At the end of her run, Abi cooled down by walking between Green Springs and Cullom. Landon had agreed to go with her to give her daddy the starter kit she’d gotten from Sam—an eighth of mid-grade and a small pipe. They were leaving at noon, so she still had enough time to wash up and study. She had a sociology exam coming up.
Abi paused for a minute on the porch and wiped her face with her shirt, then took the stairs up to her place. The cats were asleep on her bed. She had been afraid Cinderella might not like the new member of the family, Grits. But so far, so good.
Abi flung herself across the bed so they might cozy up to her, but they couldn’t be bothered. With her right hand, she petted Cinderella; with her left, Grits. After a few minutes, she got up and drew a warm bath. She stepped in and slid down so that everything but her face was underwater. She lathered up, using her bar of lavender soap, then tilted her head back, lifted it, and washed her hair with the same soap. The first time Abi had set foot into Landon’s bathroom downstairs, she was amazed by all the various soaps, shampoos, conditioners, bubble baths, and body washes that lined her tub.
One night, she and Landon had been sitting outside on the swing. Abi was pulling her hair up and twisting it into a bun. The street lamp lit up the porch. She remembered something from her teenage years.
“I used to pull my hair out,” Abi said. “I mean, there were actually bald patches underneath my curls.”
Landon leaned forward, her face bright. “Trichotillomania,” she said with a little relish.
“What?”
“That’s what it’s called, when somebody pulls their hair out. You don’t do it anymore, do you?” Landon asked, reaching up to touch a curl that had fallen free from Abi’s bun.
“No. But I did when I was fourteen or so. I remember sitting in math class, unable to work a problem. I’d stare out the window to the schoolyard and take a strand with my fingers, first playing with it, then pulling it out. It wasn’t like I grabbed a handful and jerked it out. It was one strand at a time.”
“Were you also a cutter or a burner?” Landon asked.
“How did you know that?”
“A clinical guess. It’s all stress related.”
“Look,” Abi said, opening her hand to show Landon the scar where she had once put out a cigarette in her palm.
Landon had taken her hand and kissed the scar.
Abi lay in the tub, thinking of that sweet gesture.
After her bath, she put on a pair of jeans and an Auburn War Eagle T-shirt. She had no interest in football whatsoever, but her family was a bunch of Alabama fans, and she had bought it to needle them. She shook her head to give her hair a bit of drying, then left it to its own devices.
Her sociology textbook was an oversized paperback with a group of cartoon people screaming on the cover. Like a crowd of fans, they held up a sign that read, “The Real World.”
Abi loved the social sciences. To her, they shone a little light on why people did the things they did. She ran her finger along the chapter titles she needed to study, under the heading of “Framing Social Life”: “Cultural Crossroads,” “The Self and Interaction,” “Life in Groups,” and “Deviance”—the last being, of course, the most interesting to her.
If things went right, she should get her BA a year from now. Then she was going to get a master’s in social work. Landon had told her that once she had her master’s, she could be a therapist.
It was maddening that nobody back home ever asked her about school. It was all about her not finding the right boy. But school was much more interesting to her than romance. The cats were enough to cuddle with at night. And she had friends, Landon being the newest.
After a few hours of studying, Abi gave Grits and Cinderella one last petting. She grabbed the paraphernalia that Sam had given her and a daily devotional from Mr. Kasir and stuffed them into her purse. She hesitated, then reached into Sam’s baggie and broke off a bit of the weed for herself, for later on. She didn’t feel guilty; it was like getting a tip at work.
She called Landon and asked if she was ready. She was.
“Be sure and wear those cross earrings of yours, okay? My daddy will love them.”
Landon did exactly as she was told. They got into Abi’s car and rolled down the windows a bit because of the unseasonably warm weather. As they drove, the wind whipped their hair into a frenzy.
“I need a bandana,” Landon said.
“Oh, we want to look like the wild and scary city women that we are.”
Abi had never taken anybody to the compound. It was her secret. But now that her daddy had cancer, everything was different. And she felt that Landon was the perfect person—a bit older, kind, nice to look at—to present even to the judgiest of her family members.
Abi drove her usual route—from Cullom to Green Springs to I-65—and veered left to get on I-59. They passed the steel mills that had birthed the city.
“I finally had a long conversation with Jet the other day,” Landon told her.
“Oh, really,” Abi said, pulling her eyes from the road for a moment to look at Landon. “What did you think?”
“I like her.”
“Oh, you like everybody,” Abi said.
“No, she seems to have gotten her life together. After where she’s been, it’s pretty impressive.”
Abi eased up. “You’re right. She is so young, and has such problems with men. I’ve sat with her many nights while she cried over her past and relationships gone bad. I think we both need to reassure her that we’re here for her. She’s not old enough yet to see that it’s your women friends, not your male lovers, who will save you.”
“She asked me to go to midnight mass with her.”
“Are you going?”
“I think so. I told her yes. Are you?”
Abi shook her head.
“Well,” Landon said, sounding worried, “you still have to help me get dressed.”
“Of course! Just don’t get saved.”
“I don’t think Episcopalians have to get saved,” Landon replied.
The interstate carried them out of the city. When Abi took her exit, the landscape changed. There were fields, now plowed under and empty for the winter. Pine trees lined the road, their needles bright against the otherwise dormant roadside. Horses were behind wooden fencing. The houses were far apart, so unlike the city. They passed a girl hanging sheets on a clothesline. An older woman sat in a chair watching—still, like the horses. They flashed by a solitary cow, an aging truck, and piles of wood. Abi lit a cigarette and hung her arm out the window.
“Who was the first person you were ever in love with?” Landon asked out of the blue.
“One of my cousins,” Abi replied.
“Let’s hear it for the South!” Landon exclaimed. “What did you like about him?”
“Her.”
“Like I said, let’s hear it for the South!”
“Her name was Marcia. She was from my Tennessee family. A lot older than me, and in love with her boyfriend. I just had a crush on her—it’s not like we ever kissed or anything. She taught me some things. About love.”
“What did she say?”
“We were out on the pond, and I asked her things about love, and she answered them. I was young. It was just a fascination, an infatuation. But I still carry it around with me. I’m always looking for her.”
“My wedding anniversary is coming up,” Landon said. “The day before Christmas.”
“On Christmas Eve?”
“We were hippies,” Landon said. “We didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. We always went to a restaurant in Bessemer on our anniversary. The Bright Star. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to be one of those women who talks about her divorce all the time.”
Abi touched Landon’s shoulder. “You hardly talk about it at all.”
Abi pulled onto the dirt road that led to her family’s compound and sat on the horn.
; “What are you doing?” Landon asked her.
“It’s a warning so all the brats will get out of my way.”
And sure enough, when the trailers came into view, a gaggle of kids ran alongside the car.
“You stole our cat!” one of the boys shouted.
They scurried around in front of the car, trying to block Abi from driving any farther. They threw handfuls of dirt. Then the oldest of the boys launched a rock that hit her tire.
“Bitch!”
“Sorry,” Abi said to Landon.
Maybe she hadn’t thought this through. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought Landon. What if Landon stopped liking her when she saw what kind of place she came from? She didn’t want her to think that she’d once behaved like this.
The boys didn’t let up. Finally, Abi stopped the car and got out. One of the girls copied her brother and threw a rock her way.
“Listen, you little motherfuckers,” Abi hissed, walking toward them. She didn’t want Landon to hear her. “You go home right now. If you don’t, I’m getting back in the car and I’m gonna run over you. All of you. You will be flat as pancakes. Then I’ll toss your mangled bodies into the pond.”
“Mama, Mama!” they yelled, scattering. “Abi’s gonna kill us!”
She got back in the car, trying to look composed. “And people wonder why I don’t have kids,” she said.
Once they reached the double-wide, Abi saw Daddy sitting outside on the stoop. When he spotted Abi, he stood, a smile crossing his face. She parked and jumped from the car.
“Daddy!” Abi said as she threw her arms around his neck. Hearing Landon exit the car behind her, she unraveled herself from her father to make the introduction. “Daddy this is my new neighbor, Landon. And Landon, this is my daddy.”
“Hello, Daddy,” Landon said. “You two look just alike.”
“My name is Will,” he said, “but you can call me Daddy if you want to.” He gave Landon a sideways hug.
Daddy looked at Abi’s War Eagle shirt and smiled. “Can’t resist making everybody down here crazy, can you?”
Abi smiled at him.
“I have good news for you,” Daddy said in his deep baritone.
“What’s that?”
“Your mother isn’t here. She got called in to work.”
Abi looked up at the sky and raised her palms, as if acknowledging the God she didn’t believe in. “A Christmas miracle!”
LANDON
Landon sat at the vanity and looked at her reflection in triplicate. All the furniture in her bedroom was from her parents’ marriage suite—the vanity, bed, chest of drawers, night table, and lamp.
In a few minutes, Abi would be coming in to help her get ready for mass with Jet. Landon had been thinking about Abi’s father. He was a handsome man, probably only ten years older than she. She thought of the way he ran his hand down her arm after he hugged her. But he was a friend’s daddy, and the gesture was hard to assimilate.
Landon felt that no matter how rough growing up in a trailer park had been on Abi, she had a father who loved her. The longing, the yearning for the kind of paternal love that Landon had been denied was fresh on her mind. Nobody in the neighborhood knew anything about her yet. Not really.
A few times, she had mentioned Nick in passing to people who noticed their photograph. Nick had been born five minutes before her. Life began at the same time for them, so they moved through the years on the same course. Nick was beautiful. He had a head full of soft curls, blue eyes, and a perfect physique for baseball, which was his passion. He had played in the minor leagues before the accident. He was a catcher. Landon still pictured him with that mitt in place, his balance, his guts. It was a dangerous position to play.
She spent her childhood sitting in the bleachers with her mother.
Her father didn’t come to the games.
They lived in a subdivision of Birmingham. There, the men worked in foundries. They made things such as valves and pipe fittings and ball bearings. The steel mills, the plants, the industries—all unregulated at the time—threw smoke and sometimes fire into the sky, which was never blue. The factory families were part of the new industrial South and lived in modest houses built so close together they could see right into their next-door neighbors’ dens if the venetian blinds were raised. They heard each other’s fights, witnessed stolen kisses, and saw what was playing on the neighbors’ black-and-white TV sets.
Growing up, kids from the block had played whiffle ball in Landon’s backyard. The trees were aligned in such a way as to form the perfect first, second, and third bases. The next-door neighbors had a chain-link fence that offered the opportunity for a home run. During the summer, the gnats were so bad that the children wore swimming goggles to keep the bugs out of their eyes.
When Nick started Little League, he kept playing whiffle ball with the younger kids. He encouraged them, gave them gentle pointers, and was genuinely excited when they landed a hit, even when they were playing on the opposite side. He was the kindest person Landon had ever known.
Nick had the gift of being both a good catcher and a good hitter. When they were twelve years old, their father finally came to one of Nick’s Little League games. Their mother was aglow with pride over her intact family. Their father bought Landon a sno-cone and even had one himself. He was a different person.
But Nick didn’t have a good night.
Maybe he was anxious because their father was there. But he missed some pitches. He struck out twice. Landon’s heart raced. She watched her father’s face turn angry—the way the vein along his temple pulsed. He became again the man she knew. Her mother’s happiness turned frantic.
During the ride home, they were all mute. Their mother, Nick, and Landon were too scared to say a word. They knew what was about to happen.
Their father pulled into the carport, and they got out of the car—it was a new Chevy, and he was proud of it. They quickly went inside and scurried to their bedrooms. Landon’s hands were shaking.
Before she had time to change into her pajamas, her father’s voice roared through the lion’s den they called home: “Landon, come here.”
He was in Nick’s room. Once she sat next to Nick on the bed, their father took off his belt. He yelled at Nick. “Get those phony baseball clothes off. Strip down to your underwear. Now,” he growled. “Hustle it!”
Landon turned her head the other way. She was already crying. So was Nick.
Then their father told Nick to face the wall.
“Now, watch carefully, Landon. Watch my hands, and stop crying those crocodile tears. You stop it, too,” he said to Nick.
Mother’s voice from the hallway was shrill. “Don’t do this to him, Frank. I will leave you if you do this.”
Her father turned to Landon. “Don’t listen to her. She’s not going anywhere. You people can’t survive without me.”
You people.
“Stand up, Landon.”
He put the belt in her hand and stood behind her with his arms guiding her, as if he were a golf coach teaching a youngster how to hold the club and how to swing.
“Now, here we go,” he said smoothly.
His hands were over hers, and together they delivered the first blow. It hit the middle of Nick’s spine. Immediately, the place on his back turned pink.
“You aren’t even trying to cooperate!” he yelled at her. “Here we go again.”
Another blow. She knew this one would be sharper and deeper because her father was squeezing his hands so tightly over hers.
“Okay, now you’ve got the gist of it.” He moved away from her. “Now, do it by yourself. Don’t be a weakling. The softer you hit, the more hits, until you do it right. We’ll stay here till midnight if it takes that long.”
Landon looked back into her father’s face. His brown eyes were demonic, his face puffy and red, though he didn’t drink. In a way, it would have been better if he were drunk. But he was stone-cold sober, and this made it horrific. She knew in that mo
ment that she hated him. And that he likely hated her, hated the whole family. She knew Nick was hurting as much for her as he was for himself. That’s how Nick was. He knew the last thing in the world she wanted to do was hurt him.
“Give that to me,” her father said, snatching the belt back from Landon. “You think if you don’t hit him, it’s over? We haven’t even started yet. Now, see this?” he said, and pointed to the buckle. “If you can’t do it right, you’re gonna have to do it so the buckle gets him. You understand me, Landon?”
She nodded.
“Wipe those tears off your face,” he said.
He stood behind her once again. He squeezed her hands. “Go.”
He still was doing all the work. Her hands were trembling; she couldn’t do what was being asked of her. He stepped away again.
“Now,” he said, “I’ll say it once again. If you don’t hit hard, this thing could go on for hours.”
“Please, Daddy,” she begged, “whip me instead.”
“Why would I do that? You weren’t on that baseball field. You didn’t play a miserable game. Humiliate your whole family.”
“I don’t care. Hit me instead.”
“Oh, so you want Nick to hit you?”
“No, I want you to.”
“Not happening!” he yelled.
Nick whispered to her, “Just do it.”
With that, Landon began hitting Nick. She pretended he was their father. She vowed never to speak to that man again. She promised God this was the last time she’d hit a child, her own or anyone’s. She tried to land her blows low, so her brother’s underwear could absorb them, but her father saw through that.
“Quit it. I know what you’re doing.”
Landon felt numb—not just her hands but her whole body. She hit her brother over and over, harder and harder. Finally, her father took the belt and delivered a last blow. It drew blood.
Once in a Blue Moon Page 6
