Gray baby: a novel

by Scott Loring Sanders

  "Stop it, Mom," said Clifton. He didn't yell or get angry. He kept his voice calm and even. "No excuses, okay? I don't want to hear that crap right now. You lied to me. Or at least you kept the truth from me. You've been depressed for years. I know. I get it. But I don't want to hear excuses right now. I just want to know what happens from here. More importantly, what's going to happen to me?"

  Mrs. Carlson nodded. She reached for the box of tissues on the table, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. She set the spent tissue on a growing mound that had already formed next to her. "What's going to happen? Well, I talked to a public defender this morning before I got bailed out. He said that if I voluntarily commit myself to the rehab center--the one over in Samford--for thirty days and get myself cleaned up and dried out, then most likely the judge will show leniency. He won't... he won't take you away from me." She broke down again into painful sobs.

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  Anger arose in Clifton just as quickly as the compassion had a moment before. "What do you mean, 'take me away'? Where the hell would I go? And what will happen to you?"

  "I want to get better. I'm tired of it. Tired of the drinking, tired of the hangovers, tired of feeling like shit all the time. Tired of neglecting you. I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. I don't even know how all this happened. Don't know where I've been for the last few years. I look at you and realize that you're all grown up. My baby has grown up right in front of my eyes, and I was too messed up to watch it happen. Too messed up to experience my little boy grow into a man. God, you look like your daddy."

  Clifton's jaw tightened and his teeth, beyond his control, grated against one another. "But what happens to ME?" he shouted as the all-too-familiar anxiety churned in his gut. "Do I get locked up at the juvie or something while you get yourself sober? Do I get punished because you're an alcoholic? A drunk? Why should the rest of my summer get ruined because you have to get fucked up all the time?"

  He'd wanted the words to sting and they probably had, but Mrs. Carlson's expression didn't change. The pain in her eyes had reached its limit, and there was no way for them to reveal anymore anguish than they already showed. She sniffled and gasped a couple of times before she spoke. "Because

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  you're a minor, the court would order you to a state home if you couldn't stay with family. So you're exactly right. But you can stay with your grandfather. It's already been worked out."

  "My grandfather? I don't even know my grandfather. So I get shipped off somewhere for the last month of my summer with some racist old man that I've never even met? That's what I get? Thanks, Mom. Thanks a whole bunch."

  Mrs. Carlson's eyes had gone dry, as if she had simply run out. Her voice was flat and calm. "You do know him, Cliffy. He's the one who bailed me out this morning. From what he told me, I guess you know him as Swamper." She tried to force a little smile. It was an unsure smile, one that said I have no idea how you're going to take this.

  And that was exactly how Clifton felt. He wasn't at all sure how to take the news. Swamper was his grandfather? One part of him wanted to be elated, but another part of him was angry. What the hell did I do to deserve this? All this shit that's happened to me in the last twenty-four hours? Stop your whining. That's what Swamper would tell you. He'd tell you to stop your bellyaching. Your father would say the same thing. He looked at the lighter on her pack of cigarettes and couldn't believe he'd never realized it before now. The clues had been in front of him the whole time. I knew your daddy. I know what happened to him.

  "Swamper's my grandfather?"

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  "Yes, baby," said Mrs. Carlson. Tears welled in her eyes once more, but for the first time, those tears seemed to have a hint of happiness in them. "I had no idea the two of you had been spending time together. He told me everything this morning. How he wrote you a note. How you started fishing with him. He said that every day he wanted to tell you, said it was killing him, but he didn't know how I'd react. How you'd react." She took a couple of quick gasps of air and grabbed another tissue. "He loves you, Cliffy. He told me as much this morning. Believe it or not, maybe this whole thing--this arrest--is a godsend.

  "Today was the first time I talked to my daddy face-to-face in nearly seventeen years. After he refused to come to my wedding way back when, I made a vow that I never wanted anything to do with him again. And as hard as that was, I stuck to it. I felt abandoned by him. Betrayed. You have to understand, I was close to Daddy when I was young. I loved him very much. And I'd never really known him to be a racist when I was growing up. Well, maybe he was a little, but he wasn't a bad man. He wasn't evil or anything. He would never have done anything to harm a person just because of their race. Nothing like that. So when I got pregnant and your father asked me to marry him, I had no idea my own daddy would react the way he did."

  Clifton looked at his mother in disbelief. "Wait, so you're

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  telling me I was an accident? That you and Dad had a shotgun wedding? Jesus, what else haven't I been told?"

  "You weren't an accident, Clifton. Don't put it that way." She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the wadded tissue. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. But, yes, I got pregnant before I was married. Your father and I had only known each other for a few months. But we loved each other. We truly did. And you have to understand, it was a very difficult time for me. It was the early seventies. There weren't too many white women marrying black men at that time. Certainly not around here. But I never imagined that I couldn't count on my daddy for support. So you have to understand how hurt I was when he refused to come to his own daughter's wedding, even if it was sudden and not under ideal circumstances. I assumed his refusal to be there was because I was marrying a black man. After talking with him today, though, I now realize that race was only a small part of it. A very small part. It was much more complicated than that. We weren't very good at communicating back then. He was stubborn and so was I. But we had a heavy talk today, Cliffy. I mean, we both got seventeen years worth of stuff off our chests.

  "And it was good. I mean, as good as it could be under the circumstances. I don't know why things happen sometimes. I

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  don't know what God's plan is or what He intends, but sometimes things happen for a reason. I truly believe that. I think that all of this happened so we--the three of us--could finally be together. I'm going to get better, Cliffy. I swear. I promise. It's not gonna be easy, but I'm checking myself in right away. Today in fact. You need to get some things together. I'm going to pack and then I'll take you by Daddy's. By Swamper's. I mean, I assume that's what you want to do. It's either that or temporary foster care at the Children's Home in Salem."

  Clifton sat in the chair, his mouth agape, as he took in everything his mother had just told him. He didn't know what to do or say. He nodded and said, "Okay."

  "Okay, what? You'll go to Daddy's?"

  Clifton stared at his mother, still as stunned as if she'd smacked him in the face with a cast-iron skillet. "Yeah," he said.

  "Well, let's get ourselves some showers, get cleaned up, and put some things together." She paused for a moment, then stood up and gave Clifton a hug as the tears started once more. "I'm scared, baby. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. There's nothing worse in this world than realizing that you've failed as a mother. That you're a bad parent. That's what I realized last night while I was sitting in that jail cell."

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  Clifton gently grabbed his mother's arm and stroked it. He patted her hand. "You didn't fail, Mom. You did fine."

  "You have no idea what that means to me. Thank you, Cliffy. But I'm gonna do better. I promise. They say that what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger."

  Clifton smiled and squeezed her hand. "Then you must be pretty damn strong I guess."

  She let out a surprised laugh and squeezed him hard around the shoulders before heading to her bedroom. He didn't know what to think. He was a wayward balloon inflated with mixed emotions that seeme
d to rise and fall with no warning. He wanted his mother to get better and was happy she was about to receive help, but he was angry that she'd let it come to this in the first place. He couldn't believe or grasp that Swamper was his grandfather. That they shared the same blood. But he was angry because he felt like he'd been duped. Like he'd been left out of the big secret in town that everyone else had been whispering about behind his back for years. What was it going to be like when he saw Swamper? Would things be awkward and uncomfortable? His feelings undulated like that balloon in a sporadic wind. Up and down. Up and down.

  With everything that had transpired in the last few minutes, he had completely forgotten about the other things going on. The fact that a girl had been kidnapped, that Charlie had been murdered, that a psychopath was possibly looking

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  for him. He'd also forgotten about his hangover, which finally seemed to have subsided. The irony that both he and his mother currently had hangovers, and that they had both vowed to never let it happen again, didn't escape him. He even managed a slight smile.

  When he heard his mother get into the shower, he turned on the television to see what the latest news was in Crocket's Mill. One thing's for sure, he thought as he sank into the couch, I can't handle many more days like the ones I've had lately.

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  ***

  Chapter 11

  The drive to Swamper's was one of the strangest trips he'd ever experienced. It was only a few miles from his house, but it seemed like he and his mother were going on a road trip to a foreign country. To a new, unexplored land on the other side of a mountain, which in a way, he decided, was exactly what he was doing. For one thing, despite the relationship he and his mother had had over the last few years, when he really thought about it, he'd never been away from her for more than twenty-four hours. Never. Not once in his life. For another, he'd never known any other blood relatives other than his parents. Or at least, he'd never been aware that he knew them. Swamper was his grandfather. His mother's father. He still couldn't get a firm handle on that. And how was it possible that his true grandfather, his own flesh and

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  blood, had happened to be the only person in the world who'd ever found one of his messages in a bottle. Coincidence? To Clifton, that seemed highly unlikely. He had so many questions he wanted to ask. So many things to clear up and get straight. He felt nervous. Instead of butterflies, a nest of angry hornets swarmed in his stomach as he drove through town.

  And that was another reason why the trip was strange. Because he was driving. He didn't have a license nor had he ever been behind the wheel before except for a couple of days of practice during a driver's ed class at school. As they'd gotten ready to leave, and just after he'd taken Bosco over to Mr. Henderson's, his mother had said, "Would you mind driving? I want to finish putting on my makeup."

  Ever since his mother had spilled her guts to him and apologized for everything, she seemed to be in a remarkably good mood, all things considered. It was as if her admission of guilt and her remorse had had a cathartic effect on her. As if she'd purged her soul of her sins and was now ready to seek redemption and forgiveness at the rehab center. She genuinely seemed excited to get there. To get her life back on track. She seemed to have already accepted her problems and was now ready to start anew.

  "Mom, just in case you forgot, I don't have a license," he

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  said as they were about to leave. "I barely passed the test to get my permit."

  "Oh, who cares. It's only a few miles. And after last night, I don't think I'm going to have a license for a while either. You might as well start learning. Looks like you're going to be the driver in this household for the next few months."

  "But--"

  "Just drive," she said, handing him the keys. "There's only one way to learn. Besides, I want to at least look presentable when I show up at the center."

  Clifton chuckled despite himself. "Mom, I really don't think you have anything to worry about. It's a place for drug addicts and alcoholics. They don't exactly expect you to look your best when you get there. Maybe when you leave, but not when you show up." Clifton found it humorous--and so very much like her--that she wanted to look nice when she arrived at the rehab. Up until lately, when things had begun to get really bad, she'd always taken special care with the way she looked when she went out in public. Not as much when she went to work, but anywhere else, she always had her hair fixed right and her makeup on. And Clifton had to admit, as bad as she'd looked earlier when he'd first arrived home, she now looked like her old self again. Her eyes were a bit swollen and puffy where she'd been crying, but she looked revitalized ever since she'd

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  gotten everything off her chest and admitted that she needed help. As Clifton pulled out of the driveway, applying the brakes a little too hard at first, he took all of his mother's actions as a good sign that her time in rehab might be successful.

  "All the same," she said as she looked at a small pocket mirror and began applying lipstick, "I don't want to look like a slob."

  When they got into town, Clifton stared straight ahead as they approached the police station. Cop cars lined both sides of the street, and uniformed officers--as well as plainclothes detectives--scurried in and out of the building like ants traveling back and forth to their lair. Many of them hunched under umbrellas even though the rain had all but subsided. The news van was still there, but the reporter and cameraman were no longer in sight. While Clifton drove, Mrs. Carlson applied mascara to her lashes. She didn't look at anything but the mirror in her lap as she worked.

  A fine mist tickled the windshield, and the sky was the gray of an abandoned wasps' nest, but the pounding rain had stopped. The sound of rushing water filled his ears as the tires rotated over the wet road. An oncoming car went through a large puddle and a whitewash of spray rose from the ground as if the car were fording a river. Clifton squeezed the top of the steering wheel and held a deep breath as he drove past the

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  police station, praying that he wouldn't make a mistake and run into a parked police car.

  After they got through town, Clifton took a left onto the road that would lead him toward Old Henry's and then to Swamper's. "You know," said Mrs. Carlson as she screwed the mascara dipstick back into its container, "as much as I despise the police, that cop last night was awfully nice. I mean, I guess he didn't have to check on you, but he did. I still hate them all, but he at least showed some humanity."

  The hardtop quickly gave way to the dirt road, and suddenly Clifton felt a whole new dynamic as the tires sloshed in the wet mud, attempting to gain purchase. It was like trying to run in sneakers over a frozen pond. "Yeah, he was pretty nice," said Clifton, who eased his grip on the wheel and let his foot off the accelerator a touch. "But he had to come check on me as part of his job. Because I was underage and all."

  "Yeah, well that might be what the law states, but it didn't mean he had to do it. He could've just said he did it. I guess with this crazy nut on the loose, they're not taking any chances."

  "He offered to take me to my grandmother's house. Said he didn't want me out on the streets alone."

  "Yeah, I know. He told me."

  "I had to tell him something. I guess if I'd known about Swamper, I could've said my grandfather's."

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  Mrs. Carlson stared out the passenger window as clear beads rolled along the glass. "Lord, I haven't been out this way in years. Look, that's the road down to Old Henry's," she said, a happy calmness in her voice as they passed the turnoff to his place.

  "So you've been to Swamper's place before?" he asked, finding it hard to believe--despite everything he now knew--that his mother had actually set foot on that property.

  "Yes, I've been there. A long time ago. Mama and Daddy moved out this way just after I finished high school. Daddy wanted to be on the river. He wanted to get away from town. He thought the fresh air and the peaceful surroundings might do Mama
some good. The cancer was just starting to get to her then. Anyway, I was renting an apartment in Samford with a girlfriend and taking classes at Virginia Tech. This was just before I met your daddy. So I'd get out and visit them every once in a while."

  Clifton was once again overwhelmed. His sanctuary, his little secret place on the river where he liked to escape. What he'd thought of as his and Swamper's clandestine shack in the woods actually wasn't a secret at all. His own mother had been there many times before. Years ago, before he was even born. And more surprises seemed to be around every corner. "You went to college?"

  "Yep, for a little while. I was taking classes and thinking

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  about getting a degree in education. Then I met your daddy in the spring, got pregnant, and I never went back. Always planned to but never did. That's the way it goes sometimes."

  When Clifton got to the trail crossroads that led down to Swamper's place in one direction and up to the Killing Pit in the other, he brought the car to a stop. "Well, here it is," he said.

  "This is it?" she said with surprise. "There used to be a driveway. It wasn't much of one, but you could at least drive down to the back of the house."

  "I guess it's gotten grown-over since he stopped driving."

  "I reckon so," she said as she looked out the window, trying to locate her father's house through the verdant canopy of leaves.

  "Are you gonna come down?" he asked, suddenly feeling extremely nervous, realizing he wasn't going to see his mother for a while. Realizing that he was about to face his grandfather for the first time, or at least for the first time since he knew him as such.