Sketcher

by Roland Watson-Grant

  So when this poem thing came about three days after I hit the big One Zero, I sat down on an old car seat beside the house facing the bayou and tried to write something. Now, that car seat is real comfy, cos over it there’s an old bedspring leant up against the house that’s covered with some herb vine that Moms calls cerasee. She says it’s good to drink for purgin’ the blood. Well, all I know is, that car seat and the bed spring covered with cerasee vine both make a nice, shady spot for fallin’ asleep. So every time I tried writin’ I just drifted off into Pops’ vision.

  So after that, I got Doug and Tony to help me write it, but I didn’t tell them about the ten-dollar prize. Doug came up with that “blue shelf” part. Now, I didn’t know exactly why Pops needed me to do this, but I think it had somethin’ to do with him and Moms. But hell, adults are always weird that way, so I kept my mind on the prize money and wrote proper English like I learnt in school and like Moms taught me. I really wanted to start writin’ all my poetic stuff in a journal, but you ain’t got no privacy with three brothers and one room. Anyway, the first line of the poem gave ol’ Pops goose pimples. I swear the man teared up and I got my ten dollars and went straight to Lam Lee Hahn with it.

  I bought a stash of cold drinks and dried plums and a sketch pad for Frico just in case we needed it. I stashed everything up in the tamarind tree by securin’ it with copper wires from inside an old standin’ fan. Then I banked the other six dollars in that empty propane canister behind the dresser. Apart from the money, I was proud of myself cos I had beaten ol’ Fricozoid at somethin’.

  See, Pops asked Frico first to write a composition about his father. Told him he’d get the ten dollars and everything. But ol’ Frico he just couldn’t help himself. He had to tell the truth. He wrote somethin’ about Pops not knowin’ how to love and care for a woman, and how women need to be cared for, especially the mother of his children – and all that. Well, look: I agreed with Frico one hundred per cent, but that ain’t goin’ get you no money.

  So I sat down, gathered my big brothers around me, took out my dictionary and wrote Mr Alrick Beaumont a poem. Not a composition... a poem. Oooh – you shoulda seen that money comin’ out of his wallet. He wanted to give me one big, borin’ old Ten Spot just like that, but I told him I needed ten one-dollar bills, so I could throw them up in the air and count them over and over. Freeze frame. And for his honesty, Frico got squat.

  Of course, Valerie Beaumont found out about the whole poetry-sweepstakes thing and she silently raised hell.

  It was one of those whisperin’ arguments done inside when we kids were out in the yard playin’ soccer penalty shootouts. Pa Campbell had just come over to help Pops raise the porch again. We had to do this every year or so because of the subsidence in the swamp – and the porch, which was on the softer side closer to the water, always sank faster. Pops used to say if I shut up long enough I could hear the house sinkin’. Anyway, they dumped a load of marl and gravel and took apart the porch, and while Pa was busy hammerin’, Moms and Pops used the noise for cover.

  “I don’t know what the big deal is, Valerie.”

  “Oh, you mean apart from teaching your child to gamble and using money we don’t have?”

  “Gamble!”

  “Yes, gamble. And bribery. Tryin’ to buy their loyalties. To prove you’re special.”

  “What’s botherin’ you, Valerie?”

  “Do you know why we’re here? Cos I’ve always believed in you. I look into the sky at night and I know that the man I married helped put rockets all the way up there.”

  Her voice went softer, so I had to press my ear up against the frosted-glass louvre. It was cold.

  “Alrick – he can do anything. But one thing he can’t do is take us out of this swamp.”

  “Is that what’s botherin’ you?”

  “What’s botherin’ me is that your chil’ren are losin’ the father they know... that we’re poor... that we been here too long.”

  “Here we go again. You’ve never—”

  “See that old PVC pipe out in the yard? The one that leads from the tank? That plastic pipe is a symbol for me.”

  “Jeez...”

  “It’s above ground, Alrick, above ground. And do you remember why? Cos when we just got here, you said: ‘Let’s not even bury that pipe, cos it’s only temporary... all temporary.’ Soon the city’ll be sweepin’ through here and we’ll be in a better place. Now congratulations on finishin’ the well, but that pipe is still there.”

  “Look, Val—”

  “No, you look around you, Alrick! I’m still here – we’re all still here – taking it lying down just like that plastic pipe. The city is afraid of these backwaters. And meanwhile, you think it’s OK to give your chil’ren money to feed your vanity?”

  And then Pa Campbell hammered up a storm – and I was happy, cos I didn’t want to hear any more. I went up into the tree for a cold drink and looked into the city.

  Well, by early the followin’ year, we started goin’ to church more and “spendin’ more time as a family”, as Moms put it. On weekdays, as soon she got home from cookin’ and waitin’ tables, she would help us with our homework by herself. And then before dinner we’d light a small fire outside behind the house and put some wild bushes on it to help chase the mosquitoes and the gnats away, cos especially when it rained and you heard those sad ol’ cypress trees weepin’ into the water, you knew the bugs were comin’ out to feed. You heard them coming. Then after dark the crickets took over and worked the night shift – thousands of them chirpin’ all night to the beat of one raindrop at a time, sliding off a leaf into the swamp water or drumming into one of Moms’ cookin’ pots through the tin roof. That’s how you’d pass time when it rained: counting drops and cursin’ crickets. Then all you needed was Pa Campbell wailin’ the blues on his harmonica for you to feel like you could lay down in the bayou and blow bubbles like a bullfrog just so you couldn’t hear all that sadness. But when it was dry, we’d all sit on this makeshift bench at the back of the house and watch the sunset. Calvin would be close by, scratchin’ himself or runnin’ from his kids, and I’d look at the edges of the sky change from blue to blush and listen to the critters and wonder why God spent so much time decoratin’ a day that was dyin’.

  One time Moms said that the clouds were lemon custard with the edges toasted golden and the westbound birds were like sprinkles, and those frogs going glug-glug-glug were prob’ly singin’ their li’le ones to sleep. So I thought, “Wow, that’s really nice.” Then right after that, Pops came home smack in the middle of the crème-brulée clouds and the lullaby singin’. He’d been away for two nights and smelt different and sounded tipsy. There was a big peace sign painted on his face, and he had these fancy new clothes on. And I just went right back to thinking that God was wastin’ his time decoratin’ a day that was just about dead.

  Now, usually we all went to Long Lake Free Gospel Church on the weekend, but one sleepy Sunday mornin’ Moms got up and after breakfast she told me she wanted me to go with Pa Campbell into Gentilly on a mission for her. I wasn’t too keen on the idea till she said I was goin’ to do it “like a ninja”. We didn’t have no television at our house, so at the time I had no idea what a real ninja looked like, but I heard Harry T talkin’ about ninja shows all the time. That boy watched a hell of a lot of TV, and I think it must have messed with his brain a little bit. He believed some impossible things just because they came over the tube, I tell ya.

  Harry lived over in the city, but that boy loved diggin’ for adventure, especially in the swamp, so I wouldn’t even call him a real city boy. He’d hitch a ride on his bicycle in someone’s truck all the way to where the asphalt disappeared and the dirt road began. Then he’d ride the rest of the way into the swamp and drop by just in time for some food and then haul his ass back home to sit in front of his damn TV set till he fell asleep.

  Now, me and Harry, during the summer, we used to plan missions just to mess with angler fishermen or da
ring tourists who believed in brochures and prob’ly thought they had found some place “untouched by human beings”. So we’d see them all peaceful, in their little fishin’ boat out on the bayou, and we’d just ride up suddenly and look all queasy and tell them to get out of our toilet.

  So when Moms said “ninja mission” and my brothers didn’t sound interested in going with me, I decided the best person to tell was Harry T, cos sure as the sun he’d be comin’ into the swamp early that Sunday.

  Well, would you believe it, when Harry turned up at our place, I couldn’t recognize the guy. He had bought some kind of Jheri-curl kit and put it in his hair, and it was dripping all over his bicycle like he’d fallen into the bayou a coupla times. Plus, he had on these sunglasses two sizes bigger than his face, and he was wearing a leatherette jacket and some extra belts with big buckles. He also kept grabbing at his pants. I asked him if that’s what a ninja looks like, cos there was no way in hell I could tell at the time that he was tryin’ to look like Michael Jackson or whatever. My father only fixed TVs: we didn’t have one for ourselves. Well, that just started the ninja mission off on the wrong foot, cos he was mighty pissed at me – and when Pa Campbell dropped us off in Gentilly, he just kept pedalling the bike the rest of the way real fast with me ridin’ on the handlebars, till I got scared and told him he did look a li’le bit like Michael Jackson and he slowed down. The truth is, Harry Tobias couldn’t look like Michael Jackson even if he prayed for it. He kept tellin’ people he was half Cherokee, half black and half something else, so he couldn’t even get his fractions right... idiot.

  So, there we were in Gentilly, and after a while I hopped off the handlebars and walked up to a clean, white wroughtiron gate with “Deux Cent Quarante-Deux” written in gold cursive on a black iron plate. Behind the little gate was one of those gardens I saw in the magazines that Moms used to buy. She knew all the flowers in French gardens by name. She wanted a garden based on that Marie Antoinette lady we studied in school. So she’d stay up nights readin’ and wishin’ she could grow boxwood bushes, pink petunias, white roses and peonies – but all that salty soil in the swamp don’t allow for that kind of daydreamin’: we had to settle for some aloe vera, peppermint or periwinkle in a couple of Sherwin-Williams paint cans out on the porch.

  I pushed the gate and went up the narrow walkway with the flowers nodding at me on both sides, while Harry T waited by the kerb, looking in a little mirror and fussing with his Jheri-that-didn’t-really-curl. The house was baby-blue with French windows and white mouldin’ that made it look like a birthday cake. Tiny peach-and-brown birds bounced around a fancy concrete bath in the courtyard, and through the trees little sequins of light came down and sprinkled a few wrought-iron chairs and a table in the garden shade. Ahhh yes. You could sit there all day in the shade and have tea and soup, if you wanted to – though with so many birds above your head I don’t think it would be a good idea.

  I stopped at the door and fished around in my jeans pockets for the note Moms gave me to deliver. She said Pops would be at 242 Plume Noire. He would be there calling on a customer to fix a stereo, and I was to go give it to him, this note. As usual she was very specific. She said: “Now, when you knock and the person comes to the door, say good morning, ask for your father and hand the note to him.” I said OK, cos that sounded real simple for a ninja mission, but somehow as I stood there looking at the note in my hand, something began to stink about this whole thing.

  The damn door knocker seemed to know it too. It was one of those knockers that you see all the time with a mean-lookin’ lion bitin’ into a big ol’ cast-iron ring. But this pa’ticular lion was grinning like he was saying to me: “Go ahead and knock, if you have the balls, kid.” So I did. Well, after the fifteenth knock-knock-knock, Harry was getting antsy, cos his hair was melting in the sun and I was all ready to quit this mission. But someone peeped through the fancy fleur-de-lis latticework over the top of the door. Then the latch goes kruckkruck, I hear the bolt sliding out slow, the door groans open, I look up and... I’m standing face to belly button with Miss Fiola Lambert.

  I’m thinkin’ Moms set this up cos I’m always talkin’ about Miss Lambert. This is obviously my belated birthday party – and I was expectin’ to walk inside and everybody would be there to shout “Surprise!” And here comes the Sunday-morning breeze suddenly sweepin’ down the slope and rufflin’ Miss Lambert’s curls and pressin’ her green silk nightgown closer to her skin. She brushed some of her little girl curls from her face, and the white roses and peonies threw butterfly confetti all over the place. Super slow motion. And freeze frame.

  “E-Skid-eh?”

  I heard music. I loved it when her French accent made a little sandwich of my name and left dainty sounds at both ends. Ahhh.

  She bends down and smiles at me. And even in the breeze there is sweat on her upper lip, and there’s another drop of it runnin’ down her neck, and her curls are messy now. Her eyes are jumpin’ left and right, and I’m suddenly nervous and confused, cos I’m in love with her and I hate that I’m in my worst clothes, that I didn’t have my moustache yet and that I came here with Harry T and his ridiculous hairstyle. And when I was busy hatin’ Frico for bein’ so damn selfish – who appears in the doorway behind Miss Fiola but my pops in his sad ol’ boxer shorts? My eyes bugged out. His eyes bugged out.

  “Why – what are you doing out here?!”

  He dashed behind the door, so I said to hell with handing him the note. I just pulled my eyes off Miss Fiola and started to read Moms’ note:

  Behold, Alrick Beaumont. I know thy works!

  This wasn’t the first time Moms was usin’ her King James Bible verses to express herself – but hell, it was the worst time. And Heaven knows I wished I hadn’t come. I reckoned those bastards – Frico, Tony and Doug – knew about these ninja missions and must’ve thought it was my turn to bear the bad news. But something tells me I was the only one who ever completed one of them.

  Well, Miss Fiola, she ducked inside, but my father rushed at me through the door in a pink bathrobe that he had obviously just dragged on. So I start runnin’ like a lucky Thanksgivin’ turkey, cos I’ve never seen my old man so mad. He’s gallopin’ behind me cursin’ my mother and me. And Harry T, he’s laughin’ and ridin’ right alongside me just ahead of my old man, hollerin’ that I should get on the bicycle handlebars. But a whoopin’ with that bedside slipper in Pops’ hand is more likely at this point, so I just keep goin’ until my old man decides it’s not very decent to run about the neighbourhood in his drawers and a pink bathrobe.

  So I get home, and Harry T is wonderin’ if the mission is over so he can go watch TV. I’m quietly sobbin’, not quite sure if I’m sorry for Moms or angry because my father was fixing Miss Fiola’s stereo on Saturday night.

  Then, right after the ninja mission, Pops moved out of the swamp, and I felt like it was my fault, even though it was Moms who told him she didn’t want him and his ways no more and he was never to come back. His Ford Transit van took him away, together with all the stuff he was repairin’. And Ma and Pa Campbell, who were on the porch when he was packin’ up, they just went back inside and turned off all their lights. Soon I could hear Pa Campbell on his harmonica brewin’ up some bittersweet breeze, and I wanted to just hurl a rock at his house.

  When Pops drove out, I ran to the corner of the L and watched as the van splashed through the creek and rode up the slopes and got to the train tracks. And the back lights, those back lights, they just burned red-hot and then went dead-dead cold. And the van turned right and disappeared behind the mangroves out at Lam Lee Hahn, and there was no sound except for the whole swamp sinkin’.

  I saw Pops set foot back there a few weeks later, after dark, as I was dousin’ a mosquito fire in the yard. I knew someone was out there, but Calvin, he wasn’t makin’ a fuss, so I wasn’t too scared, until I saw this tiny red glow bobbin’ through the trees and I was thinking it was one hell of a firefly or an angry baby fifolet.
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  Then Pops stepped out of the darkness behind a cigarette and stooped down beside me. I hadn’t seen him smoke in a long time, so he smelt weird, but I wanted to hug him. That would have been even weirder than the cigarette smell, though, so instead I just said, “Hey Pops.” Then he whispered to me that he was sorry, but he needed one of Moms’ pictures so that he could keep her close to his heart. That sounded good, so I brought it, gold frame and all, and gave it to him without askin’ her, and he went away without even saying thanks. All he left me was that smoke curling up.

  By that Thanksgivin’, we were broke as hell and, like they say, it was hard in the Big Easy and outside the city limits where we lived. So hard that one day, me and Doug, we even saw Moms leaning against the house and crying in the rain after coming back in from Lam Lee Hahn. Man. You never ever get that out of your head. See, in that high-water wilderness, you could prob’ly catch panfish or crawfish or some small game, but not quickly or easily enough to feed four growin’ boys. At least not without bein’ adapted to it. We were like fugitives who ran away from the city but were sittin’ waitin’ for it to come catch up with us. Even after so many years we still weren’t ready for country livin’. We had no serious practice huntin’ or fishin’. We couldn’t predict the tides that came in from the Gulf, not to mention those storm surges that either chase you out or lock you in for days. We could try it, but my moms, she wasn’t ready to adjust. She had hardcore beliefs and practices, includin’ the culinary ones. Thanksgivin’ mornin’ we heard her mumbling to herself that “on Turkey Day or any other day, me and my kids won’t be eating no rattlesnake or squirrel or possum pie, or any kind of chit’lin’s. Where I come from we don’t eat that stuff.” Me and Doug decided it wasn’t the best time to tell her that we’d been samplin’ swamp rats over at Pa Campbell’s. And those suckers weren’t half bad.