When Daddy looks up, he almost laughs. The blades of the ceiling fan are hanging straight down like they melted. They got soaking wet and now they’re just drooping down like a dying flower.
I don’t even smile when I see it. I’m too busy trying to step over all the stuff. I’m too busy trying to make my way to the stairs.
The stairs ain’t safe. When they got wet, they buckled and broke. The rail fell off. We’re extra careful climbing up. We press up against the wall where the wallpaper is peeling off in strips. We’re in the hall. We can see there was water on the floor. The carpet looks like black bread.
And there’s the bathroom. The door is standing wide open. There are scratches all over it. The water in the tub is halfway down and black with scum. Food is scattered everywhere. It smells even worse than the rest of the house with Buddy’s business piled up in one corner.
But it don’t take even one second to see that Buddy himself ain’t in that bathroom no more. Buddy himself is gone.
We’re standing there just staring when Daddy sees a piece of paper by the sink. He picks it up.
“It’s a note,” he says.
I look too. It’s so old, the ink is faded away. All we can see of the phone number is 1-800 and then in the middle, a 3. I ball up the paper in my hand.
“He gone,” I say.
“But he’s still alive somewhere,” Daddy says. “Probably. We just don’t know where.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “That’s got to be enough.”
It ain’t enough. It ain’t even close, but I don’t say nothing. I just pull out a trash bag and get to work.
We had planned to fill up the trash bags with trash. But there’s so much of that, there ain’t any point. So we look for stuff we can keep. We fill up the bags with clothes. We get our own pillows. We get some toys from Baby Terrell’s crib. Daddy gets some dolls for Tanya even though I say she has plenty already. I grab up her ballerina skirt and those red shoes. They’re still laying on the bed from that day when we were packing.
Daddy’s shifting around in his closet when he says, “Oh my God,” and I go running in there to see what’s wrong.
He’s standing there holding a white box. “You know what this is?” he says.
I shake my head.
“It’s my mama’s wedding dress.”
I look at Daddy. His eyes are all full up with water. “Don’t cry, Daddy,” I say, and then he sits down in the middle of the floor and starts heaving like a little girl. I go over and stand next to him. I put my hand on the top of his head. I’m standing there looking out the window and thinking how round his head is and wondering what am I going to do if he can’t stop. What am I going to do if he can’t never stop.
And then he stops. He rubs the water out of his eyes and shakes his head and says sorry. He stands up real fast and starts putting clothes in a bag like it ain’t never happened. And I figure that’s best. It don’t change nothing so it ain’t never happened.
We throw five bags of clothes and toys in the back of the man’s truck when he comes by to pick us up. It’s almost six o’clock. We have to hurry. We’re barreling out of town and I remember I left that note in the bathroom. It’s just as well. I can’t read it anyway.
We pull up to the apartment in the dark. The man helps Daddy lift the bags out of the truck. We’re saying good-bye and thank you, and Mama and Tanya come running out the front door. They’re hugging us and kissing us like we’re just back from the war or something. Mama’s got fried chicken and lots of tea. I realize I’m about to starve.
We carry the bags in and we’re all talking. I’m telling about Buddy and the fan, and Daddy’s saying about the wedding dress but not the part where he cried. Tanya is pulling her clothes out of the bag and hugging all those dolls. Granpa T comes wandering in like he’s been taking a nap even though it’s night. He sits on the sofa and listens to all the jabber. After a while he tilts back his head and goes to his place.
Daddy’s telling about how the water filled up the whole downstairs. He’s telling Mama about how the kitchen cabinets fell off the walls and the sofa is sitting on top of the table and the refrigerator floated into Granpa T’s bedroom.
“Sorry, Daddy,” he says to Granpa T. “We couldn’t save anything out of your room. Everything downstairs is ruined.”
Granpa T don’t even move when Daddy says that. He just stays in that place he likes to go.
Daddy looks at Mama. Mama looks at Daddy. Daddy steps over to Granpa T. He touches his shoulder. “Daddy?” he says. “Daddy?”
Granpa T don’t move.
I’m watching him while Tanya shakes a toy at Baby Terrell. I’m watching him and then I know Granpa T ain’t never going to move again. He’s gone to his secret place, and he ain’t never coming back.
25
I turn thirteen the day we bury Granpa T. People keep saying it was his time and Katrina broke him and thank the Lord we’re in Mississippi with all his people. We put him in the ground in a cemetery that’s got broke pine trees standing all around it. Daddy says he’s sorry Granpa T has to look at those broke trees forever. He says it’s going to remind him for all eternity about Katrina. Mama says don’t be a fool. She says Granpa T’s sitting at the right hand of Jesus now. He’s not thinking about any broke pine trees down here where we are.
Mama says we can’t have a cake because of the funeral and I say I don’t want one anyway. I say thirteen is too old for all that mess. Mama says no it’s not and puts her hand on my shoulder for one teeny second before she tells me to go mind Baby Terrell while she gets Tanya out of her Sunday clothes.
November goes creeping along. Mama says why am I not playing my Game Boy any more and I say I’m too old for that foolishness.
“Well, then,” she says, “I guess you’re old enough to watch Baby Terrell while I make groceries.”
She walks out the door with Tanya tagging behind her and I’m sitting there looking at Baby Terrell squatting on the floor and banging a little plastic hammer on some plastic nails stuck in a plastic workbench.
“You think that’s fun?” I say.
He looks up at me and grins. He’s got slobber running down his chin and I can tell he already needs his diaper changed.
“What’re you so happy about?” I say, and he laughs out loud.
I lay down on the sofa.
“You ain’t nothing but a baby,” I say. “You ain’t got a lick of sense.”
At Thanksgiving, Mrs. Watson says we’re blessed to be here and says we need to bring in stuff to make give-away bags for the homeless. Mama searches around the apartment and gets some shirts they gave us at the shelter. Then she reaches up under the sofa and pulls out a suitcase. When she opens it up, I see it’s Granpa T’s clothes, all folded up neat and tidy.
“I ain’t taking those,” I say.
“But somebody out there needs them,” she says.
“Well, I ain’t taking them,” I say. “You can’t make me.”
She sits back on her heels and looks at me. “What’s wrong with you, son?” she says.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with me. I just ain’t taking those clothes, is all.”
She pushes the suitcase back under the sofa and buys a few extra cans of food at the store.
In our classroom, we pile all the stuff in one corner and we sing a song about something called “sheaves.” Jerome asks Mrs. Watson what that is and she says it’s a bunch of wheat all held together with a string and I’m thinking why are we singing about that, but I don’t say anything.
When we’re done singing, Mrs. Watson says to draw a picture of what we are most thankful for.
Daddy says we’ve got a lot to be thankful for. We’re healthy. We’ve got a roof over our heads. He even managed to buy an old car with some insurance money.
At first, I
think maybe I ought to draw a picture of that car. Or maybe of that apartment. Or maybe I ought to draw one of those pictures with everybody all lined up holding hands and write on it, “My Family.”
Mrs. Watson would like that.
But a picture like that wouldn’t be for true. I’d have to draw two holes in that picture, and I don’t know how to draw an empty space. Besides, I ain’t thankful for that empty space.
I look around and everybody’s busy drawing. The boy sitting next to me is trying to draw a computer but it don’t look too good. That girl Mattie is filling up her paper with flowers but I think that’s just because that’s what she likes to draw. Jerome is drawing a car, and I know he don’t have one. I’ve seen him after school riding around with the high school brothers, and he ain’t the one driving.
I sit there a long time. I can’t think of nothing to draw.
Then my pencil starts to move and, sure enough, out comes a dog.
Mrs. Watson’s walking around the desks. She stops and looks. “You got your dog back, Tyrone?” she says.
“No, ma’am,” I say, “but I’m thankful he’s still alive.”
We’re starting the run-up to Christmas. They got candy canes going up on the streetlights in town. When we’re in the bus on the way to school, we pass by a mall with a great big old, fake Christmas tree wired onto the top. On the way home, I see the parking lot in that mall is jam-packed with cars and the lights on that tree are blinking on and off.
Mama and Daddy are starting their usual talk about who knows whether Santa Claus has got anything for us this year. They’re mumbling about being good and times are hard and all the same stuff they always say. I say I want some new games for my Game Boy. Mama says why do I want that if I’m too old to play it, and I shrug up my shoulders. Tanya says she want some clothes for her dolls. Baby Terrell just jumps up and down when they sing “Jingle Bells” on the radio.
We get a tree from a lot and I think about the storm and how we hid up under that bed and how when we went outside the whole world smelled like a Christmas tree lot. We stand the tree up in the front window and all a sudden the whole apartment smells like the storm.
Then off we go to the Walmart to get decorations. We’re standing there in that aisle and I’m thinking about the stuff we used to stick on the tree. One thing was a white ball I rolled in glitter back in Sunday school. Another was a big old blue star made out of shiny paper with Tanya’s picture slap in the middle. And there was a thing I made out of Mardi Gras beads. Something where I glued them all together in a lump and then glued some more to hang down.
We ain’t got any of that. We’re starting over. Mama buys a pack of red shiny balls and a string of tiny white lights. She says it takes a while to get up a good supply of Christmas decorations. She says we’ll get more next year. Then she buys us some stockings off an aisle that says DISCOUNTED 75%. They look like it, too.
We don’t put anything on the bottom part of the tree because Baby Terrell’s liable to yank it off. He’s walking around now like he owns the place. He don’t know there ain’t enough stuff on the tree. He don’t know there ain’t enough presents stacked up underneath. He don’t know those flimsy old stockings ought to be hanging off a fireplace instead of off the backs of the kitchen chairs.
We go to a great big church on Christmas Eve. They’ve got about a hundred people in the choir. They’re wearing red robes and singing about Baby Jesus. We’re rocking and clapping. Then one lady steps out front and the lights go off and she starts to sing “Silent Night” all by herself. Even Baby Terrell is still.
When we walk out, everybody’s smiling and hugging and kissing, and I’m wondering why I ain’t happy in the middle of all that love.
Before we go to bed, Daddy gathers us around and we pray. I’m watching him. He’s got lines coming down the sides of his mouth. He’s got lines between his eyes. He don’t know I’ve seen him in the evening, sitting with his head in his hands, slipping into the kitchen for another beer. I’m watching him, and I bow my head and I pray, too.
In the morning, I sneak into the living room before it’s light outside. I always do that. Usually I put a flashlight by my bed the night before but there ain’t no flashlight in this apartment so I just go real careful.
I peep around the corner. The living room’s empty, of course, without Granpa T sleeping on the sofa. But there those stockings are, hanging off the back of the chairs. They look full of candy. Under Baby Terrell’s stocking is some kind of big old baby toy. It looks like a little car you sit in and push around with your feet. Under Tanya’s stocking is another doll and a suitcase. I lift up the top real careful. That suitcase is chock-full of doll clothes. And sitting on top is a crown of diamonds just the right size for Tanya. Tanya is going to be one happy girl.
I ain’t going to be happy. Under my stocking, there ain’t a single thing. Ain’t nothing there but floor.
I sit there and look at the empty spot. I’m cold. I’m thinking maybe thirteen is when Santa Claus stops coming. Or maybe I did something bad. I passed all my classes. I take out the garbage. I babysit Baby Terrell. I ain’t fussed with Tanya hardly at all the whole time we’ve been in this apartment. Maybe it’s bad to not be happy.
I put my head in my hands, and I’m thinking I look just like Daddy, sitting by myself in the dark with my head in my hands. That living room seems like it gets bigger and emptier the longer I sit there.
And then the light flips on. I turn around and there’s Daddy, standing in the door. He ain’t got on nothing but his undershorts and his T-shirt. He’s rubbing his beard and yawning.
“I thought I heard you,” he says.
I don’t say nothing.
“You’re supposed to wait until morning. We all come in together. Did you forget that?”
“I ain’t never waited.”
Daddy stops rubbing his face and looks at me. “Never?”
I shake my head.
“You like to get the jump?” he says.
I nod.
He looks at the empty place on the floor. “Didn’t turn out so good this time, huh?”
I turn away. I look at the floor.
“Come on,” he says soft. “Santa couldn’t leave yours out here with the rest. Yours is in our room.”
I turn around and look at him.
He’s smiling. “Come on,” he says again. He flips off the light and heads down the hall.
I get up off the floor and I follow him in the dark.
We go in his room. I smell Baby Terrell’s powder. Mama lifts up off her pillow.
“He’s wandering around in the dark,” Daddy whispers. “He thinks Santa forgot all about him.”
Daddy squats down beside his bed. He drags something out from underneath. I can’t see it in the dark.
“Hold out your arms,” Daddy says, and I do.
And then he puts it in my arms. It’s warm. It’s wiggly. It’s all furry. It lifts up its nose and it licks my face. It starts making little noises and Daddy says, “Take it on out of here before it wakes up Baby Terrell.”
“Merry Christmas, son,” Mama says, and I can hear in her voice she’s smiling.
26
I name that dog Rover.
Mama says, “Why did you name him that?”
I shrug. “It sounds like a dog name.”
“Why didn’t you name him Li’l B,” Daddy says, “for Little Buddy?”
“He ain’t Little Buddy,” I say. “He ain’t even close.”
And he ain’t. In the first place, he’s white with brown spots and Buddy was black. In the second place, he’s got short, stiff hair and Buddy’s hair was longer and soft when I brushed it. In the third place, he’s a yippy, little puppy and Buddy was full grown. In the fourth place, he’s got four legs. In the fifth place—
Well, that dog just ain’t Little Buddy.
So I call him Rover.
He’s got to live in the little bitty apartment with us because we ain’t got no yard. He’s got a wire cage he sleeps in at night but during the day, he’s hopping all over everything. I’m pulling him off Granpa T’s sofa and out from under the Christmas tree and out of the laundry basket. And the whole time his tail is going whap, whap, whap, and he’s looking up at me and grinning like he’s proud of all his foolishness.
I sit down with him on the floor to tell him things but he won’t stay still. He jumps up on my lap and puts his feet on my chest and tries to lick my face. I push him back on the floor and I say, “Sit still when I’m talking to you.” But he don’t mind me. He just jumps up again, his tail wagging like he thinks we’re playing.
Baby Terrell thinks it’s so funny. He rocks over to the dog and goes bop on his back end and when the dog jumps up, Baby Terrell’s mouth pops open and he laughs and laughs.
Tanya has to keep pushing him off her dolls. He gets hold of one that’s cloth in the middle and pulls off the plastic bottom half of one leg. Tanya’s crying like that doll’s a real person. I say she has so many she ought to give one to Rover to play with. She’s so mad she takes the broke doll and throws it across the room. Rover thinks it’s a game. He runs after that doll and grabs it and won’t never give it back. It’s his now no matter what Tanya says. He sits there with it in his mouth and shakes it at us like he’s saying, “Come on and try to take it. Come on and see what happens.”
Mama’s mouth gets all pinched up and she says, “Li’l T, you’re going to have to teach that dog some manners.”
I put him on a leash and I take him outside. But I don’t know how to teach him manners. He won’t listen to me.
Tell the truth, nobody listens to me.
It comes on January and I think to myself I ain’t never seen a place look so gray. Of course, all the pine trees in Mississippi are broke. What other trees there are got knocked over or their branches got ripped off and besides they ain’t got no leaves in the wintertime anyway.
Buddy Page 12
