She’d say, “You can sell it off and divide up the money once I’m dead. Until then, I think I’ll keep it.” She did lease the one-acre lot on the east side to her neighbor to expand his garden. The money she made gave her a little extra spending money. Her piddling fund, she called it. More times than not, she’d end up giving it to a neighbor in need or donating it to some charity.
I walked around what you might call “the block,” but Granny’s house sat in a neighborhood that had never completely accepted the idea of cityhood. There were twenty-five lots to the block, and although most of the lots were not as large as Granny’s, they all combined to make up one ginormous block, five miles around. At mile two—a pure guess on my part—I decided to turn around and go back. I hadn’t reached halfway but was fading fast. Dad’s announcement had sapped my strength.
I had begun the walk to clear my head and gather my wits, but try as I would, I could not make sense of it all. Was God making Mom sick to teach me a lesson? Maybe it was Josh’s fault. He was the real screw-up. He was the one breaking into cars and stealing stuff. And who knew, maybe he was into stealing cars too. He and his accomplice were tooling around in a hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar R8. His sins were really big. Maybe it was mine and his fault together. I couldn’t make sense of any of it.
I wanted to believe what Dad said, the part about God still being merciful, sovereign, and still in control, but it was hard. Maybe God is God and can do whatever he wants, but I couldn’t shake that one question: How could a good God permit a beautiful person like my mom to suffer? I thought about reading one of the books Dad usually handed out at funerals. A Grief to Remember, Grief Recalled, or something like that. People came up to him all the time saying how much that book helped. I thought it might work even though Mom was still alive.
»»•««
Friday morning, Dad, Josh, and I went to see Mom in the hospital. They had moved her to a different room. Dad said it was because the new room was in a quieter part of the hospital, but for my taste, it was too quiet, too stark. It felt…well…severe.
Mom looked pale to me, but I told her she looked great, great being a relative term. We sat around the bed talking about everything but the elephant in the room, her condition. The nurse gave us grief because hospital policy only allowed two visitors in a patient’s room at a time. Josh and I took turns sitting in one of the two chairs in a small waiting area at the end of the hall. Every time the nurse disappeared into someone’s room, we sneaked back to Mom’s room. Every time she saw we were both missing from the waiting area chair, she marched into Mom’s room and ran one of us out.
On her fourth or fifth trip, I said, “We’re not interfering with her care, and we’re not upsetting her. What difference can it make?”
I didn’t have to see Dad’s face to know he was frowning—not at the nurse, but at me.
Nurse Grouchy placed her hands on her hips, harrumphed, and said, “It’s hospital policy which is established for the health and welfare of our patients.” Hospitalese for the old standby, “Because I said so.”
Josh volunteered to stay in the waiting area until Dad was ready to leave. I was glad to see him go. He teared up every time he walked in the room, and worrying about him was the last thing Mom needed.
At one point, Mom reminded Dad about the parent-teacher’s conference at Josh’s school for the next Wednesday. As bad as she felt, she gave Dad step-by-step detailed instructions. “Look in the green address book under M for Marlin Clark Junior High School. Call and ask for the Parent-Faculty Relations Coordinator. She will set up the appointments for each of Josh’s teachers. You meet with each teacher for ten minutes, with five minutes in between. Don’t be late.”
I had to smile. Her instructions to Dad reminded me of when I was ten or so. Mom would go into elaborate detail when she sent me to the corner grocery store. She would map out my every move. She’d say, “Get a half-gallon of low-fat Glenbrook milk. It’s the one in the blue and orange carton, not the one in the all-orange carton. And check the expiration date. Make sure it won’t expire for at least another week. Buy a dozen extra-large eggs, not just large. If the jumbo size eggs aren’t more than fifty cents higher, buy them.” Then she would always add, “Make sure they double-bag the cold stuff, but be sure to take the blue fabric reusable bags for everything else.” Mom was detail-oriented, if nothing else.
We stayed at the hospital until Nurse Grinch came to hook Mom up to some sort of electrodes that were supposed to help with the pain. Mom smiled almost the whole time we were there, but occasionally, she would turn her face away from us and toward the window. I could see her body tense up. From what I had read on the web, bone cancer is one of the most painful kinds. I fought back the nausea gnawing at my gut. I got that feeling a lot in those days.
Dad wanted to spend the night at the hospital, but Mom convinced him to go back to Aunt Sue’s. We said our good-byes, and Dad promised to stop back the next morning before heading home to Branard. Dad wanted to get back as early as possible Saturday morning so he could work on Sunday’s sermon.
I never understood why he didn’t use one of the sermons he had preached at his last church. No one from our old church ever came to Branard, and no one from Branard had ever been to the church in Houston, so who would know?
“I’d know,” he once told me, like that made perfect sense.
I argued, “If it was a good Bible lesson back then, wouldn’t it still be a good lesson now?”
He wagged his head and walked off as if I was the dumbest guy on the planet. Really, though, what would be wrong with it? Dad kept the sermon outlines from every sermon he ever preached. Maybe he planned to publish them in a book someday and didn’t want to wear them out.
Chapter Nine
Sunday afternoon, I cornered Josh while Dad was busy in his study. “I haven’t forgotten about you and Kevin, you little jackwagon. In fact, I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. You and he are going to pack up everything you stole and give it to the police.”
“You can’t do that. Do you want me to go to jail?” His eyes reddened and his face wrinkled. The little twerp was scared. Good. Then as an afterthought, he added, “It’ll break Mom’s heart, and Dad might lose his job.” Now he’s all concerned about everyone else.
“I haven’t figured out just how, but we need to drop the stuff off with a note explaining what it is.”
“They’ll know it’s me,” he whined.
“Not if we do it right,” I said. “And tell Kevin to do the same. If you guys don’t do as I say, I swear I’ll call the cops.”
Josh said something under his breath that sounded a lot like something a seasick sailor might say, but I let it slide. I said, “Go ahead and get the stuff packed up—everything. And make a list of anything you got rid of. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
I needed to get out of there and clear my head. Maybe I’d grab a medium chocolate shake and a banana, preferably served by the lovely dark-eyed Lisa with her perfect oval face, lush red lips, and cute little dimples that deepened when she smiled. Even with all the family turmoil, I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind.
Dad had warned me about choosing girls based on physical beauty and animal attraction alone, and my time with Ashley should have confirmed that. She was an Ice Blue Maserati GT and super-high maintenance. The girl, not the car.
And I had to admit, I knew almost nothing about Lisa. I didn’t know if she preferred solving the unsolvable crossword puzzles in the newspaper or spearing alligator gar in the backwash of the river. I didn’t know her favorite color or her preference in music. What I did know was she could turn my insides to mush with the slightest of smiles, and kick my heart rate into overdrive with no more than a “Welcome to Bulldog Benny’s. May I take your order?” The rest, I was willing to make the maximum effort to find out.
Benny’s wasn’t crowded when I pulled into the lot, an oddity for Sunday afternoon. I checked my watch. Oops, four minutes until closing t
ime. As is the case in most rural communities, by sunset most good Branardians are tucked away in their houses, drinking sweet iced tea and watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show. Mom calls small-town living “the easy-going lifestyle of days gone by.” I call it Yawnsville.
I would have been there earlier, but I stopped by Law’s house on my way. I wanted to ask him where couples in Branard went on their dates.
Instead of telling me where they did go, he told me where they didn’t. “They used to go to the bowling alley, but the twit of a manager got the brilliant idea of holding Seniors’ League Night on Fridays. Now the lanes are so full of bald potbellied grouches and whiney old blue hairs, you can’t get a lane until almost nine o’clock, and they close at ten. Don’t go there.” He stroked his chin, then said, “We used to have a Putty-Putt, but they closed when the Walmart bought their property.”
“How about movies?” I asked. “I know there’s a movie theater. I’ve seen it.”
He nodded. “Yeah, there’s the Star Theater on Runyon Street. It shows one movie all week, and none of them are any good. I think they pick the movies by which ones are the cheapest.”
I had to chuckle a little, watching Law get so worked up over the subject.
He continued, “Hollywood puts out what? Five or six hundred movies a year? And out of that, there have to be a couple of dozen good ones, but you know what?” Law raised his voice to a near shout, and formed both hands into fists. I expected that any minute he’d start shaking them in the air. “We only get the little kiddy movies, or the ones about some old lady whining about how she gave up her baby for adoption thirty years ago, and for some reason, she decides she has to go find it. Trash like that.”
“Why don’t you drive over to Austin? It’s not that far, and they have everything.” It made sense to me.
Law’s eyes widened in horror. “Oooooh, no. None of Branard’s God-fearing parents would dare permit their teenagers to enter the Sin City of the south. Haven’t you ever been on Sixth Street?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“No, no, no, hearing doesn’t count. Until you’ve seen it, Cuj, you can’t understand. There’s drinking, strippers, hookers, bookies, wild music, and drugs, and that’s just at the neighborhood supermarkets.”
Law was a funny guy.
“The mere mention of Sixth Street in Austin sends Branard parents into a whirling fit.” He raised his hand over his head and flailed them wildly. “Of course some kids still sneak off and go anyway, but if they get caught, life as they know it is over.” He crossed his hands in a sweeping motion. “The boy loses his pickup truck, and then he gets his butt kicked by the girl’s father—sometimes her brothers too. Then the girl gets sent to the all-girl Christian high school, and both of them have their cell phones confiscated.”
Law did not smile. He was dead serious.
I ask, “Did you ever sneak out and go?”
“Not me. I don’t need to tempt myself past what my own surging hormones are already capable of doing. A guy has enough trouble trying to live a restrained life as it is.”
I knew what he meant.
“Where did you take your last date?” I asked.
“The Van Clay concert.”
“Who the heck is this Van Clay guy?” I asked.
“Van Clay is a group, two guys and a girl from right here in Branard who went to Nashville for the Country Music Talent Search TV show. They made it all the way to number nine before getting booted off.”
“They ever get a record deal?” I asked, half sarcastically.
“Naw, but they should have. Ross, the lead guitar, wrote this one song, Calm, Collected and Crazy. It was great.”
“Is there some concert or another coming up in the next week or so?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. That one Van Clay concert’s the only one I can remember having here in the last five years.” Now there’s a big help. He did have one good suggestion. “Maybe you ought to ask someone who’s had more than six dates all year.”
I walked in Benny’s front door at eight fifty-seven. Lisa appeared to be working both the front counter and the drive-through. She wore Fade Out jeans and the required red-and-white Bulldog Benny’s vest over a dark brown long-sleeved knit top that matched her eyes. She wore her long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.
She didn’t see me at first. I waited for her to finish loading paper napkins in the holder on the counter. She looked up and smiled when she saw me. My heart actually fluttered in my chest.
I had rehearsed my opening line on the drive over.
“Lisa, do you remember me? My name is Todd, Todd Nelson.” No, too James Bond.
“Hi, Lisa, it’s me, Todd Nelson. I’m a junior at Branard High.” No, she knows I must go to Branard High even though I’m wearing my old Heritage Park High School jacket.
How about, “Hi, my name is Todd Nelson. Remember me? I came by with Law Stefanac.” Yeah, that’s it, straight and to the point.
As I approached, she moved directly across from me and placed both hands on the counter. I expected her to say something, but she didn’t. Still smiling, she tilted her head to the side as if to say, “Well?” I caught the slight scent of her perfume. Even mixed with the smell of food on the grill and oil angrily popping in the fryer, it was soft and sweet. It matched her smile.
I began delivering my rehearsed line, but came out with, “I’m Nelson… I mean, Todd, Todd Nelson. I remember you.” I’m an idiot.
I stammered a bit more, then added, “My father is the pastor of the Branard Fellowship of Faith Church. I’m seventeen years old and a B student.” She didn’t say anything.
You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?
I continued, “My family moved here from Houston a couple of months ago, and…uh, I make and sell picnic tables and benches during summer vacation.”
Why did I tell her that? Why would she care?
I decided to shut up until she said something.
This is pure torture, girl. Help a fellow out, why don’tcha?
Finally, she spoke. “I remember. Nice to meet you…again.” Her smile widened as she flicked her hand in my direction.
I took it. It was soft, smooth, and warm. I resisted the urge to bow at the waist and kiss it. We shook.
She said, “You came by the other day with Lawrence. He’s a little…ah, let’s just say he’s a teeny bit goofy, and leave it at that.”
“No, you can’t leave it at that.” I spoke before I could think. “He’s a lot more than that.” I’m defending Law, and snapping at the future Mrs. Todd Nelson? What kind of alternate universe have I fallen into?
She said, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I promise, I meant he was funny, you know, comedic. That’s all.” Her apology sounded genuine.
“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” I said. “It’s just that Law has had a pretty rough life. He may not be a brain or anything, but he’s a really good guy, a lot better than most people I’ve met in this town.” Maybe she was the only person in town who didn’t know Law’s dad was in prison for trying to kill Law’s mom…twice. Everyone who knew Rusmir Stefanac agreed he was a heartless psychopath.
Lisa didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t read her face.
I told her again, “Really, I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
No doubt she is plotting her escape from me right at this very moment.
“No, don’t apologize. I’m impressed that you stood up for your friend. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have said what I did. You had every right to call me on it.” She reached out and laid her hand on my forearm. “Loyalty is a trait I admire.”
I have a trait she admires. How cool is that?
Lisa asked, “You want a large chocolate shake and a banana?”
She remembered.
I did, but I didn’t want her to think I was a pig, so I said, “Just a medium shake, please, and no banana.”
“Have a seat,” she motioned to a table near the cou
nter. She said something to the tall guy behind the griddle. Probably the boss.
When she brought out my tray, it had my shake and a banana, plus a basket of fries and a small Oreo Blizzard. She sat across from me and began placing the food on the table. The shake and banana in front of me and the fries and Blizzard in front of her.
“Help yourself.” She motioned to the fries and smiled again.
We chatted about this and that, nothing too personal. I said the city council ought to put in a paved sidewalk along Mercer Avenue in front of Bulldog Benny’s, and she said Hollis Boone, who owned the muffler shop next door, was against it because it would take up part of his parking lot.
I asked if she had seen the funny picture someone painted on the side of Ira Hood’s auto supply store. She said she hadn’t, but I suspected she was just being polite.
“You know, Ira’s wife has about a hundred cats, and she lets them all run around in the store. I went in there the other day to buy an air filter. Well, she was trying to bag up some fan belts and radiator hoses for a fellow when one of the cats crawled right into the sack.”
Lisa’s dimples deepened as she smiled and broke into a cute little feminine laugh.
“No sooner had she got that cat out of the bag, two more crawled in. It was pretty funny.” I leaned back and tossed our empty cups over my left shoulder into the trash can near the door. Swish. Nothing but net.
“What about the funny painting?” she asked.
“Oh, somebody drew a cartoon of a fat…I mean, an overweight lady, on the outside wall of the building, and Mrs. Hood is pretty big. It showed this lady with cats hanging all over her. They were in her hair, in her purse and every square inch of her dress.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. I checked to see if Lisa was smiling or scowling. I know girls and guys sometimes have different takes on what’s funny and what’s not.
Half the Distance Page 7
