulge in her pocket—a wallet, I guessed. “I passed driver’s ed.”
“That gives me the utmost confidence,” I said, and we proceeded with our newest mission.
After thirty harrowing minutes, we’d accomplished the trip to Stump’s Barbecue and back. When the doorbell rang, we were sharing supper, and I was telling Epiphany about Fat Boy’s Barbecue near Cape Canaveral, which still glittered in my memory. “Many were the times we held a late-night meeting at Fat Boy’s. I think that’s why we beat the Soviets. We had Fat Boy’s, and they didn’t. If the KGB had known, they could have dressed their spies as waitresses and stolen all our secrets.”
Epiphany grinned as she stood up to answer the door. “Maybe I can put that in my report. We’ve got to work on that after a while, okay?”
“Most certainly,” I agreed, admiring the fact that, despite a lack of supervision from her mother or encouragement from the school, she was a conscientious student. “We can use Terrence’s computer for that, as well.”
After a short lesson from Terrence, Epiphany and I busied ourselves with our work. As with most puzzles, it was challenging. The neighbors and relatives named in my mother’s photographs were mentioned in death indexes and electronic copies of old obituaries, but the information led us no farther. Frances Gibbs was too common a name and was contained in so many entries that discerning our target was like searching for a needle in not just one haystack, but many.
We created notes and charts to continue narrowing our search.
Finally, I insisted that we proceed to Epiphany’s school project. After having caused a stir in the principal’s office, I did not want to be responsible for keeping her from her homework.
“Can I look up a couple more things first?” she asked, and flipped the sheet of paper. On the back, she’d made some notes that I didn’t recognize.
“What are these?” I turned the paper and squinted through my glasses.
“Just something for another project.” She moved it farther away from me. “I have to find out where these places are.”
“For a school project?”
“Sorta.” Her answer was oddly evasive.
“Well, I can tell you who Greg Nash was.” Reaching across the table, I tapped the paper, where she’d written, Greg Nash Park. “He was a baseball player with the Tampa Tarpons, minor leagues. Played in the company of greats like of Johnny Bench and Catfish Hunter. Could knock the skin right off the ball, but every time he’d move up to the big leagues, he’d drink himself right back down to the minors. I think the team owners finally figured out that he just couldn’t handle too much money in his pocket at once. You know, the sad thing about him was that he was having his best-ever season in the majors when he died in a hotel fire.”
She cast a glance my way. “How do you know all that?”
“Annalee and I lived in Florida for almost seven years before we moved away for another job,” I reminded her. “Deborah was small then, and Roy was born there. We lived in a little cabin on Switch Grass Island. Beautiful place right on Lake Poinsett—sat up on piers over the water. You could fish off the back porch.”
Memories flooded my mind, raindrops falling faster, faster, faster, bigger and heavier. A deluge. I quickly forgot my reason for bringing up those days on Switch Grass. My mind flew away from Blue Sky Hill. “The fishermen woke us each morning about four a.m. as they trolled through the channel with their fishing boats. Nearly drove us batty the first few months we were there, but finally we grew accustomed to the racket of the boats coming and going, and we learned to love the place.” The mention of the boats caught a tether in my mind, brought it back to the original question. “Living on the water, we had a small boat, and many of our friends owned boats, so when we had a little time off, we packed our coolers and trailered the boats to this or that park for a picnic or an overnight campout. If we were near a town where a minor league team was playing, we’d pile into one of the cars and drive to the game—have a hot dog and enjoy the entertainment.”
