“I have to go,” I said.
“My door is always open,” he called after me. I kept walking, didn’t look back. All through practice, I couldn’t stop thinking about that day at the pool, how everyone stared at Brian, and how Josh Clay just stood there, gloating.
There’s nothing on TV, and after a few more minutes, I turn it off. I haven’t gone into Brian’s room since he left. It feels wrong, worse than trespassing, like if I walk through the door, it means he will never come back. I do it anyway.
Dust floats around in the last light of the day. I plop into the beanbag chair and pull over a crate of records. I wish we still had the record of whale songs Brian checked out from the library all those years ago. They were so strange and eerie, like thin, warped, high-pitched calls, and not at all like the deep, slow, sonorous sounds I was expecting. I decide not to listen to anything. My brother is gone. I sit in the silence, and I wish I knew how to call him back.
At least now I get my grandmother to myself again. But she’s not the same. Brian has been gone for three and a half weeks, and him leaving broke something in her that can’t be fixed. She sits around with the TV on, smoking. She doesn’t go to the mall, or to Bingo, or out to see her friends. She stares out the window, waiting for him to walk through the door.
But today when I go over, she’s different. She’s baking a cake. Country music plays on the radio.
“Why aren’t you in school?
“Teachers meetings. We have the day off.”
Sunlight floods the room and bounces off the glass bottles and jar of marbles on the window sills. The cake sits, perfect and round, on a milk glass cake stand.
“What kind of cake is that?”
“Carrot.” She takes a quick puff off her cigarette, followed by a swig of coffee, probably cold. Mamaw brews a pot of coffee when she wakes up and drinks it all day long, doesn’t matter if it’s cold or room temperature.
“I was just about to leave, but I’m glad you’re here. You can come with me. Here, want to lick the spatula?” She hands me the bowl of white frosting with the spatula sticking out of it. “I’m going to fix my makeup.”
After I hear her upstairs, I sneak a puff off her cigarette. I don’t smoke much anymore. I lick the spatula, then use my finger to wipe up the last of the icing clinging to the sides of the bowl. I’m not on a diet anymore either. Coach says I need to eat more, so that I burn calories and run for longer and build up my stamina.
Mamaw comes back in the kitchen with reapplied lipstick, the heady stink of Aqua Net wafting off her. She’s changed out of her house slippers into navy blue tennis shoes. She picks up her rings off the counter and slides them on her fingers. Acting more like the grandmother I know.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” she says.
She puts on her tortoise-shell sunglasses and locks the door behind her just as Edna Davis is getting out of her Oldsmobile, carrying a sack of groceries.
“Come on,” Mamaw says sharply.
Edna, wearing a purple velour jogging suit, marches up to her house without saying a word. My grandmother pulls out onto the road, her rose-pink lips pressed together in a hard line. I don’t think they’ll ever make up.
The days are getting a little cooler, and the light has changed, turning the sky a deeper blue. We drive past the empty drive-in, and I wonder if they’ll ever tear down the screen or just let it stand there and rot. I haven’t been back since Nick left.
When I change the station from country to rock, Mamaw doesn’t even notice. She chews spearmint gum and smokes a menthol, and every so often she lifts up her shoulders like she’s caught a chill. She seems excited and nervous, acting the way she did when Naomi came to town.
She takes several turns, and then we’re out in the country, going down a gravel road. “Look for number 624,” she says.
I can’t imagine any kind of good surprise out here. We pass trailers, falling-down barns. A homely horse tied to a tree. A bunch of wild-looking kids, shirtless, chase each other with sticks. Everyone here is dirt-poor, trailer trash. My mother wouldn’t like this, I think. She’d tell me to make sure my door is locked.
“Here we are.”
My grandmother pulls into a dirt driveway that leads up to a trailer home, as if it’s the most perfectly normal thing to do. According to my brother, Mamaw used to go all over the county, places most Avon ladies wouldn’t venture. But I don’t see any boxes of beauty products in the backseat.
“What are we doing here?”
She takes off her sunglasses and looks at me with those blue eyes that are just like Brian’s, just like my dad’s.
“We’ve come for your brother.”
“He’s here?”
My grandmother opens her purse and drops in the keys. Her hands are shaking. She fusses in the mirror.
“How do you know?”
Satisfied with her makeup, she turns toward me, smiling.
“I did some detective work. I called Annie and after some cajoling, she told me his friend’s name. Then I remembered that fellow who works at Sears. So I went over there a couple of times, but he wasn’t at work. Then, last night, this Andrew called me. A sign. God was working His wonders.”
She opens the car door before I can stop her. Why didn’t we talk about this first? I get out, my Keds grinding the dry dirt, and my legs tighten like they want to sprint down this gravel road. It’s quiet and still out here, lonely. A jaybird squawks from a tree. I’m think of Brandy and her friends yelling at me from the car. The man in the pickup throwing a Coke in Brian’s face. Someone shooting a gun at our house.
“Wait,” I say. “Mamaw, wait.”
She stops and looks back at me. “What is it?”
“What if I don’t want him to come back?”
She pauses for just a second, her expression impossible to read. Then she turns and keeps walking toward the trailer. I run after her, up the half-dirt, half-grass walkway, past a family of plastic deer and two dirty white lawn chairs. When we get to the steps, she stops and turns, her sunglasses propped on her head. She’s not smiling now. She speaks low—an almost whisper, an angry whisper.
“After all your brother has done for you,” she says. “And this is how you act.”
She gives three hard raps on the metal strip of the screen door before I can defend myself. Her accusation drills into my chest. She never scolds me. A cricket chirps from under the trailer like a cheap alarm. My grandmother doesn’t understand what it’s like at school, what people say.
“Yoo-hoo,” she calls.
A woman comes to the door, the features of her face hidden by the mesh screen.
“I’m here to see Brian,” Mamaw says, warmly. “I’m Lettie, his grandma. This is his sister, Jess.”
The woman squints like maybe she’s not used to coming into the light. “He’s sleeping,” she says.
“Mama, it’s okay,” a man says. “You can let them in.”
The woman hesitates, then opens the door. She’s probably around my mother’s age but looks older, and she looks poor—you can just tell. Bad teeth, a few pimples scattered on her chin, a flat, expressionless face. She’s not wearing any makeup, but she put time into her hair—the bangs are curled into a stiff ball, like a cupcake balanced on the tip of her forehead.
My grandmother walks in first, and I stand behind her. The trailer is dim and warm, and smells like fried eggs.
Then, a short, spry man with puffy hair steps out of the kitchenette. He’s wearing black satiny pants and a bright, billowy pink shirt, looks like he’s about to do a magic trick or break out into song. A gold chain hits the top of his chest.
“You didn’t get lost?”
“No sir, you gave good directions.” My grandmother reaches out her hand and he holds it, not like a handshake, but as if her hand is a precious stone. He introduces his mother, Janey, and then looks at me.
“You must be Jess. I’m Andrew.”
He lisps when h
e talks and I know right away he’s gay. I wonder if he has it too. Mamaw’s eyes bear down on me.
“Hi,” I say.
“He might still be sleeping. I didn’t tell him you were coming.”
“Don’t wake him up,” Mamaw says. “We’ll wait.”
“Let me go check.”
Janey asks if we want anything to drink. “There’s Coke or iced tea.”
Mamaw says she’d love a Coke, but I shake my head—I just want to get out of here. I sit next to my grandmother on the brown and red plaid sofa, and Janey hands her a plastic cup. Then Janey nestles into a corduroy recliner, stretching out her thin legs and wiggling her bare toes. We gaze at the TV. The Price is Right is on. Bob Barker, in a gray suit, explains to a giddy, out-of-breath woman named Phyllis how to play a game where she has to guess which two products have the same price. A frozen steak dinner on a mini Ferris wheel rotates by, followed by a jar of peanut butter.
Behind the TV, on the wood-paneled wall, hang framed pictures of fashion models—Christy Brinkley, Brooke Shields, and Paulina Porizkova. The wall adjacent to the sofa is covered with pictures of Andrew—recent ones to baby pictures, and all the years in between.
“Honey, you like this show? Here, you can turn on whatever you want.” Janey holds out the remote to me.
“This is fine.”
Low voices sound from the hallway. One of them is my brother’s. My grandmother won’t look over at me. My muscles vibrate. Even my earlobes feel tense.
When he walks in, his flannel shirt unbuttoned, he’s leaning on Andrew. I would gasp but I can’t make a sound. Mamaw does it for me.
“Oh!” she exclaims.
Brian looks awful. You can see ribs, and his skin is ashy and gray. Beads of sweat cross his forehead. Dark circles under his eyes, and painful-looking blisters are scattered around his mouth like chicken pox. He’s wearing sweatpants and old man slippers. His hair sticks up in the back like turkey feathers.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice so faint I can barely hear him.
“I called her,” Andrew says. “I had to.”
I can’t tell if Brian is pissed or scared or sad. His eyes are enormous. Mamaw goes over to him and wraps her arms around him. He disappears in her flesh.
“Oh, you’re warm,” she says. “You’re burning up.”
When she lets go, Brian asks her why she’s here. On TV, the contestants spin to see who gets to be in the Showcase. The Big Wheel clicks. Click, click, click. The numbers slowly spin by, and the audience yells and Bob Barker watches solemnly as the wheel stops on sixty-five cents. Phyllis says she’ll stay, and walks over to the red circle to wait.
“Honey, it’s time for you to come on home,” Mamaw says.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, my house. Come stay with me.”
A woman with blond hair and dark eyebrows spins the wheel next and it goes ticking by. Fifty-five cents. She spins a second time, and lands on seventy-five cents, and the crowd groans because she went over a dollar. Bob Barker tells her goodbye. Phyllis, the winner, waves her arms in the air and yells, “Yee-haw,” and Bob says they’ll be right back.
Maybe he’s too tired and weak to put up much of a fight, or maybe he really wants to come home. “Okay,” Brian says.
Andrew says he’ll get his things, but first he and my grandmother help Brian over to the sofa. I don’t want to look at him again. But I can’t help it. His busted-up mouth, bulging cow eyes. He breathes hard like he’s been on a run.
As Andrew flits out of the room, my grandmother approaches Janey. “I’m grateful for you taking care of him. It’s real nice of you.”
“I can’t turn no one away,” she says, still sitting down, her thin chicken legs stretched out.
“No, no I can see that. You’re a good woman.”
Andrew comes back in with a suitcase, duffle bag, and my brother’s silver camera case that looks like a big briefcase. He’s also holding a cane. He crouches to help Brian stand, and Brian leans on the cane.
“I give him that.” Janey kicks the footrest down. “It was my grandpa’s.”
“That’s real nice of you,” Mamaw says.
Shaken, I look at my brother, holding onto that cane like an old man. That’s what he looks like, an old man in a nursing home.
“Jess, help get his things,” Mamaw says.
I grab the suitcase, happy to have something to do. Maybe I made this happen—I’m the one who told him to leave. He doesn’t even seem to notice I’m here. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.
Janey pats Brian softly on the back. “You take care of yourself, honey.”
Andrew gives him a careful hug, cautious not to squeeze too hard. “I’ll miss you.”
Mamaw holds onto Brian’s elbow, guiding him to the Queen’s Ship, and Andrew and I put his things in the trunk. A blue jay screeches at us, lands in a tree.
“We need to get you to the doctor’s,” Mamaw says.
“No,” Brian says. “Just take me home.”
Brian’s breathing gets slower and deeper, and I realize he’s asleep. Mamaw goes what I think is the long way, so that she doesn’t have to drive by the swimming pool, but then she misses the turn.
“Where are we going?”
“To get help,” she says.
Sharon
The air is cooler in the mornings now, and the leaves are changing colors. Tiny black-capped chickadees buzz from branches. Autumn is here. As I set a sack of clean, folded sheets in the backseat of the Citation, a sharp pain pinches my lower back. I suck my breath, ignoring it, and go back in the house for another load of laundry. Staying busy is the only way I know how to stop the pain from taking over.
When I come back out, Deb Dennison walks up her driveway to retrieve the paper. She’s wearing baby blue sweatpants, and when she bends over, her butt rises like a blue moon. As she stands, shoving the rolled newspaper under her armpit, she sees me.
“Sharon,” she calls, not taking the cigarette out of her mouth. “How you doing?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
She walks over, stops at the edge of her property, and I can’t help but notice her fluffy Mickey Mouse slippers, the ridiculous smiling faces looking up at me, black round ears sticking up on either side like over-sized headphones.
“Hanging in there,” she says in her gruff, scratchy smoker voice. “How’s your boy?”
“He—he’s getting better.” The obvious lies are easier—for others to hear, for me to say.
“Well, good,” she says. “I’m glad all that mess is over.”
I nod, but I’m not sure what she means—the town’s reaction, or his illness? Does she think it goes away, like the flu? Isn’t that what all of us hope? Still, my eyes burn with gratitude. I had assumed Deb Dennison would be one of the first scrambling to get on camera to talk bad about my son, but she hasn’t been anything but kind.
“You tell him I said everything’s going to be all right,” she says.
There are a handful of people who have stood by us, or at least not shunned us entirely. We still get the occasional prank call or nasty letter, but most of town just ignores us. On Location With Naomi amplified all the hate and ugliness, but also changed a few minds. I like to think that when die-hard fans heard Naomi defend Brian, they started to rethink things. Sometimes the media still call the house—not Naomi or her people, but newspapers and news teams in Ohio. They want updates. They want to know if he’s still alive. We do not speak to them.
Deb waves and I tap the horn. Then, as I’ve done every morning since Lettie brought Brian back, I head to her house. I go back and forth between my house and hers, washing, cooking, vacuuming. I’m never still. Whatever I can do to help out, and to stop the pain from paralyzing me. When Lettie called to tell me she’d found him, I wept. Then she told me she was calling from the hospital in Madison.
Brian stayed in the hospital for five days. His white blood cell count fell dangerously low, and he ran a
fever of 103. He battled a painful outbreak of herpes in his mouth, and a fungus called thrush coated his tongue like a film of cottage cheese. I was terrified he would not live through it. Some of the nurses and aides refused to speak to us. They knew who we were. They wore latex gloves and masks over their mouths and gowns, and we had to do the same when we went into his room. As Lettie and I sat in the waiting room, the staff’s hard, hateful stares and side glances made the air feel impossibly heavy. One day, his food tray was just sitting outside the door. I didn’t complain to anyone. I just carried it in, and helped him eat a few bites of Jell-O. Only one younger nurse, Tracy, didn’t seem alarmed. Warm and gentle, she patted me on the arm as she walked by. She squeezed Brian’s hands. There was only one doctor who would see him, who didn’t look at Brian with disgust or judgment. Dr. Patel. He’s from India. The first time he spoke, Lettie just stared at him, trying to follow his quick words. Then she thanked him over and over for saving her grandson. You have the kindest eyes, she told him.
The kitchen smells like coffee and burned toast. Sadie greets me at the door, wagging her tail, her nails clicking on the linoleum. After Brian got out of the hospital, he asked for her, and Jess said she didn’t mind. “She’s his dog,” she said. It was decided without discussion that Brian would live at Lettie’s.
“Anyone home?” I call, knowing of course they are—where else would they go? The days of Brian going on drives or to the shopping mall are long over. On the stovetop oatmeal hardens in a pot like clay. He hardly eats. Nothing tastes good, he says. It’s like the food itself hurts. At least, for now, the sores in his mouth have retreated.
“In here,” Lettie calls from the family room.
Sadie follows me, and jumps up on the sofa next to Lettie. Swallowed up by the recliner, Brian doesn’t look up from the TV. It’s turned up too loud, the way my father used to listen to it. One of Lettie’s quilts drapes over him, hiding his frail bones. His gaunt grim face peeks out from the bright colors and geometric shapes like a shriveled-up weed in a field of wildflowers.
The Prettiest Star Page 22