Messenger

by Carol Lynch Williams

  I stepped close to her. So close I could smell something on her. Something I didn’t recognize. Something that wasn’t exactly pleasant. I took a step back.

  “This.” I waved my hands, pointing at the room. The new paint job, I could see when I took a closer look, had traces of pale pink coming through. How could that be? Me and Momma had put on a primer first. Sherwin-Williams had a thing or two to explain. I kept waving. “This is my room.”

  Tommie, who had been pushing at her cuticles, looked at me. Startled, I’d say.

  “No, it isn’t,” she said.

  I sat on the bed, far enough away that I couldn’t smell her.

  “Yes. It. Is.”

  “This is my room,” she said.

  I stood and so did Tommie.

  We eyed each other.

  We were a foot apart. Hands balled into fists. Both of us.

  “And Justin is my boyfriend,” Tommie said. She jabbed at my chest, not quite touching me.

  “Who?”

  “Justin.”

  That guy from the party? I’d seen him today. Had we even spoken?

  “What do I care about that?” For some reason I felt dizzy. Pukish.

  Worried.

  “You,” Tommie said, and she took a step closer to me. I moved back toward the door. Why had I closed it? “You are ruining my life. Taking it over. And I”—she took another step. I backed up again—“am sick of it.”

  I swallowed three times before I could find my voice, which was buried somewhere right near the chicken and veggies.

  “You need to leave.” The words were whispered. Almost not there. Ghosty.

  “Why should I?” Tommie said. “You should go.”

  “JimDaddy,” I said, “gave me this room when me and Momma moved in here.”

  Tommie turned, twirling, arms raised like a ballerina, and floated to the window.

  “He won’t speak to me,” Tommie said after a long minute where I considered on running down the hall to Baby Lucy’s room and asking Momma to get a stick or a broom or something, anything, to get this girl out of my room.

  But her words slowed me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “My daddy,” Tommie said. “He stopped talking to me about three years ago.”

  Icy water feelings dripped all over me.

  JimDaddy didn’t have a child.

  Did he?

  I couldn’t breathe.

  This was not good.

  The words arranged themselves in my head in capital print like something from a novel. I knew what had happened.

  A TERRIBLE DIVORCE.

  Or

  HE WAS AN ADULTERER.

  Did Momma know?

  Aunt Odie’s newest creation knocked on my tonsils.

  Somehow, JimDaddy the Builder had gotten rid of his wife and his daughter and who knew who else. Perhaps he was

  A MURDERER.

  My blood got all cloggy.

  “I better go,” Tommie said.

  Relief filled me and I caught my breath.

  She left the room, the house, without making a sound.

  40

  What was going on?

  41

  I mean it.

  What?

  42

  You know when something goes down the wrong pipe and you nearly choke to death? You can’t catch your breath and you feel like you’ll die if you don’t get air and your eyes stream tears?

  That’s how I felt.

  Only without the choking and the tears part. It was still hard to breathe.

  Who was this Tommie?

  Where did she live (close!) that she could be here so often?

  Why wouldn’t JimDaddy have anything to do with his girl—almost my age, by the way—from his first marriage?

  Better yet, why hadn’t he told Momma?

  I slowed. Numbed.

  Or. Had. He?

  I stood. Took one hundred years to make it to the door. Another hundred years to twist the knob and get down the hall to Baby Lucy’s room, where Momma was putting my sister down to rest.

  “Momma?” I said, when I stood in that doorway. My voice was cotton.

  It was getting close to dinner. Now the window was a mirror. I walked across the room and pulled down the shade. Shivered.

  Was Tommie back to her home yet? How did she get here? Walk? Ride a bike? Hitchhike?

  Momma looked at me, her long hair cascading down her back like a wild waterfall. Baby Lucy, lying in her bed, showed me her tooth.

  “What is it, Evie?” Momma finished the diapering. Snapped Lucy’s sleeper. Lifted her and kissed her on the face.

  Lucy rested her head a moment on my mother’s shoulder. Jabbered at me, then yawned.

  “Momma.” My voice fought to be heard. “JimDaddy was married before. Wasn’t he?”

  Momma stiffened. Only her eyes moved, looking at me and then away. At me again and away.

  It was true!

  Adulterer? Murderer? Certainly a divorcer.

  My room had been someone else’s, and that someone was Tommie.

  I whispered, “Why didn’t y’all tell me?”

  Momma thawed. Patted at Baby Lucy, who cooed like she was answering the question, if I could understand baby talk.

  “Listen,” Momma said. She raised one hand.

  Why, she was trying to come up with something! Are you kidding me? I wasn’t sure if I should be mad or furious at her.

  “Listen.”

  “I am.”

  In the corner of the room, the rocker moved all slow, with a creak creak creak.

  My heart leaped. Thank goodness for ribs and skin and such. Otherwise I might be heartless at that moment. All three of us stared at the rocker.

  “It does that sometimes,” Momma said, her voice a murmur.

  And I answered, “Oh.”

  Baby Lucy spoke to the chair. Pumped her little fists.

  I swallowed a few times.

  Could it be that she had the Gift fourteen-plus years early? Was that allowed with us Messengers?

  “What’s going on, Momma?”

  “How should I know? It just happens.”

  The chair still moved.

  “I mean . . .” Should I sit in it? Stop the rocking? A part of me wanted to run. But Momma didn’t seem afraid. “I mean about JimDaddy.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged.

  “Did he tell you he was married before? Did . . . did you know?”

  Momma nodded. Swallowed. Said, “We should wait till JimDaddy gets home to talk about all this.”

  “I need to know now.”

  The rocker eased to a stop.

  Momma pushed past me and headed to the front room, carrying Baby Lucy.

  “You need to tell me. What about his wife? What about his daughter?”

  Momma slowed her step as she went down the hall, then sped up again.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  But Momma wasn’t saying nothing except wait until JimDaddy came home.

  43

  Jeez!

  44

  I let myself out of the house, slamming the door shut behind me.

  Out over the ocean, clouds billowed, growing tall and dark in the late afternoon sky. Looked the way I felt, those clouds did. Lightning illuminated the east.

  A voice came from the end of the porch. “Hey, Evie.”

  I let out a little scream. “What are you doing here, Buddy?” Yellow hibiscus flowers on the bushes behind him bobbed in the breeze.

  He sat on the porch swing, his long legs looking grasshopper-­like when he tucked them under the swing. The chains cried out. Wah. Wah. Wah.

  “Just came to see you,” he said. He patted the swing. “Co
me sit over here.”

  “What is it about people in this neighborhood? Popping out of here and there. Always surprising me.” I stayed by the door, the AC swirling outside. “I got homework.”

  “The first day?”

  “Yes.” Almost true. I had self-inflicted homework so I didn’t get behind in any of my classes. Plus, there was the homework of picking out what to wear tomorrow.

  Buddy smiled that cute smile of his.

  “I saved you a place,” he said.

  Tell me who can sit next to a good-looking boy with gorgeous cheekbones and squinty eyes when she’s just found out her momma had married a man who had been married before? A man who was one of three things, none of them that becoming.

  Sure, Momma had been married before herself. But my daddy died when I just learning to walk. Stroke. No one had any idea it was coming.

  JimDaddy was a man worse than that super-old actor Alex Baldman in that show Child Actors and Their Parents. My stepfather—who had mentioned maybe adopting me—wouldn’t even speak to his own flesh-and-blood daughter, Tommie. Why not? His. Own. Flesh. And. Blood. How could this be possible?

  We Messengers talk till you wish we’d shut up.

  JimDaddy, it seemed, cut off his loved ones. Right at the knees. But didn’t get the back door fixed so they couldn’t sneak in our house.

  So who could sit next to a pretty boy when all this was racing through her brain? I could.

  I stomped across the front porch, past the concrete planters filled with petunias that Momma had planted at the beginning of summer, running my fingertips along the porch railing. Then I stood in front of Buddy, my arms folded across my chest.

  He patted the wooden slats next to him.

  Darn that squinty-eyed smile!

  “Right here,” he whispered, then opened his hands to me.

  I took his hands in my own.

  I was a backstabber to women all over the world.

  I sat next to Buddy, not even waiting for him to tighten his arm around me, just resting my head against his chest and closing my eyes to the trouble I was sure would come that evening.

  45

  Maybe Momma was with JimDaddy because sitting next to him made her feel safe.

  Maybe she was with him because watching a storm come in from the ocean was comfortable, even with lightning that looked to split Florida in half.

  Maybe she was with him because she’d sat on this very porch swing, his arm around her, and had never spoken a word and it had felt perfect.

  46

  Love.

  47

  Yes. Love.

  48

  The storm broke while we were on the front porch, swinging and not talking. Rain poured from the sky like it was the star of a movie, the whole yard appearing too green.

  JimDaddy pulled into the drive, lights slicing across the yard. Baby frogs leaped every which way, like they had fallen from the clouds.

  “That’s my cue,” Buddy said. He squeezed me up close. “I’m coming back tonight,” he said.

  “I should hope so.”

  He slipped away.

  I stood, walked across the front porch, and waited for my stepfather. The porch light sensors went off and it was as though I was center stage, spots shining on me only.

  JimDaddy waved and when he eased past, there was a haunted look on his face like he didn’t know what was coming—because he didn’t. Then he drove into the three-car garage.

  49

  Love?

  50

  I came inside, slamming the front door for good measure. I was getting good at this slamming thing. And here it was my first day perfecting the talent.

  “Hey, girl,” JimDaddy said, coming in through the garage at the same moment.

  He moved into the living room and grabbed up Baby Lucy, who was now on her play blanket (short nap?), kicking her feet at the chandelier. He hugged her. Pressed his face to hers. Closed his eyes then kissed her cheek.

  “Dadadada,” she said. Baby Lucy pulled at JimDaddy’s mustache.

  “Baby girl, baby girl,” JimDaddy said, all soft.

  Baby Lucy slapped his face in a patty-cake sorta way.

  “Miss me?” he asked.

  Momma came in from the kitchen then and watched Baby Lucy give her daddy wet kisses. Momma, who had looked worried and stiff as beaten egg whites, seemed to melt observing the two of them. But she didn’t speak. I’m not sure JimDaddy even knew she was behind him.

  “Sir,” I said, feeling awkward.

  JimDaddy laughed. “Sir?” he said. He went to his recliner then, sat, and kicked off his work shoes. He settled back, his face smoothing out like worries slipped away, Baby Lucy sitting on his chest. Closed his eyes. “Since when do you call me sir?”

  “Ummm,” I said. Get mad, I thought. Get mad and chew him out about Tommie. But seeing him on the chair with my sister, I couldn’t rustle up a smidgen of displeasure. I was grateful he held my sister in that loving way. Grateful we were all together. Even if he’d left his other family behind, or killed people. Well. Maybe not that.

  I was a traitor.

  A traitor for happiness I had helped to steal from one family—without meaning to.

  His daughter.

  Like Lucy.

  Like me.

  “Something smells good,” JimDaddy said. He seemed to have no energy. In fact, he might have gone to sleep right there.

  Momma drifted to his side like a spirit. “You feeling better, Jimmy? Ready to eat?”

  Better? Was he . . . panic came up in my heart area . . . was he sick?

  Could he have a stroke?

  Could he . . . ?

  JimDaddy’s eyes popped open. He didn’t smile but looked at Momma like he had lost her for a moment and just discovered her whereabouts. He reached for her hand, and Momma took his. JimDaddy kissed Momma’s knuckles.

  I cleared my throat and my stepfather stood, cradling Baby Lucy in one arm. The curtains shifted as the air-conditioning clicked on, like someone walked behind the sheers.

  Fish was frying. Corn bread baking. I bet Momma had run down the street to Aunt Odie’s place, where she’d been experimenting with a batter “good for chicken or fish.” I mean before her newest, newest idea.

  “What’s going on?” JimDaddy said. He looked too tired for words. Come to think of it, he was looking pretty worn at my birthday party and he stayed awake long past his usual bedtime. Dark circles ringed his eyes.

  Momma hurried into the kitchen, gesturing small so only I would see. I gave her the stink eye. She ignored me. I followed, flapping my hands in a we have to talk way.

  She hoofed it to the stove, pulled catfish from the oil to drain. Said over her shoulder, “Set the table, please?” Her words were rigid. A warning.

  And why was that? I hadn’t even had a chance to do something wrong. Yet. How was getting the truth a wrong anyway?

  “Momma . . .”

  “We’ll talk while we eat,” Momma whispered. She peeked through the kitchen door and nodded at JimDaddy, and Baby Lucy. She looked worried. Momma, not Baby Lucy. Well, Momma should be.

  “Wash up?” she asked, like this time might be different from all the other meals I had ever eaten with her.

  JimDaddy was over to Momma in three strides, his tie gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He kissed her full on the mouth, Baby Lucy swinging like a bag of groceries, clutching at the sleeve of his dress shirt.

  “Food’s gonna burn,” I said. But who ever hears the sane one in a family? The dog, maybe. And we don’t have a dog.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m trying.”

  He kissed Momma again.

  “I’m trying real hard.” His voice got stuck on the last word.

  I had to look away.

&n
bsp; My mother was laying lips on the man who’d left at least one child and at least one wife on the side of the road. Practically.

  “You mind taking her, Evie?” JimDaddy said. “I’m gonna change my clothes.”

  I kept my head down and reached for the baby as he walked from the room.

  Momma smiled like that was the best kiss ever, and I thought I should run away with Baby Lucy now, taking me with her, while we had a chance, before we were kicked out of our bedrooms and left to sneak into the house the back way.

  “Maybe it’s getting better,” Momma said to no one.

  “Dadadadada,” Baby Lucy said. I rested my cheek on her head.

  “You,” Momma said, pointing at me with a greasy spatula, “you better be nice. You don’t know this story.”

  “How can I know anything?” I said. “Y’all haven’t said a word to me.”

  “Just remember I can still give you a pot with five handles.”

  I almost laughed. “You gonna spank me?”

  “No Southern child is too old for a pop on the bottom. Especially if she isn’t respecting her elders.”

  “Whatever,” I said with a sigh.

  “Wawawawa,” said Baby Lucy.

  Momma planted her hands on her waist, that spatula dripping oil in blotches on the dark wood floor.

  When JimDaddy was back, changed into an old paint-­spattered Florida Gators T-shirt, we settled around the table, Lucy perched on Momma’s lap so she could eat straight off the plate.

  “Grace,” Momma said.

  “Bless the Messengers and the Fletchers,” JimDaddy said. “And this food.”

  Then we set to eating. Dipping fish in vinegar, slathering butter on the corn bread, and eating coleslaw that was just-the-right sweet. Momma acted like nothing had happened at all. Just said out of the side of her mouth, “Honey, we got to have a family meeting soon as we finish here.”

  Waiting, waiting, and more waiting.