Slow Way Home

by Michael Morris

  Three sprinklers fanned water in all directions. We would run up and down Uncle Cecil’s mound of dirt, pretending to dodge the falling water. At the top I’d stand so tall I could see Nana’s front porch, all the while envisioning I was a king of some ancient terrain. A shove from Mary Madonna would quickly end my reign. “Quit hogging up all the water,” she’d scream.

  Once the mountain had turned to quicksand, Aunt Loraine would stand on the back steps of the trailer and hose us down. No matter how careful I was not to get too much mud on me, she always said the same line when it came my turn to get hosed. “And you, young man. I’ll just have to use the spray nozzle on you. You’re downright covered in filth.” As the pellets of water stung my legs, I never let on that she was doing anything out of the ordinary. I’d jump around like it was fun and act like she was playing some kinda game. And it was a game in which she always had the last say.

  Aunt Loraine was a tall woman who puffed out her hair until it looked like one of G.I. Joe’s helmets. Her pug nose turned up just enough to remind me of one of the hogs Poppy kept pinned behind the house. Her face was painted and pasty, just like Samantha’s mama’s on Bewitched. Although I never shared this comparison with Mac or Mary Madonna, I kept it in the back of my mind. With a woman like Aunt Loraine you never knew when you might need an extra supply of ammunition.

  Although Aunt Loraine believed in makeup, she did not believe in public transportation. “Public transportation is for coloreds and white trash. The last time I checked, my children were neither,” she said when Mac asked about riding the school bus. Since I got off the bus at the farm alone, Nana felt strongly that someone had to be at the end of the driveway to greet me. “Too much meanness going on now days,” she’d say. So every afternoon, humid or freezing, I disembarked to find her waiting inside the car with a cold Pepsi.

  She held up the bottle. “Did you do good in school today? I got a slice of pound cake waiting on the table for you.” And every day she waited while I checked the mailbox. It was another part of the ritual in living with them. Supper at six, bedtime no later than nine-thirty; everything was set by time and carved out of history. But nothing in the schedule prepared me for an uninvited guest.

  Just as I got to the black mailbox, I saw it sitting beyond the trees lurking like a cheetah stalking prey. Between the clump of maples across the road sat the old car with a different-colored door. The driver’s head was partially hidden by the branches. Closing the mailbox and walking towards the air-conditioning of Nana’s car, I heard the roar as the beat-up car engine turned over. A puff of blue smoke drifted beyond the treetops. Stillness wrapped around me just as it had the day I saw the rattlesnake slither in front of the mailbox.

  The driver’s face was shielded with sunglasses. She was missing the bright yellow curls, but it was her all the same. The one who brought me into the world and the one who casually put me on layaway at the bus station. Although her eyes were hidden from my view, I could feel them pulling me to cross the road and ride away with her. To live in Canada in a fancy high-rise apartment.

  The sun reflected off of chipped rocks at the edge of the road. Their slivers of metal were like magnets pulling me towards the old car.

  “Come on, now,” Nana called. “Poppy wants us to help him pick peas when you’re through eating.”

  Inside the house I ate pound cake and watched Nana fold the towels piled high in Poppy’s recliner. All the while, the woman on the TV cried about the husband who left her.

  “Is that cake good to you?” Nana asked while staring at the screen. Even though she couldn’t see me, I forced a smile and nodded. I ached to tell her my mama was back in town. To mount up and protect my safe haven. To run out the door and down the driveway and hug my mama. To slap her across the face the same way the woman from Nana’s TV story had slapped her wayward husband.

  But I did nothing but sit there in the air-conditioned home and feel the nervous past coil around my chest, a feeling that I thought had been long cut away.

  Three

  Crowds began filing into the converted livestock arena early. By eight o’clock women with children bouncing around them rolled in like waves surging in between the rows of parked trucks whose tailgates were weighted down with bushels of vegetables and fresh flowers.

  If I hadn’t seen Mama in that car, I would have enjoyed the day at the market a whole lot better. It had been three days since I saw her, and every afternoon I had stood behind the wide pine next to the mailbox hoping to catch her. Part of me wondered if I had seen her at all. Maybe it was a vision like the kind Brother Bailey preached about during Wednesday night church. A walking dream. A walking nightmare. But the turmoil over how I would respond to a potential reunion did not vanish with a simple rub of the eyes.

  While Poppy propped his foot on the tailgate of Mr. Winter’s truck and cussed the price of hogs, Nana busied herself with arranging bushels of peas and squash. Without looking up, she would offer an occasional “Well, I declare” to the latest news offered from Mr. Winter’s wife, Naomi. Miss Naomi was always talking about a customer or a fellow farmer. The Cuban farmer, Mr. Calato, was a regular topic of her concern.

  Most days, after the customers had trickled down to the late sleepers, I would run up and down the arena bleachers with Poco, Mr. Calato’s grandson. But after seeing my mama drive by, I stretched out on the wooden bleacher and pleaded a stomachache. The smell of fresh strawberries baking in the sun rose from Mr. Calato’s truck, teasing me into thinking that everything was all right.

  After running up several rows of bleachers Poco finally gave up and plopped down on the step below me. With his shirttail untucked, Poco’s brown stomach rose up in search of air. I felt sorry for him. According to Nana, his mother had died in a car wreck and his father took off without him. At least I still had my mama, and even though I had never met him, there was a daddy somewhere in the world who would take me in if he thought I ever needed him. After Miss Naomi told Nana that Poco’s father was connected with the Cuban Mafia, Nana ordered me to stay away from Mr. Calato’s truck.

  When customers swirled around Nana, and Poppy was forced to break up his weather talk and help, I would sneak over to the lime green truck with a headlight missing. Peering into the cab, I searched for the evils I was warned to stay away from. With the exception of a bottle wrapped in a brown bag and a string of wooden beads dangling from the rearview mirror, the contents were no different from those in Poppy’s truck.

  “Poco, do you ever hear from your daddy?”

  Poco’s stomach continued to expand as he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Your mom call?”

  I stared up at the giant wooden beams and the big lights that dangled above us from the ends of skinny cables. “She’s busy working. But I got a feeling she might be calling soon.”

  “One time he came here.” Poco was sitting up, picking at a splinter in the bleacher. “Daddito got in a fight with him so then he left.”

  “But when he left, did he want you to go?”

  “He’s busy. Busier than your mom even. My dad…” Poco suddenly stood. “My dad travels all the time. Back to Cuba and stuff.”

  “You know, the time he came here, did he want you to go with him?”

  Poco’s eyes widened as he spoke louder and he stretched his arms wide. “My dad sends me all kinds of money. Real Cuban money. I’ll show you. He sends Daddito money too. My dad is rich. Richer than your mom even.”

  “But did he want to take you?”

  Poco looked out towards the arena where Mr. Calato held up a carton of strawberries for a customer’s inspection.

  “I just need to know is all. Would you’ve left if your daddy wanted you?”

  Before I could rise, Poco kicked me in the flank with his cowboy boot. Pain settled where the breath had escaped. Watching him run down the bleacher steps two at a time, I did not see a boy two years younger with brown skin and coal-colored hair. I saw myself. And just for a second I saw the pit
y that hung like a cloud over both of our lives.

  Everybody at school thought the trip to the Capitol in Raleigh was a vacation. For me it was also a vacation from thinking about Mama. I even got Nana into the act and talked her into signing up as a chaperone.

  The morning we were to leave, Poppy came into the kitchen. He washed the slop from his hands while Nana finished packing our lunch.

  “Brandon, I still can’t talk you into going to the hog sale with me?”

  I pushed the breakfast plate away and shook my head. “We’re going to the Capitol today, Poppy.”

  “Umm…that’s right.” Poppy took off his cap and scratched the bald spot where a mole had taken over. “And I sure didn’t hear nobody ask me to go. I’m put out about it too.”

  My back stiffened against the chair, and I shot a look at Nana. She just smiled and shook her head. In a minute, Poppy started laughing and came over and tousled my hair. “Son, I’m just ribbing you a little. No, y’all go on and see the politicians. I’d rather be around a bunch of hogs myself.”

  Nana rode in the front of the bus with Miss Douglas. Watching the back of their heads as we drove towards Raleigh, I compared Nana’s gray bun to Miss Douglas’s short brown hair. It was another reminder that Nana was my grandmother. At times I would forget and think of my own Mama as a younger sister, away at college or some boarding school like rich people on TV. Seeing that Mama was only seventeen years older than me, I guess part of it made sense.

  We walked in a straight line beneath an umbrella of tree limbs that guarded the Capitol grounds. Nana was in the back of the group and, not wanting to appear like a baby, I made my way up to the front. Inside, everyone gazed up at the high ceilings. Everyone except me. I liked watching their mouths hang open as they looked up towards the ceiling like some prize might fall at any second.

  “Good morning, boys and girls.” The high-pitched voice broke through the gazes. The woman before us clasped her hands and tilted her head to the side the same way the guidance counselor did whenever she asked about Mama. Her hair was canary yellow and was framed around her forehead in a spray of spit curls. If the woman’s smile would’ve been any wider, it would have split her lips wide open.

  “Boys and girls,” Miss Douglas said. “This is Senator Strickland. Remember, she represents our district. Senator Strickland is going to show us around and tell us more about the way government helps us.”

  “My, what a handsome group you all are,” Senator Strickland said while leaning over us as if searching for a lost quarter. “Is everyone having a good time so far?” She nodded with closed eyes. “I’ve been in office for just little over a year. I took over my late husband’s seat. Preston Strickland was a good man, bless his heart. A wonderful senator. Oh, you couldn’t ask for finer.”

  As Senator Strickland led us around the Capitol, she touched each of our heads as if we were being marked. I fought hard not to think of Darrell and his cigarette. Nana kept to the back of the group and would smile whenever I looked back to make sure she had not taken a wrong turn along the winding journey.

  “Now, this,” Senator Strickland said as she clutched her shiny blouse, “this is where it all takes place.” She led us inside the empty Senate chamber, and all the heads flew up to the ceiling again. I even looked up at the gold eagles and colored fixtures on the ceiling. “And this is the desk where I sit and vote on all the bills that come our way. Would anyone care to sit?”

  Dewayne Pickings bolted past Miss Douglas and plopped down so hard that the wood sounded like it had gas. “Careful, Dewayne,” Miss Douglas yelled. She flinched when her words bounced off the high ceiling, and Dewayne laughed louder.

  One by one we took our turn in the desk. I ran my hand over the finish and could smell the lemon left over from the oil that made it slick.

  “Don’t rub off all the polish,” Nana whispered. She stood next to the desk with her arms folded. When Senator Strickland leaned over me, I saw Nana pull at the bottom of her shirt.

  “Do you enjoy school?” the Senator asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I sat up straight, and the scent of her lilac perfume made me feel light-headed. Just when I was thinking she was probably Mama’s age, she ran her hand over the desk surface.

  “This is real North Carolina cherrywood. Feel how smooth it is.”

  Her hands were lined with protruding veins and the same brown-colored dots that let me know she was closer to Nana’s age. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her look at Nana and smile.

  “Is he yours?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nana said. “He’s been excited about this trip all week.”

  “Well, I think it’s absolutely wonderful that you’re taking part. Some mothers don’t even get involved in PTA anymore.”

  “Oh, I’m not…”

  “She’s my grandmama and my mama,” I announced before Nana had to reveal that she was second fiddle.

  Senator Strickland batted her eyes seemingly trying to make sense of it all. “Well, now, even better.” She leaned so close I could see the black lines drawn around the sagging eyelids. “My late husband used to say that grandparents were a blessing of the highest order. And I knew what he was talking about because my grandparents raised me. Why, I guess that makes us blood brothers, you and me.”

  The coolness of her big rings chilled my cheek. “It’s somebody else’s turn,” I said and jumped from the seat.

  The rest of the day, the Senator looked at me every time she paused to explain the reason for some room or the history behind a particular statue. She pondered me in a way that caused me to think that any minute she might reach out and prick my finger with one of her fat rings. An initiation into her blood-brother order right under the statue of Sir Walter Raleigh.

  That night after we educated Poppy on North Carolina politics, Nana tucked me in with the usual prayer. Free from the bun, her long hair draped like a white rope across her shoulder. Like always, she went through the standard list. But tonight she added the woman senator to the mix of people we prayed for.

  “Nana, why did that woman keep on staring at me?”

  When she cupped my chin, I could feel the hard calluses on her hand, the marks of honest living she called them. “You’re just special that way. Oh, anybody that’s around you feels it. You got lots of people who love you, you know that?”

  I looked deep into her green eyes and sank right into her words.

  “I want you to do something for me,” she said. “Go to sleep tonight listing out all the people who love you. There’s just a pile of folks. But you best start that list off with me, you hear.”

  And with a kiss, she slipped away beyond the door. Somewhere in the darkness a whippoorwill cried its lonesome call. It was then, for the first time since moving to the farm, that I let myself cry too.

  My birthday was a week before Uncle Cecil’s, and it was Poppy’s idea to celebrate them together with a fish fry. Aunt Loraine declared it a triple celebration. Mary Madonna had won the Miss Sunbright beauty contest the weekend before, and Aunt Loraine demanded that she be allowed to help Uncle Cecil and me blow out the birthday candles. Standing in front of the special carrot cake Nana had made for me, Mary Madonna kept elbowing me to move closer towards Uncle Cecil so that her sash would show up in the picture that Aunt Loraine was taking. When the camera flash went off, it bounced off of Mary Madonna’s crown in a way that made me think of lightning.

  The beauty pageant had taken place in the school cafeteria. All sorts of girls and little babies paraded on the stage where the high-school chorus had sung Christmas songs the year before. The only reason I went was because Mac had told me Aunt Loraine would stop by the Dairy Queen and buy us anything we wanted. The only requirement was that we scream real loud and whistle whenever Mary Madonna walked across the stage. Watching Mary Madonna prance around that stage with the sparkly crown on her head, I yelled extra loud and glanced up at Aunt Loraine for approval. She sat on the edge of the folding chair with her
hair bigger than normal, laughing and crying all at the same time.

  After lunch Uncle Cecil and Poppy mined the old Chevrolet that Poppy kept on cinder blocks for spare parts, while Mac and me bounced down the driveway in his new go-cart. When he got to the end of the drive next to the mailbox, my heart began to race. Just as I began to picture Mama following us back up the drive and joining in the family get-together, Mac spun the cart back towards the house and a cloud of dust swirled over us.

  Mary Madonna stood on Nana’s front porch wearing her banner that spelled out Miss Sunbright in yellow glitter. The tiara was back in place, and she waved her arms real big.

  “What do you want?” Mac screamed over the roar of the motor.

  With her head thrown back and walking just as prissy as the day she was crowned, she screamed, “Mama said for you to pull me in Poppy’s cart. Like in a parade.”

  Mac nudged me in the rib and then asked her, “How much you willing to pay?”

  “I got fifty cents back at the house,” she said.

  “A dollar.”

  “Mama!” she screamed.

  “All right, fifty cents.”

  After we hooked up the wooden cart that Poppy used to pick up limbs to the go-cart, Mary Madonna knelt in the scattered bark and pine straw that lined its bed. She waved as we circled the hog pen, the tree swing, and the old Chevrolet.

  “Be careful,” Uncle Cecil yelled under the hood of the rusty car. Poppy glanced up and shook his head.

  “I’m gonna be in the Christmas parade this year,” Mary Madonna said as she waved at the trees. “Just like Mama was when she was queen.”

  “Mama wasn’t no queen,” Mac said.

  “She was too. She was Dogwood Festival queen back in high school.”

  Mac nudged me. “Prove it. I’ve never seen no picture of Mama in a crown.”

  “That’s ’cause all the pictures are at Grandma Spencer’s house. I saw them. All covered up with wax paper so they won’t spoil.” Mary Madonna clutched her arm like she might have a bouquet of roses to worry with.