The Perfect Place

by Teresa E. Harris

  “What you got is too much dang free time,” Great-Aunt Grace replies, crumpling up Dot’s flier and shoving it in her pants pocket.

  Dot’s nostrils flare. “It’s been nearly a decade, but don’t think I forgot how you robbed my kin all those years ago. Would you happen to know anything about my missing statue?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Everyone knows you got a record, Grace, and a knack for getting yourself caught up in the worst type of situations.”

  “That explains me standin’ here talkin’ to you. Come on, girls, let’s go.”

  Great-Aunt Grace strides away, leaving Tiffany and me to stare after Dot, who storms back to her house and slams the door shut behind her. Tiffany runs to catch up to Great-Aunt Grace. I do too, though neither of us walks close enough to rub elbows with her.

  “Do you think someone broke in and stole Mr. Teddy Daniels’s clothes?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, girl. Your mama forgot to pack them.”

  Tiffany’s face falls.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell Tiffany. “When Mom comes back with Dad, we’ll get more clothes for Mr. Teddy D.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes.”

  Tiffany smiles. Great-Aunt Grace rolls her eyes.

  When we come almost to the end of Iron Horse Road, Tiffany furrows her brow and looks up at Great-Aunt Grace. “What kind of records do you have?”

  “What, girl?”

  “That lady said everybody knows you got records.”

  “She means a police record. It means Great-Aunt Grace has been arrested, right?” I say. “Mom and Dad got her out of jail.”

  “That’s right, girl. Guess you’re not as simple as you look.”

  But I bet she’s as old as she looks. And maybe she’s a thief on top of everything else.

  “Did you get arrested for stealing?” I ask.

  “Depends on how you see thangs. See, Dot’s fool son was the mail boy back in the day, and he always used to come through here with this portable radio in his truck, blastin’ that be-pop.”

  “You mean hip-hop?”

  “Who’s tellin’ this story, girl, you or me?” Great-Aunt Grace snaps. “So he used to come through blastin’ that be-pop, loud enough to make your dang ears bleed. I told him if you don’t cut it out when you come round my house, I’m gonna give you what for. He came around next day, still blastin’ that noise, but I was ready for him. Told him he had a flat rear tire. When he got out his truck to check, I reached in and took that dang radio.”

  “You stole some kid’s radio?” Tiffany asks, incredulous.

  “Threw it on the ground and smashed it too.”

  I can just picture Great-Aunt Grace out by her mailbox, waiting to strike.

  “So did you take Dot’s elephant, too?” I ask.

  “Yeah, did you?” Tiffany chimes in.

  “Dot’s a fool. This town is full of ’em. Don’t worry: Y’all will fit right in.”

  There are so many places Mom could’ve left us instead of with Great-Aunt Grace. An abandoned building, maybe, or the sewer. The Everglades. I’d rather take my chances with the gators and the snakes.

  Ten

  WE walk for what feels like a month. When we reach the end of Great-Aunt Grace’s road, we turn down another and yet another, both almost identical to hers: narrow and flanked on either side by boxy, rundown houses. Soon we turn left and come to the street where Mom made her U-turn. Here there’s a gas station, a convenience store, and two signs that we haven’t completely fallen off the face of the earth: A few cars drive by and a woman passes us, jogging.

  “Are we almost there?” Tiffany says.

  “No, and whinin’ ain’t gonna speed us up, so cut it out, girl.”

  Tiffany clamps her mouth shut and scowls. We keep on walking until we come to a stoplight. We cross the street and now we’re in what Great-Aunt Grace calls downtown Black Lake, which isn’t much more than a few blocks with small stores on either side of the street, languishing in the shade of faded awnings. DeGroat’s Dry Cleaning; W. T. Fine Arts and Prints; Pet and Purr.

  Great-Aunt Grace’s store is called Grace’s Goodies. We’re just stopping in front of its heavy metal-and-glass door beneath a worn burgundy awning when a voice calls out, “Morning, Ms. Washington.”

  A young man is climbing out of the driver’s side of a shiny black pickup truck. He’s broad-shouldered and the deep brown of milk chocolate. He has muscles on top of muscles and looks like he walked straight off the cover of one of Mom’s urban romance novels, the ones Dad asked her to stop reading in public.

  “Mornin’, Byron,” Great-Aunt Grace says.

  “You’re looking lovely as ever today,” Byron says.

  Great-Aunt Grace is sweaty and scowling. If that’s lovely, I’d hate to see what Byron considers unpleasant. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your pretty friends?”

  My face grows hot. Tiffany smiles up at him. She loves anyone who calls her pretty.

  “Not friends,” Great-Aunt Grace says, setting her cooler down. “Family.”

  “Well, they got names?”

  Before Great-Aunt Grace can answer, a girl comes bursting out of the store two doors down from Grace’s Goodies, carrying a greasy brown paper bag. She’s wearing the shortest shorts I’ve ever seen and a tank top thinner than one-ply toilet paper.

  Byron holds his hand out for the paper bag and peeks inside. “You got me sesame seed.”

  “You asked for sesame seed, didn’t you?”

  “No. I asked for poppy.”

  The girl cocks her head to the side and looks at Byron, wide-eyed. “They’re pretty much the same thing. But my manners!” She waves at Great-Aunt Grace, Tiffany, and me. “I’m Sasha, Byron’s girl.”

  Great-Aunt Grace eyes the girl’s wrists, which are covered in tangled gold bracelets. Sasha notices and holds her arms out so Great-Aunt Grace can get a closer look. “I’m a jewelry freak,” she says.

  Byron is scowling at her. She understands the look on his face, which says, plain as day, Go get in the car, because that’s exactly what she does.

  “Where’d you find that one?” Great-Aunt Grace asks.

  “She lives over in Bracie.” Byron smiles, showing two rows of perfect teeth. “You know I love the ladies. Listen, you beautiful girls have yourself a good day, you hear?”

  “You too,” Great-Aunt Grace says, fishing her keys out of her pants pocket.

  “He said I’m beautiful,” Tiffany says, as Byron pulls away from the curb.

  “Girl, please,” Great-Aunt Grace says. “That fool has more women than he has sense.” She grabs her cooler, unlocks the door to Grace’s Goodies, and ushers us inside.

  The first things I see are the shiny wrappers of rows and rows of candy glittering in the murky light, like coins in a fountain. Great-Aunt Grace flicks a switch, and everything comes into sharper focus. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, 3 Musketeers, Swedish Fish, Skittles, no-name chocolate bars (but who cares because chocolate is chocolate), sour watermelons, gummy bears. My eyes don’t know where to settle and my hands don’t know what to grab.

  “Don’t even think about askin’ for anything.”

  My eyes land on Great-Aunt Grace. “I don’t even like candy.”

  I would lie, cheat, and steal for candy. And the first chance I get, I’m going for a pack of Sour Patch Kids. In the meantime, Great-Aunt Grace informs us that there is work to be done. I’m to wipe down the shelves in the back, and Tiffany—

  “Can I work the register?” she pleads.

  Tiffany has a thing for buttons.

  Great-Aunt Grace grunts, neither a yes nor a no. “First you’re gonna help me restock the shelves out here in the front, make sure there’s enough of everything.”

  Tiffany and I follow Great-Aunt Grace through a waist-high swinging door that’s connected to the counter. As we pass the cash register, Tiffany looks back and sighs.

  Great-Aunt Grace leads us to the stockro
om, where I’ll be working. It’s cold and gray, but anything is better than being outside in the Black Lake heat. Shelves line each wall, and on each shelf are boxes and boxes of candy. When I turn to look toward the front of the store, it’s like it’s back in Jersey, it’s so far away. Tucked away in the corner is a phone hanging on the wall. Does it work? Can I use it to call for help? It’s not fair that Great-Aunt Grace won’t let me work in the front too. She probably doesn’t want to be around me any more than I want to be around her. On the plus side, working in the stockroom means I’ll be left unattended with more candy than I’ll probably ever see again.

  It’s like Great-Aunt Grace reads my mind.

  “I know which boxes ain’t open, and of the ones that are, I know exactly how much candy is in ’em.” She gives me a long, hard look. “You want some, you gotta pay, just like everybody else.”

  I think about the money in my pocket. Mom gave it to me for emergencies. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to spend any of it on candy—candy that should be free, any old way. And now that I know cleaning these shelves isn’t going to produce any type of reward—given or otherwise—the shelves and boxes seem to multiply right before my eyes.

  “I can’t do this by myself.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to.”

  “Maybe?”

  “You might get help, you might not. Pray on it, girl.”

  Great-Aunt Grace takes a few rags and a bottle of yellow cleaner down from the shelf next to her and hands them to me.

  I might get help? To do this job, I’m going to need the help of ten men. Or Jesus. I hope Great-Aunt Grace doesn’t plan on sending Tiffany to work back here. I can just picture her spindly arms trembling. Before I can ask Great-Aunt Grace about this possible help, she is on her way to the front. Tiffany turns and waves at me over her shoulder. I see pity in her eyes.

  What if I spent all day sitting on this cold stockroom floor, not cleaning a single shelf? Would Great-Aunt Grace call Mom and tell her to come back and pick me up? Doubt it. She’s more the warm-your-butt-with-a-whupping type.

  I take one deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Then I get to work, pulling the boxes down from the first shelf. When it’s empty, I start wiping it down.

  I’m bored within minutes. The cleaner turns out to be pine-scented and slick. It leaves a greasy sheen on the shelf and I have to wipe extra hard to get it to go away. Which means my shoulders go first. Then my patience, followed by my will to live. I can hear Great-Aunt Grace explaining to Tiffany how the cash register works.

  “You type in the price and hit this button. . . . No, not that one; this one, girl. It’s like tryin’ to teach Mr. Shuffle.”

  By the time I’m up on the ladder, cleaning the top shelf, I’m so deep into counting the many ways I despise my great-aunt, I don’t even notice the witch herself standing below me.

  “Girl, you deaf or something?”

  I look down, right into Great-Aunt Grace’s flared nostrils. A boy is with her. A boy around my age wearing khaki cargo shorts and an orange T-shirt with a robot on the front of it.

  “Help is here,” Great-Aunt Grace says. “Get on down here and meet him.”

  I climb down the ladder slowly. The boy looks at me and I look back at him. He has copper-colored skin and eyes the color of pencil shavings.

  “This is Terrance. Terrance, this is Treasure. She wants to be called Jeanie, but you can ignore that nonsense. Terrance is new to town, just like you, but he don’t talk back. You could learn a few things from him.” Great-Aunt Grace runs her index finger over one of the shelves I’ve just cleaned. “He’s gonna have to teach you a thing or two about cleaning my shelves, too.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Terrance says, holding out his hand. I stare at it like it has eight legs.

  “Try to teach her some manners while you’re at it,” Great-Aunt Grace tells him.

  The minute she leaves us to the shelves, that boy says, “So you’re not into shaking hands? Don’t worry. I’m not offended. Are you a germaphobe or something, though? My aunt is. She buys hand sanitizer by the bulk. Want some Pop Rocks?”

  He reaches into his pocket and holds the box out to me. Pop Rocks aren’t my favorite candy, but I can deal with them, especially the blue ones, which he has. But taking candy from Terrance might make him think we’re friends, and I don’t make friends. It’s the first and most important of my Moving Rules: Don’t make friends. Avoid extended eye contact and turn down all invitations for play dates. Try not to smile. Don’t waste words, which means no small talk. Try not to speak unless your life—or grades—depends on it.

  I shake my head, and Terrance shrugs. “More for me,” he says, and I have to spend the next ten minutes listening to the Pop Rocks crackle in his mouth and not in mine.

  Great-Aunt Grace’s booming voice spills into the back as she talks with the customers who come in. One is a woman with a voice that could cut glass.

  “Can you believe it? Scoundrel broke into the sheriff’s house and stole Eunetta’s pearls,” the woman says. “Ain’t that a cryin’ shame?”

  “Reckon it is,” Great-Aunt Grace replies.

  “I hear the sheriff and Eunetta are offering a reward to the man who finds the heathens responsible.”

  “Or woman.”

  “Right,” the woman says slowly. “You got any more Juicy Fruit?”

  “Last rack, top shelf,” Great-Aunt Grace says, and then the two of them start talking about the new pastor at the church—“He’s full of nothin’ but hot air,” says Great-Aunt Grace—and I turn my attention back to the shelves.

  “My mama is real bothered by the break-ins,” Terrance says. “Is there a lot of crime where you’re from?”

  What kind of question is that? I don’t answer.

  “I guess not. We moved here because my father got a job as the head of the zoology department at the University of Richmond. We’re staying with my grandma until we find a house that meets my mama’s standards.”

  Head of the zoology department? Terrance’s family must have a gang of money. So what’s he doing here, cleaning shelves with me? The question almost breaks free, but I clamp my lips shut and hold it in. Terrance keeps right on talking, moving on from the break-ins to his terrarium, the time machine he’s planning on building, and his quest to find out what the special sauce on a Big Mac is made of. It’s not Thousand Island dressing like everyone thinks, Terrance says. The ingredients are way more sinister than that.

  For the next hour, conversation comes pouring out of him fast and unstoppable, like a waterfall. He doesn’t stop even to swallow. Isn’t his mouth getting dry? Or the back of his throat starting to itch?

  “So, long story short, I mentioned the theory of evolution one too many times. Now my grandma is concerned with the state of my soul. That’s why I decided to start doing volunteer work, to earn some Jesus points, you know? She told me to steer clear of Ms. Washington because she’s different in a bad way.”

  Great-Aunt Grace is just bad. Period.

  “But I like a challenge, you know? Besides, Ms. Washington gives me free candy for helping out.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Terrance jumps at the sound of my voice. “Um, serious about what?”

  “The free candy.”

  “Yup.” Terrance holds out the Pop Rocks as proof. “Don’t you get free candy too? I mean, you’re related and all. Anyway, do you want to hear a joke my dad’s friend told me? He’s an oncologist. All right, here goes. Knock, knock.”

  Silence.

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘Who’s there?’ Okay, whatever. I’ll say it. Who’s there? Interrupting doctor.” Terrance pauses. “Now you say, ‘Interrupting doctor who?’”

  He’s staring at me expectantly, and I don’t think he intends to stop until I play along. I spit out the words: “Interrupting doctor—”

  “You have cancer.”

  Now it’s my turn to stare at Terrance. He looks at his shoes,
then up at me. “It’s the cancer part, right? Society is just not ready to laugh about it. Maybe I should change it to ‘You have tyrotoxism.’ Poisoning by cheese. That’s funny, right?”

  “Let’s just clean the shelves, okay?” I say.

  “Okay, but first—what about this one? A guy walks into a bar with a zebra. Wait, no. It’s a giraffe. Let me start over. So this guy walks into a bar with a giraffe . . .”

  I close my eyes and grit my teeth.

  Eleven

  TERRANCE tells me all about how his father is off in Venezuela, studying huge tarantulas called Goliath bird eaters. He tells me what he’ll name his cockatoo once his mother gives in and confronts her fear of birds—Clancy. By the time he starts talking about his allergy to pit fruits, I check out of the conversation and start flipping through the dictionary in my head, beginning with the A’s.

  Ameliorate: to make or become better; to make more bearable, as in, the only way to ameliorate my time with Terrance would be to glue his mouth shut.

  I make it to cacophony—a harsh clash of sounds—when Terrance asks, “So is it just you and your sister visiting Ms. Washington? Where’re your parents?”

  My dad has been gone for two and a half months and my mom is driving around searching for him, using a credit-card bill as her guide. As if Terrance would understand, with his zoologist father and his mother with her high living standards. I bet they have dinner together as a family every night and the only time his father has ever left was for a business trip and even then he made sure to call every night.

  The grits and bacon churn in my stomach. I close my eyes and press my forehead against the cool metal of the shelves.

  “Are you okay?” Terrance asks.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you—”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  The clock above the stockroom door reads 12:10 when Great-Aunt Grace returns, carrying two aluminum-foiled bundles and two bottles of red juice. The bundle turns out to be a sandwich, turkey with mayo on white bread. She hands one to Terrance and the other to me. I wait for him to sit down near the door to the storage room. Then I pick a section of cold floor all the way on the other side of the room, far enough away from Terrance to discourage any further conversation, and open my sandwich. I’ve barely taken a bite when Tiffany waltzes in, carrying what’s left of her own lunch. Her smile could span the equator.