“Retta, you got to move it. We can’t be late today,” Frank moaned at her, sounding desperate. “If you hurry, I’ll get you a lollipop from Neal’s.”
But it was too late. As she pulled the dress over her head, the same dress she had worn for the past two days, her mother walked in the door, her dark brown hair frizzed into a messy nest and her makeup all run down on her face. She stunk of liquor and smoke and was shocked to see them still in the room.
“Dammit Frank, why’re you still here?” she shouted at him. He stood taller than his own mother at just twelve years old.
“I’m sorry Mommy, we’re just leaving.”
“Retta, you’re late for school today! How are you ever gonna get out of this town if you’re late for school and don’t learn nothing?”
Then she stomped into the tiny bathroom attached to their room, turned on the tub water, and shut the door behind her. Retta looked up at Frank, whose buzzed-cut brown hair needed another buzz to it. His olive-skinned face was a shade of red, and he knew he was in big trouble. In that moment, Retta realized that Frank and their mother had an understanding, and he blew it. He held out his hand to his younger sister and said, “Let’s go Retta.”
She had never seen her mother like that before. Normally when she’d see her, she was working like the other women in the tavern. She’d look pretty and dolled up with her dark curly hair and face makeup and nails painted. Sometimes, she’d paint Retta’s nails for her and put red lipstick on her lips. She’d have her kiss the mirror in the bathroom and would always say, “Retta, your lips are the lips of an angel. What kinds of things does God tell you, baby doll?”
Retta would always try to make up a good answer, like, “God told me that today is gonna be sunny out!” or “God told me that we should get a kitten!” One time she shouted, “God told me that Daddy says that he loves us.” Her mother smiled that day, like she really believed God told Retta stuff because she had lips like an angel.
“Why did Mommy look like that, Frank?” she asked him, as they walked to school.
“She’s been working all night.”
“What do you mean? The tavern was closed.”
Frank stopped walking and turned to her. He bent down and grabbed her arms. His face got serious and he looked angry. “I’m only gonna say this once, Retta. She don’t work at the tavern all night. Our mother is a prostitute. She keeps men company over night and they pay her for it. And if she didn’t do it, we’d be living on the streets like the Branson kids and their mother.”
Retta thought that what Frank was telling her seemed strange. She knew what “keeping men company” meant because of what Chrissy told her last summer when they were playing school in Chrissy’s pale pink bedroom. The dolls and stuffed animals were all sitting in a straight line, like pupils in a classroom. Before Chrissy handed out pencils to her toys, she explained to Retta that “keeping men company” meant that men stuck their peckers into womens’ bellybuttons and then the women got pregnant with a baby.
Retta looked at Frank and shook his hands off her arms. “Mommy lets men stick their peckers in her bellybutton?”
Frank’s eyes got wide and big, and she could tell that he was trying not to laugh. “Who told you that?”
“Chrissy told me last summer. She said that Mrs. Hassel was keeping company with Mr. Stevens and that her husband didn’t know about it. So, when I asked her if they were kissing each other, Chrissy said that it was more than kissing. That Mr. Stevens was putting his pecker in her bellybutton and that she would get pregnant and then not know which man is the real father of the baby!”
Frank looked at Retta stunned, like this is the first time he’s heard of such a thing. Because it was. Responding, with a touch of surprise in his voice, “Mr. Stevens was doing that?” He shook his head and looked over his shoulder. “Well what do you know? All that man ever does is talk about the Bible and how our family is going to Hell for living in the tavern.”
“I’m not going to Hell, Frank. Mommy said that I have the lips of an angel. Angels don’t go to Hell.”
Frank smiled at his tiny sister, who looked so much like their mother. There were days it seemed like she had just spit Retta out of her mouth and onto the floor. “Let’s go. We’re already late for school.”
As they walked, Frank reached down and held her hand.
“Frank? You know, brothers of angels don’t go to Hell either.”
Frank picked up her hand and kissed it.
“You’re right about that, Retta.”
When Buddy and Retta crossed over the border into New Mexico, she breathed a sigh of relief. Just getting them outside of the Texas border made her feel like she checked off the first item on a list that had been meant to-do for a long, long time. “Out of Texas,” check. “Eat something” was next. “Get rid of the Duster” was after that. It took forever to get out of the state; she never realized how big the place was and how often she would have to stop to get gas just so she could leave it altogether.
As the sunrise’s blinding rays began to consume the haze of early morning in Las Cuatro, a mid-sized New Mexico border town, she found a busy breakfast kitchen with dusty pickup trucks parked outside. Inside were matching dusty brown-skinned men sitting in booths as they devoured plates of eggs and coffee in small white cups. Buddy and Retta sat on a stool at a bar, and as Buddy looked down at a torn menu, Retta quietly pulled out her cash, eyeing the men around her.
A short and rotund woman with her black hair pulled up and a name tag that read “Lucinda” put a glass of water in front of them both and started speaking to them in Spanish. Buddy looked up at her and uttered, “No habla espangol, ma’am.”
She didn’t smile, but Retta could see that she had a warmness to her by the way she peered down at Buddy and tilted her head to the side. “Do you want the special?” she asked in heavily accented English.
“Yes ma’am,” Buddy responded, clearly not knowing what the special was.
Retta just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible, so she blurted out, “Two specials, please.”
Lucinda walked away, and Retta’s eyes darted around the dining room. She knew the two of them stood out. The place was full of what seemed to be half of Mexico – hardened, leathery migrant workers sending their meager American earnings back across the border to their families at the end of the week. Buddy and Retta looked nothing like them. Fast Spanish voices filled the air in a muffled tone, and she was starting to become paranoid that these men would say something to them. But as she ate the special, which was two scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee – pretty much an all-American breakfast served at diners everywhere – no one even seemed to notice them, much less talk to them.
As Lucinda walked by, Retta asked her if she knew of anyone interested in buying a car.
“My uncle buys cars all the time,” she answered.
That sounded odd to Retta, but she needed to get rid of this Duster as soon as possible.
“Does he live nearby?” she asked, hoping Lucinda wouldn’t ask too many questions.
“He has a car place just up the road, like a mile or more, called “Hector’s.” The sign is white. It’s brand new.”
Buddy looked over at his mother as he continued to eat a piece of toast. And as Retta observed her good little boy, she wondered…What did he know? What did he remember? What did he think was going on?
Since she just didn’t know what to say to him, she checked “Eat something” off the long and overdue Running Away List, paid for their specials with the ten-dollar bill she pulled out of her shirt and walked out of the restaurant. Then they both got into the Duster, and she drove to Hector’s with the intent on checking off the next item: “Get rid of Duster.”
The Inn Between
I was looking down at myself lying on kitchen floor. It was kind of weird, like looking into a kaleidoscope and se
eing colors go into lines, turning and turning along, only my face staying the same and still within the swirls around me. My face was white with bloody flakes coming up onto my chin. My eyes were closed, and I appeared to be sleeping. Or dead. The rest of my body looked woozy and dream-like, fuzzy and blurry, like I was still drunk from this morning…and the day before…and the day before that.
There was a broken glass next to me on the floor, and as my body became a little clearer, I could see a big crimson stain coming from my chest, soaking my white tee-shirt. My jeans had some blood droppings on my right thigh, and my right hand, covered in blood, lay along the side of my leg on the floor. My head had blood caked on the side of it, my hair strands sticking together like they were dipped in industrial strength glue.
The fridge was behind me, humming rather loudly. There were no lights on inside the house, except for a small one near the oven, and it was pretty dark outside. But for some reason, I could see myself as if there were lights shining everywhere, only it was background or studio lighting, like when you get your portrait taken in the picture studio at Sears…my own real life or real death photo session going on in front of me.
“Hey!” I shouted. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to wake myself up or if I was dead or if I was trying to get Retta’s attention to come and help me.
“Hey! Retta! I’ve been shot!” I yelled again.
It was strange. I hollered, but there was no sound. There was nothing, like I was the only person who could hear my voice.
I tried looking around the kitchen to see what could’ve happened to me. Obviously, I had been shot. Maybe even twice. But there was no gun nearby. I could feel a numbing sensation in my chest but nothing else. Other than the broken glass on the floor, and a frying pan upside-down in the corner, the kitchen was its usual spotless self. Retta was the cleanest housekeeper I ever knew, and even Buddy kept his own mess neat and orderly to please his mama. There were no dishes in the sink or even in the dish drying rack. A small towel was on the counter where Retta would cut up vegetables whenever she made a meal. I could see some of the errant knife blade marks grooved in it. Damn woman, we might get lose our deposit to the landlord if he saw those.
“Retta! Help me!” I shouted into the house. “Buddy!”
Still, nothing. I couldn’t move from where I was, even though I felt like I was floating. It’s like I drifted up into the air and just hovered there – no floating around allowed, only up. I was acutely aware of my surroundings, so I knew I wasn’t drunk anymore. How long had it been since I was last sober?
The phone was on the wall, but I couldn’t get to it to call somebody. Maybe one of the neighbors heard the shooting and called the cops. Maybe Retta and Buddy went to get some help. Maybe they were hiding from whoever shot me. Maybe they were in another room, both shot dead on the floor. Maybe the three of us will meet in this floating pool of air…the Inn Between…a surreal home caught in the middle of life and death that I seemed to be wading in right up to my waist. But then again, maybe not. If they can only float up like me, they won’t be able to move from where their bodies were lying to tell me that we’ll all be together soon.
My mind was busy conjuring up all kinds of scenarios about where Retta and Buddy could be, why I was laying down there like that, and who could’ve shot me. I know Retta’s been mad at me for a good long time now, and she’s threatened to leave lots of times. But there wasn’t a crazy bone in her tiny little body, so I knew she wouldn’t have shot me. I knew she really loved me. I knew I never deserved her.
I realized that my hands were hurting and knew it had to be from wailing on Retta earlier today when she pissed me off with her smart fucking mouth. I hit her hard in the head, and she grabbed a cookie sheet off the counter and put it up to protect herself. When I went to punch her again, I hit the metal pan instead. I could see the bruises on my right knuckles, with dried blood coming around to my wrist.
“Kenny, get up!” I shouted at myself. I didn’t move. My arms and legs were as still as could be. I couldn’t tell if I was breathing or not. I bled a lot from that hole in my chest, but there was nothing gushing out. And here I was, completely aware of myself and my existence, feeling the pain in my hands and the numbness of my chest and as awake and alive as I’d ever been in all the years since I got back from Vietnam.
Chapter 2
August 1996
Jonathan Cordova, Attorney-at-Law
“No, it doesn’t work that way,” Buddy explained to the lady on the phone.
“But he’s just a boy. He didn’t do nothin’ that bad,” Dolly Craig said on the other end of the line.
“Ma’am, in the eyes of the law, he is not just a boy. He has a serious drug problem, and the best deal he is going to get is the one that the DA offered him,” he tried to explain to the distraught mother of his client, a drug addicted teenager who he had been trying to get into a treatment program so he wouldn’t be sentenced to jail. “You have to trust me on this. He is getting a good deal. And he’s lucky to have a mother like you who cares so much about him.”
Dolly’s voice was bordering on a tremble, and he could tell that she was simply exhausted. Exhausted from all these years of poverty, drugs choking the life out of so many family members, an alcoholic husband who beat her, and the daily misery that defined her life, as she continued to live through one sordid mess after another, always being the one who had to clean up the depravity of those she loved. She tried. She tried to instill good values in her children, but she was just unsuccessful in combating the ugly forces around her. It was a common theme that accompanied the many sad voices of his clients’ family members. They were all the same, really. They were all just simply exhausted.
When Dolly first came to his office last week, he was surprised to learn that she wasn’t too much older than he was. Buddy thought she looked like she could’ve been his mother’s age or even older. Tattered hair with more silver than a woman in her late thirties should have. A cratered, yellowing face full of that one roadmap which outlined the pattern of life’s unfairness toward certain people. He remembered watching her mouth move, wondering how many cigarettes have sat along her dried, coarse lips, revealing so much of her life-long pain and suffering. He felt for her. He felt for most of his clients and definitely felt for all of his clients’ mothers…who have had to answer in some way for so many sins that they didn’t commit themselves.
Life is hard for everybody at some point, but the people who Jonathan Cordova, Attorney-at-Law, sees day in and out seem to have it just a bit harder. A lot of times, he sees himself as a little buzzed-cut boy in their sad backstories and what could’ve become of him if his mother hadn’t plucked them both from the maniacal clutches of his mentally ill and alcoholic stepfather in Killeen, Texas so many years ago. Alcoholism, physical abuse, drug addiction, promiscuity, teen pregnancy, poverty, crime, unemployment – it all fuels one another. It all feeds on the souls of the young who start out as promising, well-meaning and curious little creatures, who then morphed into addicts…which then eventually morphed them into criminals.
Maybe, just maybe, if some of his clients had also been fortunate enough to be plucked from their unfortunate circumstances, they would’ve had a real shot at a decent life, too. Maybe instead of sitting in a cell, waiting for Jonathan Cordova, Attorney-at-Law, to meet with them so they could figure out the best way to answer for their crimes…they’d be practicing law someplace themselves.
After hanging up with Dolly Craig, Buddy got up and stood at his office window. He looked at the clock on his wall. It was a warm and sunny day in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Summer still held on tightly, with its white knuckled grasp, to the slowly shortening days. Since he had been cooped up inside all morning, and because the clock was reading 1:56 PM, Buddy figured it was time to go ahead and take Bo for a quick walk. It was about that time for the daily jogger to go by.
Walking out of his home o
ffice and then into the rest of his old echo-filled three-bedroom house, Buddy found Bo lying on his big fluffy bed in the living room with a sun blade cutting through the dusty air resting on his coat. Bo’s bed really served as one hell of a pillow when Buddy needed to lie down on the floor to stretch out his back. He picked up Bo’s leash off the coffee table, and Bo’s huge golden head moved, his eyes looking at his beloved owner. Other than food, this was the most excited Bo would get in his advanced age. A walk – a walk was the best thing in the world next to food.
Bo and Buddy walked out the front door. Jasper the mailman was walking up the sidewalk toward them with a handful of envelopes. Maybe in his younger years, Bo would’ve gone after the mailman, but these days, all he did was walk up to Jasper and wait for him to rub his head and maybe hand him a treat from the pocket of his long blue shorts.
“Hey there Mr. Cochran,” he said, handing Buddy about six letters. “You save anyone from jail today? Did the glove fit?”
Jasper called Buddy “Mr. Cochran” because he’s a criminal defense attorney, and apparently Johnnie Cochran from the OJ Simpson trial is the only criminal defense attorney he knows. And that’s a good thing because that means that Jasper has never had need of a criminal defense attorney’s services.
Buddy grinned slightly at this affable black man, who he’s known for two years, and noticed a huge bandage on his arm just under the cuff of his postal uniform. Jasper leaned over to pet Bo behind the ears.
Good Buddy Page 2
