Darnay Road

by Diane Munier

  She says there is nothing good to spy about there, just a lady next door who sits on her patio and plays the ballgame, but it’s the wrong teams, and that lady talks real mean to her husband about his old girlfriends, but Abigail May says she don’t even care to hear it.

  And shrimp cocktail makes her sick. But the ocean is really pretty and she loves the beach but she had a dream she fell in the ocean and a shark came and tried to swallow her.

  And the Catholic church, she says I wouldn’t believe it. It looks like a Chevy, she says, so modern and bare. Nothing like Bloody Mary, no spires and porticoes, and ceilings that make up the hills of heaven. She says she can hardly pray or think of Jesus at all in there. Jesus hangs over the altar that is just a table almost, covered in a big tablecloth, and Jesus is all one color—beige, and he doesn’t hardly have a face. She said he looks bar-be-qued, and that makes me laugh cause I can see it.

  No drops of blood anywhere, no frozen tears on his cheeks or bloody wounds on his hands and feet.

  She can hardly stand it.

  She says she’s coming home for Christmas if she has to hitchhike. Can she still be a Darnay spy if she lives on Sea Gull?

  Well I don’t have the answer to that. But of course she can.

  “What you reading?” Easy asks. I look up and he’s so sweaty.

  I didn’t hear him at all. The whole backyard is cut.

  “Are you crying?” he says sitting on the step near my feet.

  I fold the letter like he’s caught me red-handed. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy.

  “Abigail May,” I say. Maybe I didn’t mean to tell him, but I did.

  He looks at me, and I guess he wants to know what she said.

  “Ricky,” I say cause I don’t know why, but they were friends once, “is gone with her.”

  “I heard,” he says. I jump up and take the empty glass inside. I fill it in there and bring it to him. He is still sitting there and he says thanks this time so that’s good.

  He drinks it all down again.

  “You want a sandwich?” I say.

  “What kind?” he says with interest.

  “Bologna,” I say already taking the glass. I go in and Little Bit hurries past and runs to Easy and he is laughing and holding her. I sigh because she’s just impossible sometimes slipping out when I told her to stay in. But she just loves Easy.

  So I get the bologna and mustard and Wonder Bread that builds bodies twelve different ways and I make two bologna sandwiches. I even slice a tomato. And that stack of food looks just like a Dagwood.

  I put this on a saucer and fill the glass again with red Kool-Aid this time as I always have so much with Abigail May gone. I take all this outside and he takes the plate from me and I sit carefully on the step beside him, and I don’t spill a red drop.

  He eagerly takes the drink and drinks half. I look to see if he made a moustache and somehow he didn’t. He has the lightest fuzz on his chin. I don’t know if it’s the first sprouts of a beard or something.

  He tears into the sandwiches, just not embarrassed to eat in front of me at all. The tops of his legs are way longer than mine and kind of hairy.

  “So you live with your mom?” I ask.

  He stops chewing for just a dot, then he goes at it again. He looks at me and I’ve taken Little Bit cause she is so interested in his food but bologna gives her diarrhea.

  “My mom,” he says licking his fingers and taking the last bite of the first sandwich. “It’s not like this. You can’t come over.”

  Well that hurts my feelings. Aunt May wants me over and Abigail is gone.

  He looks at me before he bites that second one. “It ain’t because I don’t want it, but Mom…she’s…sick.”

  Oh. Oh no. “What’s…you don’t have to say.”

  He shrugs and eats. And he doesn’t say.

  Well the embarrassment is there for me. He was so awful that day, and Cap behind him looking at me, at us. Doesn’t he know I’d never just show up on his porch again?

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” I say. My feelings still hurt.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  He laughs and finishes and swipes his hands together. Then he drinks the rest of the Kool-Aid and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Got any more?” he smiles.

  My eyes get big. More than two sandwiches? Holy smokes.

  So I make two more. I never in my life knew a person could eat four sandwiches. But as long as he keeps eating, I’ll keep slapping that bologna on bread.

  So we have a great time. I rake the grass and he trims along the flowerbed with Granma’s hand-shears and she gives him two dollars. Our yard looks swell as can be.

  Then he asks me if I want to help him do Miss Little’s.

  “What for?” I say. I don’t go to Miss Little’s. Well just that one time.

  “It’s too long,” he says.

  A million things go through my mind. Mostly Granma, but more than that. Why would he care about Miss Little? Nobody does. Nobody seems to. And the kittens. If I find them now, Granma will not let me keep them since I already have Little Bit.

  “Maybe she likes it all a mess,” I say.

  “Maybe she don’t,” he says and he’s getting that angry look that scares me. “Maybe she can’t help things.”

  I swallow. “Well she might go crazy if she don’t like us being around.”

  He nods. “She don’t like it we’ll leave. I’ll talk to her.” He has the prettiest eyes. They are not so scary deep inside, they are just very sad in there.

  “I have to…ask Granma.”

  “Just get the rake and come on,” he says.

  “I’ll catch up,” I say.

  He pushes that mower down the street and I go up the porch stairs.

  “What are you cooking up?” Granma says from behind her magazine. Pretty soon Edge of Night comes on.

  “I’m going to help Easy,” I say.

  “With what?” she asks her glasses showing over the top of the page.

  “Down the street with another lawn. I’m gonna bring the rake. I’ll bring it back,” I say. I turn to leave and grab the rake.

  “What about lunch?” she calls.

  “Already ate,” I say and I’m walking a little more quickly.

  “Georgia Christine?” she says, but she doesn’t get up, I can tell by the set of her voice.

  “I’ll be home later,” I call, but I don’t look back. I’ve got the rake and I’m running now.

  Easy is already in Miss Little’s yard. He’s walking through the tall grass, kicking it aside while he looks for rocks and trash that might break his blades. I look at the house. I don’t know about my kittens.

  The windows aren’t open even and it’s hot as an oven. I don’t know what it’s like in there.

  Is she even alive?

  “She’s asleep in there probably,” Easy says going past me with a broken chair that he takes to the curb.

  “You think so?” I say. Well how does he know?

  He don’t answer. He picks up an old rusted trashcan that’s been laying on its side half buried. There are holes right through it all around. He takes this to the curb too.

  I look around and I don’t know where to start. My arm already aches from raking Granma’s. But it’s getting stronger every day. I see a mat for wiping your feet at the front door stuck so deep in the hardened mud I don’t know if I can get it out so I start to pull.

  Easy sees and he comes over and takes hold and I let go and he has to pull and twist before it comes free. He flings it through the air toward the pile on the curb.

  There are boards from where the porch broke through, and they aren’t any good anymore so Easy takes them to the curb. There’s an old breadbox near the wobbly fence along the front. How would that get there? And old coffee cans everywhere. Soup cans too. Hasn’t Miss Little ever heard of taking out the trash to an actual trash can? Doesn’t seem so. She’s even got an old TV tray ou
t here, all ruined and rusty. And this is just the front yard and part of the side.

  I keep looking at the house, at the windows. Just those old yellowed and broken blinds.

  So he starts trying to cut a row and I keep finding more and more junk. It is a terrible effort but “Every Litter Bit Hurts,” has never proved more true.

  It takes over an hour just to get the front yard down. Miss Little never shows. We turn the spigot on at the side of the house, and I cup my hands and get some water and it tastes like rust. Easy drinks too, and he throws a handful of water on me and I forget not to squeal, but it feels so good we throw water on each other then.

  “Let’s go swimming,” he says.

  “What about this?” I say, meaning the rest of the disgusting yard.

  “We’ll come back when it’s not so hot,” he says.

  “I’ve got a pass for the pool,” I say. Granma got me one even with my broken arm.

  “Not there. I don’t go there. I mean the river,” he says pulling off his shirt and wiping all over.

  Well I don’t know. I mean…the river?

  “I um….”

  “I’ll go home and get my bike. You wait here.”

  “By myself?”

  “Miss Little don’t bite.”

  “I ain’t waiting here.”

  “Well you go home she’s never going to let you go,” he says meaning my Granma. He already knows and has a way around it.

  “What about her rake?” I say, fishing for a reason to say no.

  “Leave it here. Miss Little won’t use it,” he laughs and then he just goes and I want to follow him and I do some and I see how much more work we have to do to set this place right.

  So I’m waiting and looking at the window where I saw those kittens of mine that day. I about scream when Miss Little pulls back the blinds and looks at me. That red hair and those eyes. I go running toward Easy’s house. I wish I’d gone the other way but I can’t now. I follow that path and the long grass swipes my legs. I get to that back fence and there is still no sign of him. I go beyond Miss Little’s to the wide open grassy place the tracks run through. I’m looking at Easy’s house, but I know he has that terrible dog and he said not to come there.

  So I just sink to the ground to sit and wait. I’m about so tired I could fall asleep, but I never will with Miss Little about. It’s hot, too hot to sit in the sun so I move where Miss Little’s back fence growth throws out some shade. “Come on,” I say. I’m saying that for Easy to come.

  And I look there and what am I thinking about? Two boys dragging something. I don’t want to think it, but I am. I hear the whistle and I know it’s the two-fifteen. I don’t want to be back here when it goes by, but in my mind I see it. Two boys dragging something alongside Miss Little’s, and how it must have been. I don’t want to think about it, but that train comes along and there it is, I look up the track and the train cars go through quick, but not so quick, not if you look at them. Ricky said if Mr. Caghan had been standing the train would have knocked him some, but laying on the tracks, he got dragged eight car lengths. And they had to….

  That train ends and Easy stands there with his bike. He pushes it across the tracks real quick and then I stand up and he already sees me. He looks troubled. “I thought you left,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Well…I was gone a long time,” he says.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Mom. She…wanted oatmeal.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Why did Cap go to Tennessee? Cause of your dad?” There it is. Maybe I have to ask something about it.

  “I’ll tell you at the river,” he says.

  So we walk behind the houses, that long row and we go back there all along Darnay, and I’ve never seen things from this side, from near the tracks, from behind, same houses I had figured out, but they are different from back here, bigger, smaller, like they have a whole other life. Even Aunt May’s, and I bite my salty lips and it’s hot but I don’t mind, walking with Easy. I don’t hurt inside and I don’t feel so alone when I’m with him.

  We get on his bike once we’re past my block. It’s fast then. I can see we’re headed for the Quick Shop, and I hold on tight to the handlebars when he shoots into the parking lot.

  I hop off and I can’t believe I’m on this short sidewalk in front of this place. Granma would wear me out if she knew.

  I see Jennifer and a couple of girls from sixth standing next to the door.

  “Wait here,” Easy says, already digging in his pocket. He pulls out that money Granma gave him.

  I don’t know what to say. Soon as he goes by those girls they say, “Hey Easy,” in voices so high and gooey.

  I am holding Easy’s bike. He asked me to of course. Those girls talk amongst themselves and then they come over to me, Jennifer leading cause she knows me. They have thongs on and painted toes, teased hair and tight flips and make-up. I try not to stare at Jennifer’s chest, but she has that bra on probably cause she has two pokey things under her shirt. Well they all three aren’t as skinny as me, just a kid.

  One of the girls is smoking. She has stuff on her face that is orangey. It’s Cover Girl. Me and Abigail see it at the five and dime. Well we did, I mean. But this girl has a line along her jaw and then her neck is white. I don’t think it looks nice and I probably will never wear it, but that girl has pimples and I hope I never get those.

  “Hey Georgia,” Jennifer says.

  “Hey,” I think I say, well I try but nothing comes out.

  “So how come you’re with Easy? He your babysitter?” Jennifer says and they all laugh.

  I can feel my chin rise some. I clear my throat to get it working again, though that is more Abigail than me. But it does help to think of her cause she would already be saying plenty like, ha-ha real funny or something.

  “What’s he doing with some child like you?” Jennifer says and she looks hateful now. She takes that Salem cigarette from the other and takes a puff.

  Easy comes out then. He’s carrying two slushies. I would be so happy if these girls weren’t looking at me. They are around him and he smiles kindly and keeps working his way to me.

  “You babysitting?” one of the older girls says.

  He just keeps smiling and gets around them and hands me a slushie. It’s red. His is blue.

  “Thanks,” I say cause I’m polite when I remember and he shouldn’t spend all his money like this, but I’m kind of so glad he did.

  He takes a big drink of his. So I ignore those girls and take a drink of mine. It is so, so good, better than I imagined. It’s a snowcone you can drink. That’s how I’ll describe it to Abigail if I write soon.

  I’m careful to lick the corners of my mouth so I don’t get the moustache. Easy takes another drink of his and smiles at me. “Brain freeze,” he says after he swallows and I laugh because…well because he makes me so happy.

  Darnay Road 27

  It’s like a dream drinking that slushie with Easy then riding away on his handle bars. How am I ever going to tell Abigail May about this? That mean Jennifer and those girls, like hah-hah-hah, but I would never say it.

  Granma would have plenty to say though.

  “I can’t be gone long,” I tell him.

  He don’t answer, he just keeps pedaling. I think he just needs to go to the river. I don’t know why other than it’s hot and I’d barely know him if he wasn’t pretty much dripping sweat all the time.

  So we get there and he’s worked very hard to ride us and it gets rough enough I hop off and I hope I don’t have the red moustache but that slushie was the best thing in my life pretty much.

  So we are walking there and I remember what he said about Cap, that he’d tell me here why Cap had to go away. I hope he hasn’t forgotten.

  He is walking his bike then he stashes it in the woods and we keep walking and there’s a path pretty much. It runs along the bottom of a hill, and I say, “You ever imagine there’s Indians in here, how frightening such
a thing would be?”

  He looks back at me and smiles because he’s in front and he is pushing leaves and branches aside and I’m not nearly as tall so I just go under most of what would like to smack him in the face.

  He don’t answer and I feel pretty much a fool. That’s the kind of thing I always said to Abigail, but he’s not Abigail, not nearly so, and I might need to not say the first thing I think of.

  “One time,” he says out of the blue, “we made bows and arrows and hunted along here,” he says, and it couldn’t have been so long ago. “I shot Beaucap and it went in and stuck.”

  I stop walking cause my legs just decide.

  He looks back at me and he laughs some. “What?”

  “It went in?” I say.

  “Quarter inch,” he says, more serious. “It was just a stick.”

  Then he keeps moving so I follow.

  We get up the hill a little and there’s a cabin someone built a long time ago. It’s known some good old times from the look of the fireplace, trash in there and beer bottles. It’s such a great cabin, made out of real logs, just one small room and two windows not broken out. The door is slabs of wood. It seems like Abraham Lincoln got born in here or something.

  I wish we could live here—Easy and me. He could make a bow and arrow and shoot food and catch fish in the river. But I wouldn’t want him to shoot anything where I could see. But I could set up house here, like the bomb shelter only with a table too maybe.

  “What are you looking like that for?” he says using the side of his foot like a broom to move some trash into the fireplace.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Living here would be fun.”

  “At night? Ain’t you afraid of the dark?”

  “Oh I’ve thought about that…Abigail May and I. We ain’t afraid of the dark. Maybe something in the dark, but not the dark itself.”

  He looks at me for a minute. Then he just does this little laugh and finishes with that trash.

  Diarrhea again. Tongue wagging. Lose lips. Granma is so right about me.

  Well, much as I never want to leave, I said her name again in my mind and I know time is running out.