by Wyborn Senna
Logan took her by the hand. “Come with me.”
The door to MawMaw’s room creaked on its hinges when he pushed it inward. The room smelled of musty flowers and Vicks VapoRub, which Ramona had slathered on her mother’s chest, arms, and legs when she complained of everything from congestion to sore muscles. Of course, it never helped the cancer. It was her daughter’s ministrations that made MawMaw feel better. Her painkillers were kept in a side table, and a fresh pitcher of ice water was replenished three times a day. Logan could still picture her propped up in bed with four pillows beneath her head and back, a scarf on her grayed head, bundled in her robe, even though she was beneath two blankets. The window stood open, and a breeze blew the sheer curtains embroidered with sunflowers at the hemline. She didn’t read or watch TV. Instead, she played solitaire with an old deck of cards adorned with Chester the Cheetah, the big-faced cat in sunglasses, a promotional item given away at the grocery store at a time when Ramona was going through a family-size bag of Cheetos every day.
When Logan would visit MawMaw in her room, he’d sit at the end of the bed, and she’d have him guess whether the card she was holding was red or black. Once, he got four out of five correct. They had all been black. One time he told her he thought, instead of the Kings, Queens, and Jacks, the artist should have put Chester’s face on the royalty, and MawMaw threw her head back into the pillows and laughed ‘til she gasped for air. She was missing teeth in the back of her mouth instead of the front, like many old people with infrequent dental care, and he wondered if she’d swallowed them. After she died, Logan went into her room, took a jar of the mentholated rub from her side table drawer, and looked in her dresser. Weeks after the funeral, all of her belongings were still neatly folded in the drawers, the right amount in each one, none on them overfilled. Logan touched the nylons and garter belts, girdles and bras she must have worn years ago. There was even a box of maxi pads that looked like diapers, which didn’t embarrass him as much as he thought it might. They were more a curiosity, the big pads with a set of instructions that showed a woman fitting a pad into clips on an elastic belt that made her look like she was wearing the letter “Y” below her waist. The dresses in the closet were all size nine, and many had rhinestone buttons, lacy collars, and large pockets. There was a carton of Camel Lights on the high shelf, shoeboxes with tissue sticking out from under the lids, scrapbooks, and a large, stuffed Steiff bear Grandpa had given her after they met. The only things Ramona had taken from the room that had belonged to her mother were the Elvis albums and the small tabletop stereo with tinny speakers. They were now in an unused room in the four-bedroom house, a catchall room where Ramona liked to listen to music and reminisce back to when MawMaw was alive and life was good.
Logan sat his mom down on the side of the bed and told her to stay put. Then, he went and got a single Rubbermaid container that wasn’t too heavy to drag and brought it into the room.
“Let’s pretend, OK?”
Ramona sighed deeply. “Is this going to take long? Go get my cigarettes.”
Logan found an unopened pack, a lighter, and an ashtray, and brought them to her. Instead of arguing with him that she already had an open pack and didn’t want them to go stale, she unwrapped the cellophane on the fresh pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, and lit it.
Logan took that as a good sign she just might listen.
Chapter 22
Once Zella unlatched the trunk and threw back the lid, she moved aside so Ryan could look inside. He was dressed in a blue T-shirt and jeans, his image reflected back on the inside mirrored lid as he reached in and brought things out.
Dressed in overall shorts and a form-fitting, ribbed white tee, Zella sat on the lawn, her elbows on her raised knees. Her feet were bare, and her lustrous hair was clipped up. Between her youthful demeanor and the fact she was keeping her looks as she aged, she seemed more like her son’s older sister than his mother.
Ryan pulled out a clear bag containing a stainless steel sheathed blade, a circular base, and a set of Styrofoam cups. “What’s this?”
Zella jumped up with the grace of a young athlete and nearly skipped over to the picnic table near the pool. “Come over here.”
A few feet from the table, Nana woke, gave her head a shake, and barked once.
“You can be our audience, girl,” Ryan told her. He sat down across from his mother and handed her the bag. Zella removed the blade, unsheathed it, and placed it on the flat wooden table, weatherproofed the previous spring in lacquer the shade of cinnamon. A sudden gust of wind caused the Styrofoam cups to skitter off the table and roll across the lawn. Nana barked again and rose to chase them with Ryan.
He returned with them, winded. “Maybe we should go inside.”
“No, this will just take a minute.”
He watched as she inserted the blade straight up into a circular base and covered it with one of the cups. Then she placed the other two cups upside down beside it and turned around on the bench. “OK, mix them up.”
Ryan rearranged them and stood up. He examined the cups from different angles to see if he could detect any differences between them and couldn’t.
“OK, you can turn around.”
Zella whipped around on the bench, her eyes gleaming. She stood up and studied the cups, then slammed her palm down on the first one, crushing it.
Ryan was horrified. “Mom!”
“It’s OK, it’s OK.” She walked around the table, then back to her side. She crushed the middle cup with her fist next.
“Oh, my God!”
Zella wore a mischievous expression. “What?”
Ryan lifted the third cup off the table. The stainless steel blade glinted in the afternoon sunlight. “How did you know where the knife was?”
Zella lifted up the base and turned it over. Four inches of fishing line had been taped across the bottom so an inch stuck out from beneath the base. The line was so thin it was difficult to see, even when one looked closely.
“You look for that little bit of fishing line.”
Ryan was amazed. “I didn’t even see it.”
“Go get something else.”
Feeling enthusiatic, Ryan went over to the trunk and picked out a bag containing a pair of shackles and a key. He returned to the table and started to hand it to her, but she waved him off. “You can take them out.”
Ryan removed the handcuffs and key and looked at his mom expectantly. She came over to him and put her hands behind her back. “Cuff me.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
Held against his mother’s delicate wrists, the cuffs looked heavy. Reluctantly, he snapped them on her. They looked like bright bracelets.
“Lock them.”
Ryan fit the key in the tiny lock and turned it.
“Test that they’re locked.”
Ryan tugged. They were secure.
Zella turned around, her back to him. “OK, sing me a song.”
“What?”
“Something happy. I’m tired of your teenage angst.”
Ryan broke into a grin, and Zella thought he must be the handsomest young man in the world. Their eyes locked, blue on blue. He sang the opening lines to “On the Street Where You Live”, then stopped and looked at her expectantly.
“‘My Fair Lady’. Makes me think of you and Bea.”
A shadow crossed Ryan’s face. Mr. Prescott had them do that musical in fifth grade. Ryan wondered what he was doing now, if he was still teaching. “Harry Connick Jr. did a jazzed up version of that song,” he said.
“You don’t want to talk about Bea, do you?”
Ryan scowled. “Not much.” She had been the only one for him, and her interest in Kincaid had been an abrupt wake-up call.
“Because of how sick she’s been?”
“What do you mean?”
Zella was stunned. “You don’t know?” She turned her back to him to show she was free of the handcuffs and handed them to him.
The blood had drai
ned from Ryan’s face. He needed to sit down.
Chapter 23
Logan sat in his backyard fort, defeated, and stared through the chain-link fence separating the Lockharts’ yard from the Henns’ property. The neighboring house was quiet, and it was early evening. He had given up on his mother after trying for hours to get her to sort through her possessions piece by piece, his reasoning being that if she was mad at his dad for discarding boxes without examining the contents, perhaps this careful approach would work better. Everything he showed her, though, was something she wanted to keep: moldy Q-Tips that would never—should never—be used, a candy dish shaped like a basket with a cracked handle, empty L’Eggs pantyhose containers, chipped mugs, dried tubes of paint, stained dishtowels, rag dolls with no arms, an incomplete set of dominoes. It all had to be saved because it meant something to her.
Halfway through the second bin, there was still nothing in the wastebasket he’d brought in from the bathroom, nothing Ramona would dream of throwing away among the dozens of worthless objects Logan had shown her, and she had made a serious dent in the pack of cigarettes he’d brought her. Now she wanted the bottle of gin she kept in the hall closet under a pile of towels, hidden from Jarrod so she could drink it all herself.
Logan went and got a glass and opened the freezer, removing expired frozen foods to find the sole ice tray so he could put some cubes in her drink.
Smoking and drinking on MawMaw’s bed, propped against the pillows and feigning fatigue, Ramona continued to shake her head every time her son pulled something else out and held it up. “No, I need to keep that. I might need it someday.”
Logan looked at the broken blender, incredulous, and returned it to the box.
And so it went, until half the bottle of gin was gone. He dug around in the box for the next item, and when he held it up, he saw that his mother had passed out, her drink spilled on MawMaw’s chenille spread, her cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray. Her mouth was open, and her head was back, making her look like she was in the middle of a silent scream. Logan kicked the box, took the wastebasket back to the bathroom, and went out back, navigating the cluttered yard until he found a clear spot measuring roughly five-feet-square. In the failing light, he watched as the stars blinked on like tiny lights. He’d brought some blankets and a pillow outside with him and set about forging a makeshift fort, using surrounding containers as walls. He had no wish to be anywhere near his mother after all he had tried to do, without any appreciation on her part.
He put his head down and dozed. He dreamt he was in a smoky pit, and his classmates were throwing hot coals at him. It was hard to breathe, and he coughed. Logan awoke with a start and shook off the nightmare. He peered out of his fort and was stunned. His home—his cluttered, awful home—was on fire, and his mother was inside.
Chapter 24
Ryan refused to go with his father to show properties unless Nana could come along. So, after an argument, they packed the dog into the back of Gene’s highly-polished, blood red E-Class Cabriolet convertible, fastened a seat belt, and looped leashes around her torso to keep her in the car, and then headed northwest on North Rexford Drive toward Santa Monica Boulevard.
As they hit the coastline, offshore winds kicked up so Gene and Ryan couldn’t converse, but Nana punctuated the road trip with happy barks, her ears flying straight back, her tongue lolling to one side. The ocean rippled, rose, and pounded the shoreline under a Tiffany blue sky, and the beaches were filled with sunbathers.
They were meeting Michael Knight-Lewis, who planned to move to Branson for his own one-man show. Since he grew up in Malibu, he wanted to establish a second home on the West Coast so he could come back out and visit friends from time to time. He had sold his place in Ojai the previous week, so he was anxious to secure a beachfront getaway, pack his bags, head to Missouri, and be back in a few months to visit after professional decorators furnished his new pad to his specifications.
As Gene pulled up to the Malibu Main Colony, Michael ducked out from beneath one of the winged-doors of his silver McLaren, slammed it shut, and waved. Ryan had seen cars around Beverly Hills that looked like they were straight from Back to the Future, but he thought they looked like a pain to get in and out of.
Gene parked behind Michael’s car, and Gene and Ryan got out. As Michael approached them, Ryan reached around to untie Nana. His dad’s one rule was to keep Nana away from him while he was dressed in one of his better suits—a charcoal gray cashmere off-the-rack Brioni with a purple silk tie and matching pocket square. Neither Ryan nor Michael had any desire to dress in anything better than jeans and never-iron Dockers for the meet-up, but that didn’t bother Gene. Gene dressed to the nines because when he wore a great suit, he felt like he could conquer the world.
Michael gave Nana a scratch on the head. “Big dog.”
“A hundred and fifty pounds,” Ryan told him.
Gene made the introductions. If Michael found it odd that his agent brought his son and dog along to show him properties, he made no mention of it. The two men talked as Ryan and Nana trailed behind.
Malibu Main was a gated community, and Gene was eager to show Michael a beachfront home with five bedrooms and three-point-five baths worth eight million. The home had an open floorplan that gave the place the expansiveness of an airport hangar. While Gene waxed poetic about the exquisiteness of the French limestone fireplace, Ryan went out onto the patio overlooking the beach. He leaned over one of the solid panes of glass to look at the poles that supported the balcony. Water swirled as waves swept in, and Ryan felt like he was on the bow of a ship.
“You can fish right off the deck,” Gene boasted as the men and Nana joined him.
Michael was glum. “I like the place, I really do, but—”
Gene moved over to the stairs that led down from the balcony to the beach and unlatched the gate. “Look, direct access.”
Nana saw the exit and couldn’t resist. She ran across the tiled patio and flew down the staircase.
“Nana, no!” Ryan shouted.
Michael was all smiles. “I know about Newfies. They love the water.”
“Go and get her, Ryan,” Gene commanded.
The men moved to the edge of the balcony to watch Ryan cajole Nana back to shore. Out about thirty yards in no time, Nana barked as she paddled against the waves.
Michael grew serious. “I like the house, I really do, but two of the bedrooms don’t face the ocean.”
“But two of them do,” Gene countered.
Michael shook his head. “Let’s keep looking.”
Chapter 25
Logan stood outside in his dirty gray long johns and watched his home, engulfed in flames, save for the corner room where Ramona listened to records on her portable record player. He ran over and tried to peer inside by jumping up and down. After a minute, he gave up. His eyes darted around the yard. A storage box with a firm lid, marked “pillows” in Ramona’s spidery scrawl, was three yards away. He dragged it over to the window, climbed on top, and looked. The window was open, the screen intact. He pushed on the screen, and it sprang forward into the room now filled with smoke.
He climbed through the open window and landed on the floor with a hard thud. Flames licked at the open doorway. Eyes wild, he searched the room ‘til he located his mother’s albums, stacked on a chair near the record player table. The cover of Elvis’ Christmas Album reflected the light from the flames in the doorway. He grabbed it just as the flames crept closer and began to consume the rug beneath his feet. Scampering to the window, he clambered up, fell through, hit the box of pillows, and rolled onto the grass. Then he ran as fast as he could, out through the side gate, out to the front of his house, out to the street. Lamps and lights were popping on across the street, first in one house, then in a second and a third. Someone would call 911.
Then he saw his dad, three blocks away, in his vintage black Chevelle SS 396, driving like a bat out of hell, barely braking at stop signs. Surely his dad knew the
house was on fire and was coming home to save them.
Just as Jarrod entered the block, a mustard-colored sedan careened around the corner and rammed Jarrod’s car into the curb. A second car, this one a grimy white, nearly mowed Logan down as it rushed past from the opposite end of the block and rammed the Chevelle’s front bumper. Jarrod jumped out as men from both cars sprang from theirs, leaving the doors wide open. One gunshot. Two gunshots. Three. Jarrod fell to the ground behind his open car door. Logan screamed, and the men from the white car turned and noticed him.
“Get the kid,” the shorter of the two men shouted, and Logan ran as hard as he could, back to the house, back through the gate into the backyard, and back to the chain-link fence separating his yard from Fred’s. He found the gully and shoved the Elvis album beneath the fence before he crawled under it. Then he grabbed the album and hid behind the tree. He heard noise in the yard as the men stumbled over Ramona’s bins and boxes. He cringed, held his breath, and waited. In the distance, he heard sirens.
Chapter 26
It took Ryan a full hour after school to make it to the North Camden florist shop, select a cylindrical vase filled with yellow tulips and goldenrod, return back home, and head next door to Bea’s house, prepared to tell her how sorry he was and why he’d ignored her these past years. Of course, she probably knew the reason. After he saw her and Kincaid together in the hallway, he never spoke to her again. He had let the time slip by, and here he was, sixteen, ready to man up and apologize.
The doorbell sounded like the first six notes to “Anchors Aweigh”, and as Ryan stood on the flagstone porch, he wondered how many times he’d rung it since preschool. Maybe thousands. If she forgave him, he planned to ring the bell daily until they graduated from high school, went off to college, got married, and had kids of their own.
Bea’s mom opened the door, and if she was surprised to see him, she covered it well. She was dressed in slacks and a white sweater that looked like it had been sprinkled with multi-colored confetti. Ryan looked directly at her, but it was difficult to tell if she was meeting his gaze because of her wandering eye, which always made her look like she was glancing upward, struggling to remember something important.
