When he got inside, he thought he'd take a shower to remove the fish smell and then take a nap in the cool of the air conditioning. One thing his mother didn't skimp on was air conditioning. She hated the heat and liked for the house to be cold. Not cool, but cold.
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He found her asleep on the couch with the television on, snoring lightly. The house, however, was spotless. Lately, his mother had been on a neat-freak rampage. He didn't know where she was getting the energy because usually she did nothing but sloth around on the couch. But in the past month or so, the place usually looked pretty good. Still not as neat as Swamper's house, but it was certainly an improvement. Man, things are looking up all over the place. This might turn out to be the best summer of my life.
Clifton put the bag of hamburger in the fridge, then went to his room to get changed. He took the money from his pocket and set it on his desk, and then, just as he was about to pull off his shirt, from his window he saw the mailman driving down Kamron. Even though he'd never received a letter from anyone besides Swamper, and he hadn't thrown any more bottles into the river since then, he still got excited about the mail. So before he got out of his dirty clothes, he decided to go check the box. Then he'd shower and settle down for a nap (and a little private date with Julie) before he went back to Swamper's in the evening.
As he walked outside, Bosco barked incessantly when the mailman stopped. Poor Bosco, he thought. The mailman coming is the most exciting part of your day. Actually, for a while, it was the most exciting part of my day too. That reminds me. He turned around, went inside, and grabbed the hamburger. While
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walking across Mr. Henderson's yard, he removed the cellophane from the package. "Hey, boy. Brought you a little treat."
The dog sat down and swished his tail in the dirt as if sweeping the floor. His ears perked up when Clifton spoke. "Look what I got you, boy." Clifton turned the Styrofoam plate upside down and had to shake it vigorously a few times before the meat plopped to the ground. Bosco pounced on it and wolfed the pound of hamburger down in a matter of seconds. Clifton rubbed his ears and scratched his snout. "This money's coming in handy, isn't it, Bosco? Maybe I'll get you some stew beef tomorrow." The dog smacked his lips with his long purple tongue and sniffed around in the dirt for any remnants that he might have missed, no longer paying any attention to Clifton. Clifton let him lick the Styrofoam clean before he crushed the package in his hands and walked back to the carport.
He put the trash in the outside garbage can and then went to retrieve the mail. The mailbox didn't offer up anything except a flyer for a car sale in Samford and a bill or two. He was about to go back inside when, from up the side road, he heard the familiar song that always magically turned him back into a six-year-old little boy. The song that always got his heart beating fast with excitement. The song that reminded him of his father and how good things had once been. The tinny
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melody of Charlie's ice cream truck stirred happy memories--memories that had unfortunately all but faded away as he grew older. He didn't want to forget those times, but, with every passing year since his dad's death, it became harder and harder to remember. But the sound of Charlie's ice cream truck approaching always rekindled the good times.
Clifton found it odd that Charlie would be coming by so early since he didn't usually show up until around six or seven in the evening. But at the moment he didn't care or have time to ask himself questions. He hurriedly scrambled inside and went to his room to grab his money off the desk.
One of the first things Clifton remembered being anxious about was showing up too late for the ice cream man. Even now, at sixteen, he'd never lost that feeling of impending doom, that dread, that unthinkable dismay of running outside in hopeful anticipation, only to find other kids already eating their snow cones and Popsicles. And just as soon as he'd get outside, he'd glimpse the ice cream truck disappearing around the bend.
The screen door leading to the front yard slapped behind him as he took off for the corner where Charlie always stopped. He'd forgotten to close the main door and knew that the cool air was seeping out just as quickly as the hot air seeped in. He also knew his mother would have a fit, but he
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reasoned he'd be back inside in no time and she'd never know the difference.
He ran across Kamron when there was a break in the traffic and waited at the stop sign. The white truck rolled down the hill, innocently singing its song while the pictures on the side panel--of snow cones, ice cream sandwiches, Chipwiches, and Bomb Pops--reflected off the windows of the neighborhood houses. Surprisingly, Clifton was the only kid waiting to buy something, though probably it was because the hum of the air conditioners in the houses made hearing difficult and also because Charlie had come so early.
The truck rolled to a stop in front of him, and he was immediately surprised. He didn't see the mahogany face of Charlie or the puff of gray hair partially hidden under the spotless white cap. He saw a white man, not dressed in the jumper that Charlie always wore, but instead wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. And he was young. At least compared to Charlie he was young. Probably not even thirty. The man didn't seem to realize that Clifton was waiting to place an order. Instead, he appeared frustrated as he fumbled with different dials above his head. He fidgeted around in the driver's seat and constantly glanced left and right, looking for an opening in the traffic. Kamron Street was busy this close to lunchtime, and today even busier than usual.
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The music continued to chime from the bullhorn speaker attached to the top corner of the truck, and the hum of the refrigerator motor snapped out its own rhythm, almost keeping time with the cheerful ice cream melody. The diesel exhaust always reminded him of his father as they would stand on the corner and buy things from Charlie--something for him, something for his father, and something for his mother, which Clifton would give her once they got back inside. She would act surprised and say, "Oh, for me?" as she gave him a big hug.
But those had been happier times. He hadn't willingly hugged his mother in years.
Clifton was just about to say "Excuse me" when the man started smacking the edge of the steering wheel with his palms. "Goddamn son of a bitch. This fucking traffic is killing me."
Clifton was taken aback. It wasn't the language that shocked him so much--he heard that every day at school-- but that it had come from the ice cream man. Certainly he'd never heard Charlie say anything like that.
"How do I turn this shit off? I can't even think." He looked at the dashboard and exasperatedly fumbled with switches.
Clifton stepped forward to the opening in the side of the truck and leaned his forearms on the little counter where
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transactions usually took place. He said, "It's above your head. By the sun visor."
The man turned around quickly, startled, as if he'd just been spooked by a ghost. His eyes weren't kind. They were tight with agitation and annoyance. He locked his gaze on Clifton and said, "What? What did you say? Where the hell did you come from?"
"The music," said Clifton, getting a chill in the brutal heat as he felt the man's gaze upon him. If Clifton had been a dog, the hackle of his neck would have suddenly raised in caution. "There's a switch above your head. If you want to turn it off, you hit that switch. Charlie let me do it once. Turn it on by the radio, turn it off above your head." He forced a little smile, hoping that maybe the new ice cream man would appreciate the help. Instead, the man scowled but still looked above him and did as instructed. The calliope music ceased and now only the rumble of the generator at the rear of the truck could be heard.
"Where's Charlie?" asked Clifton. He was ordinarily rather shy around strangers, but because this man made him nervous, and he didn't quite know how to deal with it, he tried to compensate by being friendly and talkative.
"What?" said the man, now looking again at the lunchtime traffic that flowed by in each direction.
"Ch
arlie. You know--the regular ice cream man?"
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The man turned and peered at him, a confused look on his face. Then his expression softened a bit. He acted as if he'd just seen Clifton for the first time. "Oh, he's sick today. I'm the substitute. Just filling in." The man smiled but it chilled Clifton. It wasn't a genuine smile. It was forced. And one of his front teeth was chipped: a tiny triangular flag of space where part of his tooth was supposed to be.
"Oh ... well... tell him I hope he feels better," he said, though something told him Charlie wasn't really sick. Something also told him that this new man wouldn't deliver the get-well wishes anyway. "Can I get a Push-Up?"
The ice cream man still sat in the driver's seat. "I'm off duty. I'm not working right now."
"But you had the music on," he said, surprised by his own persistence. "Besides, it'll only take a second. They're right in that box."
The man sat there for a moment, transfixed, as if thinking deeply about something. As if weighing his options. He got up and walked to the side window where Clifton leaned in. Unlike the diminutive Charlie, who zipped around in the truck like it was his second living room, the man had to hunch a little as he walked. He had solid blue tattoos up and down his wiry arms, and because there were no other colors, and because there were so many of them, Clifton couldn't discern one from the other. "Now what did you say you wanted?" He
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again showed the broken tooth as he spoke. He moved quickly, with jerky, twitchy motions, and kept ducking down to peer through the windshield as if looking for someone.
"A Push-Up. They're usually in that freezer right there." Clifton tentatively pointed to one of the silver cases in the corner. The man's movements made him uncomfortable.
He slid open the top of the case, and a cold frost seeped out like steam from the spout of a kettle. He reached inside and pulled out a red, white, and blue package. The wrapper crinkled as he held it up. "This?"
"No, that's a Bomb Pop," said Clifton with a nervous chuckle. "You must really be new. Push-Ups are orange. They come in a little tube with a plastic stick at the bottom."
The man slammed the Bomb Pop back into the freezer and quickly rummaged again, muttering something that Clifton couldn't hear. He pulled out a Scooter Crunch sealed in white paper and said, "To hell with it. This is what you're getting. I gotta go."
Suddenly, from just behind the driver's seat, the door to the tiny broom closet flew open with a loud bang. Clifton snapped his attention from the man to the door. A mop handle slipped out and fell to the floor, followed by a young girl, maybe ten or eleven. She rolled out like a barrel of whiskey. Like a bag of spilled groceries. Her feet were bound with duct tape, her
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hands were bound behind her back--also with duct tape-- and her mouth was covered with a fat strip of silver. She writhed on the ground like an inchworm as she tried to break free, her screams muffled by the tape. She looked at Clifton with wide, petrified eyes. He stared back with eyes just as wide, thinking for a moment in his own terror that maybe he knew her.
The man spun around, saw her sprawled on the floor, and immediately eyed Clifton. He sprang toward the window but Clifton quickly pulled his hands away from the tiny stainless steel shelf.
"Come here, you little fucker," said the man.
Clifton backed farther away, his eyes still wide, his heart pounding. He knew he should run, but he felt numb, as if he'd been stuck in one of the ice cream freezers. It took him only a second to realize that if he didn't run now, he might find himself in just such a predicament.
"You say a word and I'll hunt your ass down and kill you." His muscular, tattooed arm reached out toward Clifton. He pointed his finger at him for a second, then grabbed the girl and stuffed her back into the closet before scrambling to the driver's seat.
Clifton took off running. He darted across the busy road without even looking, and before he could think about what
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he was doing, he found himself in his own yard, almost at his front door. Oh shit, what are you thinking? Any house but this one. A car horn honked and he looked back to see the ice cream truck make a dangerous surge across the two lanes of traffic and then slow down in front of Clifton's house. The ice cream man reached out toward the passenger window and pointed again, shaking his finger with angry emphasis. "Now I know where you live," he yelled. Then he smiled an evil grin--the gap in his teeth visible even from that distance-- just before he hit the gas and roared off down the road.
Clifton jumped inside and then slammed the front door that he'd previously left open. He locked it, then ran to the side door leading to the carport and locked that one too. Then he sprinted to his bedroom, locked his own door, and jumped in bed, pulling the blankets over him like he used to do when he'd been a little kid, thinking that if the monsters couldn't see him then the monsters couldn't get him. But unfortunately the grown-up Clifton knew better than that.
He didn't stay under the covers for long, but it was a natural response for him. Hiding under the covers was his coping mechanism.
After Clifton jumped out of bed, realizing he had to do something, his immediate reaction was that he had to get help for the girl. If I tell Mom, she'll think I'm making it up. She
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can't deal with this kind of shit right now. She's got enough problems. She'll freak out, and as wacked out as she is these days, who knows what she'll do. And there's no way I'm dealing with the cops. No way in hell.
Just the thought of having to talk to Scarface made him jittery. His hands began sweating. His forehead burned. His heart palpitated. He crawled to his window and poked his head just above the sill to see if the ice cream truck had come back. He saw nothing. Holy shit. What am I going to do? Who was that girl? What the hell happened? Do I know her? I've got to get to Swamper's. He'll know what to do. I can't call the cops. I can't. But you have to. That girl could die! I've got to get to Swamper's. He'll know. But what if that guy sees you? What if he comes back? He was big. He'll kill you. Holy shit, holy shit. Tell Mom. I can't tell Mom. No way. I gotta get to Swamper's. Now I know where you live. That's what he said. Now I know where you live. Why are you so stupid? Why'd you run to the house? Anywhere but here. I know. I fucked up big-time. You had to get a Push-Up. You're too old for the ice cream man. Why did you go out there? I know, I'm a moron. Shit. What about that girl? She was freaking. I gotta do something. I gotta get to Swamper's. Then go. Grab a knife or something and get your ass out of here. Maybe I should warn Mom. What if he comes back? Just go. He's not after her. He's after you. I know. I gotta go.
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Clifton ran into the kitchen and pulled a steak knife from the drawer, his mind swimming with ideas as he tried to figure out what to do. He breathed heavily as he checked in on his mother. He peeked into the living room to make sure she was still asleep, though that wasn't really necessary since she now snored even louder than when he'd first walked in. The rhythmic chest rattle was a perfect indicator of how sound she was sleeping. At the moment, according to Clifton's calculations, he was in no danger of waking her up. She didn't look like she'd moved at all, and he wondered how she could be so oblivious to everything going on around her.
He opened the door leading to the carport, the butt of the knife solid in his hand, and locked and closed the door behind him. He lifted the doormat, grabbed the spare key, and stuffed it in his pocket, all the while turning his head from side to side just in case the man tried to sneak up on him. And then he had an idea.
He ran to the shed at the back of the house and found an old jump rope hanging on a nail that his father used to use. Some nights Mr. Carlson would back the car out and skip for close to an hour in the carport. Clifton used to sit on the cool of the concrete, playing with his Tonka trucks, comforted by the whirl of the rope and the tick, tick, tick as it grazed the floor, his father keeping time as perfectly as a metronome.
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Clifton moved mountains and built cities
with those trucks, the black knobby plastic tires rolling over ants, spiders, and pill bugs if they dared get in the way. The bright glow of the overhead light illuminated his world as his dad ticked, ticked, ticked, the soles of his sneakers tap-dancing on the permanent oil stains.
But he didn't think about any of that as he grabbed the dry-rotted rope. One of the ends was now frayed like a horse's tail, the other still clinging to its plastic handle. He snapped it off the nail with one hand, still clutching the knife in the other. He looked in all directions again and then took off next door to Mr. Henderson's house. Bosco sat there, brushing his tail in the dust, as unaware as Mrs. Carlson. Bosco seemed to smile at Clifton when he dropped the knife in the dirt and unclipped the chain from the metal loop of the collar. He then laced the jump rope through. "Come on, boy. You're going with me."
Bosco danced in little circles, still not realizing that he was about to leave his confines for the first time in his life. Clifton tugged on the rope but Bosco resisted, not understanding that he could actually go farther than the length of chain he'd gotten accustomed to. Clifton pulled again and this time Bosco followed. And as Clifton began running, it took only a second before Bosco bolted, now pulling Clifton instead of
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the other way around. He had to pull back hard on the leash to try and keep Bosco somewhat restrained.
His head swiveled from side to side as he and Bosco crossed Kamron Street and headed for Windswept Hills. It was only when they reached the cul-de-sac at the edge of the woods that he realized he'd left the knife sitting in the dirt next to Bosco's doghouse.
Gray baby: a novel Page 11
