by T. I. Lowe
Chapter Three
The end of the summer is always a sad letdown to me. Every year, school ends and I just feel that I am right on the cusp of something awesome and exciting. I search and wait all summer for it to show up. And I’m reminded by mid-August of who I am, and that awesome and exciting things do not, and will not ever, happen to me. With just graduating, I have been under the delusion that it could still happen. I should know better by now.
I’ve worked my summer away as I usually do. My normal job is to manage the campground part of the trailer park in the summer. The majority of my days are made up of keeping the bathhouse and mini-laundromat clean. Kyle helps me collect the trash each morning and evening with an old, beat-up, tiny Toyota truck that looks fun-size. It used to be a bright vulgar yellow in its nineteen seventies youth, but now it is a montage of colors that Max has swiped from his buddy’s paint shop. Max thought at one point he may one day become a car artist as he calls it, and so he has practiced on the work truck over the years with leftover paint and an old paint gun. The hood is a metallic black with spatters of silver. This was one of those times that the paint gun jammed and splattered instead of spraying, so the effect is what we call stars in the night. The sides are various wavy streaks of neon green, glittery orange, and metallic blue, which looks like a drunken psychedelic rainbow. The bed of the truck and the tailgate is graffiti of black music notes dancing over the red pearlescent paint underneath. The music notes were added by Dillon, of course. Is it lovely? No. It looks like a paint shop threw up all over the poor truck. But at least it’s not that gross yellow anymore. Plus, it’s a work in progress. You never know when Max will come home with another paint stash and more ideas.
To help pay Aunt Evie back for bailing us out and paying the court-ordered fine for the boat-stunt-gone-bad, I have taken on cleaning vacation rental condos on the other side of the lake. Not fun work, just let me tell you. Those people, who are so posh and spoiled, don’t know how to pick up after themselves. They are pigs, quite frankly. I think they live by the motto: it stays where it lands until the help cleans up. I guess people like that have better things to do than to clean up a spill they cause or actually toss trash into the trash can. They can afford to pay someone, aka me, to worry about such things. They are too lazy to even pack all of their junk, so I have acquired a nice supply of beach towels, sunglasses, suntan lotions, perfume that costs more than I would make for cleaning that day, and plenty of unopened food. The boys love this, of course. It never fails that Max and Mave conveniently hang out at Aunt Evie’s trailer on the days I clean. They are always more than willing to help take care of the food supplies I lug home. The only thing I’m required to turn in is money and jewelry. Everything else is considered a bonus, and I normally walk away with a trunkful of bonuses on a regular basis.
So my days are spent cleaning and cleaning and cleaning some more… I clean up after the poor campers and then go clean up after the spoiled, rich vacationers. What a life…
Not everything sucks so badly though. I have been asked to do a few articles this summer for the paper, which surprised me after what happened during spring break. I finally cooled off enough to give them a statement about the ordeal. I explained to them how it was merely a boring night gone awry and that it was a complete accident. I was even more surprised when the paper came out with the police report and then a brief editorial write-up about how it was an unfortunate event that most teenagers find themselves in at one point or another. The editorial writer felt the charges were a bit tough on us. Yes, I was pretty shocked and glad, and so very thankful that I didn’t lose my small foot in the door at the paper.
It’s around six in the late afternoon. We just finished an alfresco supper of canned Spam and saltines with RC colas on the dock. You may not think that’s very appealing, but we are used to eating whatever is in the cabinets and fridge. At least it was more substantial than the mayonnaise sandwiches we had last night. Times have been tough. Beggars can’t be choosers, but dessert was quite nice. I had cleaned a condo today where the vacationers were flying home, so they left all sorts of food. I’ve stashed most of this in the cabinets and can’t wait to show Aunt Evie when she gets home. It will be a big help to her that she doesn’t have to go grocery shopping tomorrow as planned.
A pile of gourmet ice creams were left in the freezer. So after we cleaned three cans of Spam and polished off two sleeves of saltines, I hustled back to the trailer and grabbed pints of the fancy gelato and some plastic spoons. The crowd acted as though it were Christmas morning when they saw what I had, and I was pleased to be able to share this small, unexpected treat with them. We peeled the carton lids off and passed them around so we could sample them all. There was chocolate hazelnut so rich and smoky, strawberry and peach flavors that both tasted fresh and summery, and a few vanilla ones. This ice cream was creamier than any I have ever had.
I’m now stretched out on the sandy shore under our favorite willow tree, watching as the lazy sun begins to droop. Leona has a date tonight, so she left us after dessert. She’s going dancing at a local club. I wish I had enough energy to do such things, but I’m wiped out and dateless anyway. Kyle and the twins agreed to do the last garbage round-up since I so kindly shared my ice cream. Fine by me. I cleaned two double condo units today, and I’m flat worn out. They’ve just left to take care of the task at hand, so it’s just me and Dillon now on the quiet beach.
I’m lying on my back and am watching the long, lacy willow branches dance to the acoustic melody Dillon is creating with his guitar. He’s playing softly, like a lullaby. I’m dozing off when the chords hush abruptly. I glance over to find him with his head bent down, his midnight brows pinched together from focusing on making notations in his leather music journal. His Bible is sprawled open beside him. This book has so many words written in the margins, I hardly see how it could hold one more single word. I asked him once about his obsession with the Bible, and he answered reverently that the most beautiful lyrics ever written are in that book. All I could say to that was, wow. He’s such a poet.
I have to agree. I’ve fallen in love with songs he has created from Bible verses alone. He strings them together on a melody so sweet, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt he is fully worshiping God with them. They seem sacred and holy.
Watching him search and compose music now is such a divine experience. He is here physically, but he is in his own spiritually creative world. It’s magical, and I know I am blessed to witness it.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breathing while I watch Dillon, until he begins playing the guitar again and I release a long exhale. He strums a few chords and softly croons lyrics to the notes.
Though the waters roar with trouble
Though the mountains may shake
There is a river that will flow with peace
So be still and always know
Be still and always praise
Be still and always love
Let the peaceful light shine down
All the days…
Dillon plays a bit more, humming all the while with his eyes closed, face turned skywards as his shaggy black hair dances in the breeze. I smile while watching my friend get wrapped up in the spell God’s words has cast on him. It’s a beautiful sight, and this is my most favorite way to spend an evening. This boy has a faith I desire to obtain, but don’t know if I ever will.
The music trails off as he opens his eyes and catches me staring. I can’t help it, nor can I look away. He watches me just as intently and then begins strumming a new song. It’s a song that I’m unfamiliar with. He sees my questioning expression, and I’m awarded by a one-dimple appearance before his gaze goes serious again.
“What song is this?”
He shrugs. “It’s not a song yet. Just a promise of a song.”
I don’t know what it’s promising, but it is beautiful. I can see it becoming my favorite. It’s slow and seductive and bittersweet as though it is full of longing.
“I hoped you would,” he says softly.
We stay in our own bubble with him serenading me with the promise of a song until the boys zoom by in the little colorful truck, whooping and hollering for Dillon to join them. He shrugs a shoulder at me again before gathering his stuff and jogging over to the truck. He hops in the back with Mave. Who knows what they have conjured up to do now?
I shout out to Kyle, “Don’t you dare break that truck!”
He grins and waves as he pops the transmission in gear and takes off down towards the old sheds. I guess they are going on a new treasure hunt.
I lay back and take in the stillness of the early night sneaking up on me. I still have that feeling that something awesome and exciting wants to happen. I don’t like this antsy feeling. I feel like I’m missing out on something spectacular and, that maybe, I’m just not good enough to obtain it. I eventually drag my tired, disappointed body to our small trailer to wash the condo cleaning off.
After my shower, I find Aunt Evie sitting at her normal spot at the small table with her devotional book. I saved one carton of gelato. It’s cherry and my aunt’s favorite flavor. I grab it from the hidden spot in the freezer and walk it over to the table with a spoon to present her with my small gift.
She lights up when she sees it. “Awe. Thanks, sweetie. You scored big today.” She opens the lid and offers me the first bite. I decline. She should enjoy the treat, yet here she is thinking of me before herself—as always.
“Enjoy it. It’s all yours.” I sit beside her and prop my chin in my hands.
“Are you sure?” she asks as she works the spoon in the creamy treat.
“Absolutely. I’m not too crazy about cherries,” I lie. I want her to enjoy all of it. I watch as she takes her first bite and her eyes roll to the back of her head from the pleasure of it. That makes me smile. “The cabinets and fridge are stocked, too. If we can keep the twins away, we should be good for another week.”
“Really? That’s great, Jillian,” Aunt Evie says with much relief. I suspected she didn’t have grocery money, and she just confirmed it for me.
“We really need to put our foot down about the past-due renters,” I say as I pick at my nails angrily. They are looking pretty frail from the cleaning products. I wear gloves as often as possible, but those suckers are hard to keep up with.
“You let me worry about that, please,” she says between bites. “People are having a hard time making their ends meet right now.”
“We are barely making it, Aunt Evie. If they don’t pay, then how are we going to make our ends meet?” I know what I’m saying is going to make her worry worse, so now I wish I kept my mouth shut. Being broke is no joke. The uncertainty and unrelenting nagging in your thoughts, as to how to make things work, leaves you feeling totally hopeless.
“Things will get better.” She tries to reassure me, but I can tell she doesn’t believe her own words.
“No worries. I’ve saved enough to handle our bills for the month.” I pat her on the arm and fish out the money to hand it over to her.
“Jillian...” Her voice seems strained. I know she doesn’t want to accept it, but times are tough and she has no choice but to do so.
“I like doing my part. It’s the least I can do.” I place a kiss on her cheek and give her a warm smile before heading to my room. I drop the smile once my back is towards her. I was hoping she would tell me that some people came through with their rent. Of course that didn’t happen, so now I am left with no gas money until my next paycheck. Worst part is I rolled up on fumes earlier. I gave her every cent I had and now I’m flat broke, but that was the only way we were going to keep our heads slightly above water this month. I will have to bike it for the next week, and I’m not looking forward to that at all. By the time I arrive to the condos, I will already be washed in sweat. And by the time I finish cleaning, I will be way too tired to pedal a blame bike. I get that these people are poor and struggling, because I’m in the same boat. But I don’t sit around and whine about it and do nothing. I grab up my bicycle and go to work. Ugh.
It’s late by the time I snuggle in the bed this night. I’ve been restless, so I went through all of my clothes and trinkets and have gathered a bagful of potential sales at the thrift store. I’ll swing by on my way to cleaning tomorrow and hope to scrounge up at least a tank of gas out of the deal. I lay here listening to Dillon serenading the trailer park. He’s playing his promise of a song, and the melody feels to be longing more so tonight. Maybe it’s just me who’s longing and feeling it in the song. Dillon and I seem to be on the same page a lot of the time.
There’s always been a solid bond between the two of us from the very start. At around the age of ten, I remember an eight-year-old Dillon coming down with an awful bout of the stomach flu, so severe that the boy couldn’t even keep water down. Cora was told to either show up for her work shifts or never come back. She had no choice but to leave her sick little boy in Aunt Evie’s care. He was too weak to even speak those few days. Aunt Evie had Kyle stay with the twins in the hopes that he would be spared, but I refused to leave.
I wanted to help tend to Dillon, but Aunt Evie kept warning that I would get myself sick, if I didn’t stay away. I still didn’t listen. The few times she would step outside to check the mail, I would hear him in the small living area, crying. He tried to be brave, but Dillon really wanted his momma. And who could blame him? What sick child doesn’t distinctly want his mom when he’s sick? When my aunt would sleep or wash those few days, I would sit on the floor by the couch and hold his hand while he slept. I just couldn’t stand to be away from him, knowing how miserable he was.
Three days later, Aunt Evie asked if Dillon felt up to eating something, and he requested two pimento cheese sandwiches. At that point she declared him better. Unfortunately, by sundown I was puking my guts out. I felt like I was dying. Aunt Evie told me in so many words that was what I got for not staying away from Dillon. I was exiled to my room with a trashcan placed by the bed. Each night of my three-day virus, I would wake up to Dillon on his knees by the bed, holding my hand and begging God to heal me. We have always hurt when the other hurts and it started way back then.
I’m laying here now, near tears at the helpless situation we are in, when I notice the music has stopped. I peep out the window and find Dillon gone. The next thing I know, he is pushing through my door. He sits on the floor, his back against the bed. I’m still perched on top of the bed, so I slide down to the floor and sit by him. It’s a tight fit. His feet actually touch the opposite wall of the bed.
He says nothing. Just sits here in the dark. It’s a bit cloudy out tonight, so I can barely make out his somber features in the muted moonlight. “What’s wrong, Dillon?” My instinct is to always want to protect and soothe him.
“You just been on my mind tonight,” he whispers as he looks over at me. “You alright?”
I don’t say anything because I don’t want to lie. His hair slips in his eyes, so I reach over and brush his soft locks away. He gives me a weak smile, and I see concern in those deep dark eyes.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Not really,” I whisper as I tear my gaze away from his and stare off into the dark.
He nudges the bag I gathered earlier with his foot. “What’s this?”
“Just some junk I’m gonna try to sell to the thrift store tomorrow.” I brush it off, but I can tell he’s not buying it.
He shakes his head in aggravation. “It isn’t always gonna be this tough. Things will get better.” I hear him making a promise, but has no business doing so. How can he be so sure? I know I’m definitely not sure. Seems to me things just keep getting worse.
We sit here with our sides pressed together. Dillon slouches down some so he can rest his head back on my mattress and I lean my head on his arm. Things are better, just knowing he’s here for me. Sometimes that’s all I need.
“Let’s make love,” he
whispers after a while.
I have to smile at his tempting suggestion. I give it some thought and decide it’s a perfect idea. I always feel better afterwards. I scoot over to the dresser and grab my notebook and pen, and after I switch on the small lamp, we set out to writing a new song. Dillon always refers to composing music as making love. It’s sort of our inside joke. As we work on a song that entwines disappointment and dreams for nearly two hours, I feel the worry and anxiety slowly recede away.
Hope fell down and drifted so far away
Until the dream came along and showed her
A better way
Nowhere to be found on the real, drowning
In the real, so much more than lost
Only then the dream appeared but at a great cost
When the melody fades on dusk of a
Misplaced day
Doubt and fears drift in and hope is called
So far away
We’ve crossed out more than not and have gone through over a dozen sheets of paper. I look over the lyrics, and I realize I ended up talking about what was bothering me anyway. The guy is too young to be so wise. He pulled my worries right out of me in only the way he could—through lyrics. I start yawning, and Dillon takes this as his cue. He gives me a sideways hug, slides back out of my door, and returns home.
I listen to him play a new melody from his porch, and I know it will eventually go with the song we just created. He sensed me needing him tonight. He showed up and did what he does best. He made me feel better and forget about my worries for a spell. Sometimes that’s the best gift a girl can ask for, especially if you live in these parts.
Morning finds me reluctant with the bike ride. I unenthusiastically go through my morning routine, trying to talk myself into wanting to pedal to work. Unfortunately, it’s not working, but I have no other choice. After I’m dressed in my cleaning lady uniform of worn-out jeans and tee, I grab my bag and grudgingly stalk out towards my bike. I’m surprised to find a bag draped on the handlebar. I peep inside and find some of Dillon’s belongings—an old watch, a pocket knife, and a couple dress shirts that I’m pretty sure his mom would skin him over if she knew he got rid of them. I smile at the sweetness of this. That boy knows I need some quick cash and has willingly given up some of his things to help me out. As I said, we have always had each other’s back. This thoughtful gift gives me just enough encouragement to climb on the bike and pedal my broke self to work.
