by Mary Monroe
I shook my head and giggled. “I don’t think so.”
“I wish you would make up your mind! I thought you just said it should have been you he busted at that party,” Valerie snapped, covering her mouth to keep from laughing.
“Oh! I did say that, didn’t I? Oh well. But I don’t care what I have to do, I am not going to end up the way my mama did. Or like a lot of other women like her.” I turned to look in Floyd’s direction. At about the same time, he turned to look at me and our eyes met. He was looking at me like I was the most beautiful girl in the world. And for the first time in my life, that was exactly how I felt.
CHAPTER 8
Floyd and I were the same age and we attended the same school, but he was not in any of my classes. His two foster sisters were so mentally slow that they had to attend special education classes in a school halfway across town. They rode on a short, bright orange school bus that picked them up at a spot in front of my house. Some days Floyd escorted the two girls to the bus stop and then waited with them until they got on the bus. He did that to protect them from the neighborhood bullies who had already knocked them down and snatched their lunches from them a few times. Knowing that Floyd cared about people enough to fight for them made me want him even more. Every morning before I went to school, I watched from my upstairs bedroom window as all three of them lugged their cheap, shabby backpacks decorated with outdated cartoon characters and jelly stains to the bus stop. The backpacks were bad enough. But they all carried greasy brown-bag lunches because that greedy-ass Glodine was too stingy to spend more of the money she got from the state on them.
My dear, sweet old foster parents led such dull lives that they got slaphappy whenever somebody came to visit them. Three days before my sixteenth birthday, I galloped downstairs and there was Floyd, sitting at the dining room table playing Chinese checkers with Luther. As soon as his eyes met mine, I started trembling in my tracks.
I was surprised to see Floyd spending his time with a man old enough to be his grandfather. The fact that he did something this ordinary and uncool made me like him even more. I expected a boy like him to be somewhere kicking it and getting whacked on weed with his homeboys. That was the moment when I realized I had a serious crush on Floyd, and I planned to do something about it.
Viola was beside herself. Judging from the sweet aroma coming from the kitchen, I knew that she had baked some of her ten-minute tea cakes. And I knew that she was going to practically shove a few of those damn things down Floyd’s throat. She didn’t know, and I wasn’t going to tell her, but my foster father had told me several times that Floyd had to force himself to eat those damn tea cakes. The boy had my sympathy because I went through the same thing at least three times a week. Every time I emptied the trash can in my bedroom, it was usually half full of stale tea cakes.
“Dolores child, Mother said to tell you to fold and put away the laundry before you leave this house,” Luther told me, not even looking up from his game. Luther didn’t shave every day or comb what was left of the wiry gray hair on the sides and back of his head. He had a few suits and other nice pieces of clothing that he wore only to church and when he had to pay a visit to one of his three doctors. He wore a red-and-black flannel shirt and overalls most of the time, and a pair of old house shoes. He looked like a bum sitting next to Floyd, who had on a crisp white shirt and black pants. If Valerie had not told me, I never would have suspected that Floyd was being abused by his foster mother. With his strong-looking young body, he looked like he could whup Mike Tyson with one hand behind his back.
“Hey, Lo,” Floyd said with a smile and a wave. “Wassup?”
“Um, nothing,” I muttered dumbly, shuffling my feet like a stooge. “I see you in school and in church all the time,” I added, stumbling through the room trying to get to the laundry room without running into a wall. “Uh, can I go to Valerie’s house when I finish the laundry?” I asked my foster father, my eyes still on Floyd.
“You can go anywhere you wanna go as long as you do what Mother said for you to do,” Luther said, still not looking up from his game. This was as stern as Luther ever got with me. He had never looked, touched, or said anything inappropriate to me. I knew other girls in foster care who had been raped so many times by the men and boys in some of the houses they landed in, they thought it was normal. Sweet Luther was everything that I’d wanted in the father I never had. I was more than a little blessed. It saddened me to know that Valerie had to live with an asshole like Mr. Zeke when I had a man like Luther—and all to myself at that. The only good thing about Luther and Viola being so old and worn out was that they didn’t think they could handle but one foster child. “And don’t worry about them tea cakes. Me and Floyd will leave you a few,” Luther assured me with a devilish grin. He couldn’t stand those damn things any more than Floyd or I could, but nobody had the heart to tell Viola.
“That’s nice,” I muttered. It pleased me to see Floyd shoot me a conspiratorial glance as he nodded toward a saucer on the table with pebble-size crumbs scattered around on it like a beaded halo. He cleared his throat and nodded toward the wastepaper can in the corner by the living room door. The more I saw this boy, the more I liked him.
I was glad Luther didn’t look at me because I didn’t want him to see me walking backward, grinning at Floyd until I got out of the room. Floyd’s eyes stayed on me until I was out of sight.
I folded and put away the laundry and by the time I got back to the dining room, Floyd was gone. Luther was outside fiddling around under the hood of the old Ford he’d bought from one of his friends, and Viola was across the street at the church for choir practice.
Luther looked up as I skipped across the lawn toward Valerie’s house. “You take care of that laundry like I told you?” he wanted to know. He didn’t even give me a chance to answer. “You better get back in the house before dark. This is a school night.” I didn’t bother to respond because he had already returned his gaze to his car. “And if that Zeke gets loose, you better get to running, girl,” Luther advised, trying to sound harsh, which he could not have done convincingly even with a gun aimed at his head.
Despite his gentle nature, Luther tried to be “tough” with me from time to time, but it wasn’t necessary. I did everything I was supposed to do, and I had enough respect for him and Viola to hide the things I did that I knew they wouldn’t like, like smoking an occasional joint in the backyard or sucking up a few beers. The only thing they had a problem with was my frequent visits to Valerie’s house because of Mr. Zeke. Everybody on the block knew what a monster Mr. Zeke was when it came to Valerie and the rest of her family. And, according to Valerie, he had more enemies than Saddam Hussein. The running joke was that if something fatal happened to Mr. Zeke, the list of suspects would be as long as a yardstick. And he knew that. As a matter of fact, he made jokes about it, too. “If a civil war ever breaks out in L.A., they’ll be shooting at me from every side.” He always laughed when he said stupid shit like that, but he was probably right.
With the exception of Mr. Zeke, Luther and Viola got along well with everybody, as far as I could tell. They had a few relatives who they enjoyed spending time with, which to my everlasting horror included a nephew who was more interested in what Viola and Luther were going to leave him when they died. Since they’d never had any children of their own, they had a soft spot for this nephew. And that sucker played those two kind and wonderful people like a piano. I knew for a fact that everything except the house—which the greedy nephew was going to inherit—was to be divided equally among all surviving relatives. The house was no palace, and with the exception of the new bedroom suite that they’d bought for me, all the rest of the contents were almost as old as Viola and Luther. Sadly, I’d overheard a few rude relatives admit that there was nothing in the house that they’d want. As far as I knew, I’d get nothing other than what was already mine. That didn’t bother me because I didn’t expect anything, anyway. I had no right to. The Masons’ love, and t
he fact that they had given me a nice home, was more than enough.
I enjoyed living with Viola and Luther and I prayed that I’d be able to live with them until I turned eighteen and could do as I pleased. I wasn’t worried about the social services removing me and placing me in another home, even though that was a possibility. My biggest concern was the fact that the Masons were in their mid-seventies and not in the best of health. I didn’t know if they’d be around for another two years. Sadly, I found out a couple of hours later that Luther wouldn’t.
It was Floyd who came to Valerie’s house to tell me that he had returned to my house to deliver some tools that Luther wanted to borrow. He’d found Luther stretched out on the ground in the driveway, clutching his chest.
“I hope he’s going to be all right. He’s the closest I ever came to having a daddy,” I moaned, trying to sound brave as Floyd escorted me back to my house. Instead of walking on the sidewalk, we trespassed on the elderly Scotts’ property, trampling the neat lawn that they spent a lot of their retirement money and time on. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Scott peeping out of his upstairs window with a horrified look on his face. As usual, I ignored that old man. There was another old man on my mind who was a lot more important to me. “I don’t know what me and Viola would do without him,” I added.
I didn’t realize that Floyd had his arm around my shoulder until we reached my front porch. The paramedics had already come and gone with Luther’s body in tow. Sister Oralee Crockett, a stout motherly woman from the church, was in the house, crying and about to dial the telephone. She put the telephone back into its cradle as soon as she saw me. It was a struggle for Sister Oralee, but between sobs she managed to tell me that Luther’s sudden passing had upset Viola so much, a second ambulance had been called for her.
“Lord have mercy! We gwine to have to dig two graves!” Sister Crockett wailed.
“They’re both dead?” I cried, pulling away from Floyd. He was right behind me, stepping on my heels as I ran across the living room floor. “What’s going to happen to me now?” I hollered, looking at Floyd. I was frantic, and it showed on my face. My reaction startled him. “I have nobody now,” I said in a hoarse voice. “Where will I go?”
Floyd looked at me. Then he put his arms around me and started rubbing my back. I knew right then and there that this was real love, and it was mine for the taking.
CHAPTER 9
Viola survived the mild heart attack that she’d suffered immediately after she’d been told about Luther. However, she was in no shape to attend his funeral. But the way some of their relatives behaved, you would have thought that she had died, too. As soon as they had been notified, they descended upon the house like locusts. Vehicles with out-of-town license plates sat in front of the house in a crooked line that stretched two blocks long. This clumsy caravan included everything from a shiny, new, white Cadillac from Texas to a low-riding, fish-tailed jalopy with an Arkansas license plate, with a piece of wire holding one door shut.
I already knew that Viola’s relatives didn’t get along that well with Luther’s relatives. The tension in the house was as thick as a bowl of paste, and I was stuck smack-dab in the middle. Me, an outsider if ever there was one. None of the relatives had accepted me. If anything, I was treated like a servant. One greasy-mouthed relative after another ordered me to perform one menial task after another. I had to trot into the kitchen and bring this one a glass of water and that one a piece of pecan pie. I had to sew a button back onto one’s coat. I even had to “smash” some potatoes for one of those greedy bitches who hadn’t stopped eating since she walked in the door.
One of the reasons I looked forward to getting married and having a family of my own was so I could truly feel like I belonged somewhere, and to somebody. I knew from talking with other foster kids that until we had real homes of our own, we would always feel like intruders on some level. Despite my situation, I was one of the lucky ones. Before Luther and Viola I had experienced two other foster homes. I had never felt comfortable in either one of them. Even though I had not been neglected or abused, I’d felt displaced and in the way. Like an ugly old piece of furniture that nobody wanted but kept because they didn’t know what else to do with it. And even having to deal with the fools that I had to deal with now, I was still in the best place that I had ever been before in my life.
One of the things that made my current situation so bearable was right across the street. And that thing was Floyd. I prayed that the case workers would leave me alone. I didn’t know what I would do if they snatched me away from Viola and dumped me into another home. That’s why I promised myself that I would tolerate Viola and Luther’s crazy relatives no matter what.
The situation that was playing itself out in Viola’s house like a warped record reminded me of a visit to the San Diego Zoo with my previous foster parents. I felt like I was in the wild kingdom. A jungle. One of the more beastly inhabitants was Noble Coleman—and what kind of name was that?—Viola’s greedy, scheming nephew. He was without a doubt the biggest thorn in my side. That thirty-year-old booger had been sitting around for years waiting for Luther and Viola to die so he could get his claws on the deed to their house. He had the nerve to mosey on over a few hours before Luther’s funeral to go through Luther’s clothes. “I might be able to get a few pennies for Uncle’s suits at the flea market,” Noble announced, his voice sounding like a frog’s croak.
“What about that old La-Z-Boy he was so fond of? And them end tables he made? You want that, too?” asked Glodine, wearing a tight navy blue dress and a matching turban. As big a bitch and sex fiend as Valerie claimed Glodine was, the woman was always available to jump in and help out when it came to a church member’s funeral. As a matter of fact, she was always available to help with any other neighborhood tragedy, too. She had come to the house with Floyd and his two foster sisters to help some ladies from the church and a few of Viola and Luther’s relatives get the house ready for the rest of the mourners. With the exception of a few garishly dressed individuals roaming throughout the house looking for something else to take, everybody else was in the living room. I didn’t care about anybody else, but I was glad to see that Floyd and Valerie were present.
“I want that La-Z-Boy and them end tables!” yelled Rudy, one of Luther’s cousins from Dallas.
“And you can have it! I know y’all don’t think I’m about to drag a U-Haul down that freeway back to San Diego with all of this junk up in here!” Noble shouted, standing by the window holding up two pieces of silverware to the light. He had a plain, pinched, reddish brown face and no neck. It looked like his chin, jaws, and chest were all one big separate slab of meat. He looked like a penguin in his tight black suit and white shirt. This gargoyle had the nerve to be married to a very attractive, young Mexican woman. She was sitting by the door on a hassock looking like she wanted to make a run for the border.
“Noble, you can put that silverware right back where you got it from! That belongs to my auntie and last time I checked, a few minutes ago, she was still breathing,” hollered one of Viola’s other nephews, a bucktoothed security guard named Lenny from Compton. The relatives all started talking and fussing. There were so many hot conversations taking place at the same time that within seconds it sounded like one angry voice. I wanted to hide in my room, but some teenage relatives were swarming around in every room upstairs looking for their own treasures to take. I let out a loud disgusted sigh when I spotted one of the Arkansas relatives who they called Sister come wobbling down the steps. That bold heifer was clutching a boom box that Luther had promised I could have when he passed.
“This is the only thing I want out of all this mess,” Sister muttered, struggling to sit down with the boom box on her lap. I had a feeling that Luther’s spirit was outraged. It must have broken his heart to hear the things he’d cherished for so many years being referred to as “mess.” Sister unbuttoned the two top buttons on her stiff black cotton dress and started fanning with he
r hand. “And I ain’t going to sit up in this stuffy barn all day without no beer.” She stopped fanning. Then she looked around the room, her hand shading her beady black eyes. “Otis Lee, tote this thing out yonder to the car,” she ordered, holding up the boom box. A long-headed teenage boy shot across the floor and snatched the boom box out of her thick hands. I ignored the smirk on her face.
“That’s mine,” I said under my breath, just loud enough for nobody but me and Sister to hear. Not only had that bitch taken the boom box from my room, she had also helped herself to a handkerchief that Luther had given me on my last birthday. She used it to blow her nose. She glared at me in a way that made it seem like she was daring me to complain, but I knew it was to my advantage not to.
“You all right, Lo?” Floyd asked, sitting close to me on the lumpy plaid living room sofa that Luther had always been so fond of. Hell, no, I was not all right. But feeling Floyd’s hand on my shoulder made me feel somewhat better.
“I’m fine,” I managed, knowing that I had no say-so in who took what. “Floyd, thanks for being here. I don’t think I could get through this without you and Valerie,” I told him. “I’ll be glad when things are back to normal.”
“Same here. Listen, when things do settle down, let’s me and you hook up and do something. You know, movies or something. You cool with that?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, praying that Viola would be all right so that I’d still have a place to call home.
I hadn’t told Valerie about my feelings for Floyd lately. With the way things were with her, I didn’t think that was something she wanted to hear, anyway. She had enough to deal with. The same day that Luther died, Mr. Zeke beat Valerie so brutally for stealing money from his wallet, he’d broken her arm in two places.
