Aaron dragged a vacuum along the porch to the far end of the motel, its wheels chattering over the hum of the drills. He stopped outside room 13 and squinted down the highway at a cloud of dust. A truck shot by the motel, the first car Aaron had seen since they got there.
Inside he vacuumed and avoided the mirror. He told himself that life now was temporary. But he couldn’t shake the thought of his dad’s smallness earlier, insulting college. It was the kind of thing his teammates and their dads saw—the way Ernest never came to football games, or left right after when he did come, never staying to talk to folks. Or his smallness on Sundays. They were the only family in town that didn’t go to First Baptist and instead, thanks to Gerty’s ailments, were parked on the sofa at home with their Bibles in their laps. A tiny world where Ernest was the preacher. Until high school, that is, when Aaron started going to church alone after home prayers. His dad wouldn’t look at him when he got back those Sunday evenings. Sometimes Ernest wouldn’t say a word to him until Tuesday.
“Ready, huh?” Ernest’s voice startled Aaron from his thoughts. His dad stood in the doorway. “One room to my twelve?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Dump your dirty water and let’s get some grub.” Aaron turned to the bathroom. “No,” Ernest scolded, seizing the vacuum. “We dump off the porch.”
“I got it.” Aaron yanked it back and dragged it outside, tipping it over the front of the porch.
“Not the parking lot!” Ernest cried. “Over the side, side; give it to me.” Ernest grabbed at the tank, but Aaron was too strong as they struggled over it, and his dad slipped and fell into the gush of dirty water. Ernest froze on his hands and knees. His Dickies and shirt were soaked with greenish vacuum juice. Narrow rivers of it crawled along the porch, dropping between the planks. Aaron held his breath. But Ernest just stood up without a word and walked away.
“Sorry,” he whispered and trailed his dad to the motel office.
Aaron loaded the truck while Nutter counted out a wad of bills. He dropped them distractedly into Ernest’s hand. “Well, sir,” Nutter rasped when he finished paying, “we done business a long time. I wouldn’t even mention it except there’s another man who’s paid me three visits already. A carpet man, like you. He got a GI loan to go buy the newest vacuums—”
“Government handout,” Ernest barked. “I didn’t take one of those when I came back.”
“New machines,” Nutter continued, “and a team that can do the motel in half the time it takes—under an hour is what he said.” He adjusted his oxygen tube beneath his nose and cast a furtive glance at Aaron. “He’s a colored man.”
Ernest’s face softened from the anxious mask it had frozen into. He guffawed. “Negro?” he said, chuckling. “That’s good! You got me, old devil!”
Nutter lit a fresh cigarette. “Half the price, too.” He blew out a column of smoke for a little too long. “That’s what he offered.”
Ernest laughed again, but tighter. “You trying to Jew me down? Negroes coming around the place? Word getting out? With that agitating going on in Alabama now—are you reading the paper? You want that on your hands?”
“Course not.” Nutter sighed. “No. The man’s persistent is all.”
“Persistent.” Ernest’s voice hardened. “We had some Negroes in the Eighth Infantry. Served our country alongside each other in France. But when we were under fire, and a Kraut bullet ripped my throat open—” Ernest touched the Silly Putty spot on his neck. “And I lay there, not knowing dead from alive, was it a Negro who came to my aid? No, sir, it was not.”
“Forget I said a word, soldier.” Nutter reached out a bony arm and solemnly shook Ernest’s hand. “We gotta stick together.”
* * *
Ernest didn’t talk on the drive back to Midland. Aaron watched the passing wasteland, floating somewhere between disgust and resignation to the man his father was. The way he lied about getting shot. About seeing any combat, actually, a fact Aaron learned one night when Gerty was ailing too much to cook and Ernest stepped in. “Good chef, isn’t he?” she mused to Aaron afterward. “It’s what he did the whole war, cooking in the mess hall.” A loser, Aaron thought, such a sad old sack he had to lie to compete with a colored man.
“Burgers?” Ernest said. He pulled the truck into a Sonic decked out in shiny chrome.
Aaron didn’t answer. His mind was overtaken by a buxom waitress roller-skating toward the truck. She was a real grown woman, maybe even thirty. She had long dark hair, his favorite, and wore the blessed uniform of curve-hugging red dress, white apron, and striped socks pulled high on her sun-kissed legs. For a minute, Aaron was in love. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, gliding up to Aaron’s window. “I hope you came hungry today.”
“Seeing as I’m buying,” Ernest said, “maybe you can skate over here and take our order.”
“Sure thing.” She winked at Aaron and made a smooth arc to Ernest’s window. He watched as she jotted down the order. Her name tag said CHRISSY! She skated off. The truck sank back into silence.
“It’s how you build a business,” Ernest said after a while. “First rule is you keep the customers you have. Then add new ones. We got a new one after lunch. That’s how you keep the money rolling in.”
“Dad?” Aaron seized the opportunity. “I’m giving a speech at graduation, and I figured I’d get a new shirt. There’s a sale at Fedway—one ninety-nine—so if I could have two dollars out of the money Nutter just gave you, or…”
“Did you ask your mom?”
“She said to ask you.”
“Well.” Ernest exhaled dubiously.
Aaron waited. He grew angry at the bind he’d put himself in: studying and practicing after school instead of working at the Dairy Queen, knowing he was meant for more than scooping ice cream but still penniless today, reduced to asking Ernest for money.
“Gentlemen.” Chrissy skated up with a tray.
“Great!” Ernest said, counting the food at top volume. “Two burgers, one fries, two Coca-Colas. Thank you, ma’am.” He unwrapped a burger and stuffed it in his mouth. “Eat up.” He chewed. “Gotta get on the road.”
Aaron felt a sudden twinge, imagining the days his dad ate lunch in his truck, between carpet jobs in a town he’d never leave. He thought of his shirt again. “Fine. If it’s not from your work money, take it out of my pocket money for UT. I’ll be needing it soon anyways.”
Ernest took a savage bite. When he pulled back, the innards came loose and an avalanche of pickles and meat tumbled down his shirt. “Shit!” he cried. He wiped at the mess and sighed and set his burger on the tray. “The pocket money. Your mom and I needed it to pay for the—”
“You spent it?” Aaron asked in disbelief.
“No. Not—Some of it. Wally’s speech doctor bills ten sessions up front, and he’ll need more than ten, or could,” Ernest rambled, “but if it helps him talk like a normal—and then we’ll put some money back in for you. Real soon.”
It was the one thing his parents had promised for his future. When the UT scout came to his game, lightning fast his dad said they had no money for college. But then came the day Aaron got called to Mr. Richards’s office, and the scout was there to congratulate him, and Aaron could go home and tell his parents he got a scholarship. His mom’s face lit up, but she hid her smile at the sight of Ernest turning blood red. “We got pocket money for you,” his dad said. “You think we had nothing to give you? Well, we do. Pocket money, for the odds and ends.”
But they didn’t have the one thing after all.
“Real soon,” Aaron said, turning a dead stare on Ernest. “Where’s the next job?”
* * *
On the seat between them Aaron left his burger uneaten. They drove to the east side of town, where the rich oil kids lived. Soon they were passing gigantic houses and green lawns that cost a fortune to water. Aaron shrank down in his seat. He couldn’t risk being seen in the Orangemobile. At school he did a comedy routine about Ernest and his truck, which h
ad expanded since freshman year to include Gerty’s tricycle, Wally’s trains, the whole scene at the Warner house. It left his classmates in stitches. But as he rode shotgun down the fancy street with Ernest, Aaron knew in his gut that what was funny to tell wasn’t funny to see.
“Sit up straight,” Ernest snapped. “Slouching like an old man. Now, keep your mouth shut, and clean.” His dad parked in front of the most incredible house Aaron had ever seen. It had pillars like the White House, glass going up two stories, and a curving staircase you could see from outside. Its splendor made Aaron stumble as he rolled his vacuum to the porch. Ernest wiped his finger on the leg of his Dickies before pressing the bell.
A blond woman about his mom’s age opened the door. She was thin. Her bra made her jugs torpedo-shaped under her white silk blouse. “Y’all must be from Kleen Karpets,” she said, her eyes lingering imperiously on Aaron. She turned to Ernest and winced. “And what a dirty business that must be. It’s cold out. Come on in.”
It was like stepping into heaven. At church the pastor said human eyes couldn’t take in its beauty, and he was right. From the moment he entered, Aaron was blinded by wealth. A grand piano, crystal chandeliers, white carpet everywhere like angel clouds. He squinted and stole looks around while Ernest prattled away about the job.
“But before you start—” the woman said tensely when Ernest reached for his vacuum. Aaron could feel her gaze on him again. He met her eyes and saw the same look, the sex hunger, as when she came to the door. He imagined reaching from behind and grabbing her jugs, her bra popping open in front like a barn door. She frowned and turned to Ernest. “Well,” she said in sudden exasperation, “I don’t want the carpets dirtier on account of y’all.” She waved her hand at the soiled mess covering Ernest from shirt to shoe. “Hang on.”
She disappeared down a hallway and returned with armfuls of pink fabric. “My aunt was a full-figured woman, so I think these’ll fit.” She handed them women’s bathrobes trimmed in lace and pompoms. “I was about to donate these to the Salvation Army.”
“What?” Aaron sputtered. “No.” He turned to Ernest. “You can’t let her—”
“Never mind,” the woman said. “I try to assist men who show up unprepared, in a dirty uniform, but I think it’s best not to waste any more of your time.”
“No, ma’am.” Ernest grabbed the bathrobes. “I was just telling my son Aaron here the first rule of business: the customer’s always right.”
“Dad?” Aaron said, instantly ashamed of the pleading tone in his voice.
“I had some accidents earlier,” Ernest continued. “Doesn’t matter. This job is what you need.” He handed a bathrobe to Aaron. “Take it,” he said coldly. “Ma’am, I do downstairs, my son takes upstairs, and we’ll get the carpets looking good as new.”
“Tie those robes tight, gentlemen,” she instructed. “And shoes off. Thanks so much.”
Aaron grabbed his vacuum and flew upstairs. It was mercifully empty, no one around to see him in the pink lady bathrobe. He dreamed up ways to destroy the woman but couldn’t think of one that had him coming out ahead, so he shampooed her carpets in angry lines, as neat as his penmanship.
He felt the vibration of Ernest’s vacuum go off first. Aaron couldn’t look at the woman, so he busied himself on the landing at the top of the stairs, winding his vacuum cord, while his dad settled up with her in the foyer.
“Mr. Warner.” She handed Ernest a check. “No tip, of course, with your son speaking out of turn like that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ernest muttered. “Of course not.”
“Did you say you do drapes, too?” she asked.
“We do.”
“I think we understand each other. I’ll have to call you about those drapes.”
“Anytime would be a pleasure, ma’am. Aaron?” he called upstairs. “Let’s go.”
* * *
They were a block away from home when the truck stalled. Ernest must have turned the ignition ten times before he mumbled, “Give it a sec.” The sunset dwindled in the rearview. The air had turned frigid, and what little heat the truck puffed out was gone. He tried again.
“You need a new truck,” Aaron said, putting up his hood.
“I need a lot of things, son.”
“Good luck, letting a woman talk to you that way.”
Ernest took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You know how much a tip is on that job? Ten percent. One of Wally’s speech lessons. And the truck, and your mom’s medicines.” He laughed strangely and shook his head. “I been taking care of you since I was your age. Half my life. Best day of my life the day you were born, right up there with meeting your mom.” His voice dropped low. “You’re ashamed of your family. Worship without us, like God don’t know who your people are. You think I couldn’t build this business if I had a partner? You know how much it cost when Granddad got sick?” He turned to Aaron, and for the first time his son could make out the fear in his eyes. “You think there’s nothing else I wanted to do? I brought you to work one day. The rest of the time you study and play football. I left you alone.”
Ernest hit the ignition right. They drove the last block home. He parked and went in the front door, lingering a moment on the threshold. “Take the hose,” he called to Aaron, “and rinse the vacs and attachments.”
“It’s freezing,” Aaron protested.
“I know how much the Astrodome means to you.” Ernest shrugged and shut the door.
Aaron dragged the hose around and cleaned the equipment while defaming his dad in his head. Twice Ernest came out and twice pronounced the vacuums dirty. Gertrude watched from her chair at the window, pressing her hand to the glass anxiously at each inspection. Aaron’s hands were red after a third scouring, and by then the house was dark. He went inside, his head throbbing in the warm air. He sneezed once, and again. He saw a covered plate on the stove, but he was so tired he trudged to his room and dropped into bed in his wet jeans and sweatshirt.
He fell asleep and had wild dreams. He was drowning in a steamy jungle, and beyond it was a mountain but the mountain was his mom’s silhouette, he knew, from the squeak of her chair rolling into his room. He felt a hand on his head and heard the high nervous murmur of her voice. He was freezing. It seemed like day but it was dark again and he was back in the jungle, and he looked up past the treetops at a sky full of stars—a constellation in the shape of a baby, the line of its cord trailing out from its belly and ending in darkness, untethered.
* * *
Aaron woke up in a sickly white light. He didn’t know where he was or how long he had slept, only that he’d lived whole lifetimes that disintegrated in the waking air. His head was heavy, but with effort he lifted it and saw machines around the bed. In a corner Ernest rocked on the edge of a chair. He made a noise and ran from the room. Someone else entered. Aaron turned and saw a man he knew, in a suit. “The Astrodome,” Aaron croaked.
Principal Richards smiled. “They played already. You’ve been here a week. The good news is you’re graduating and things with UT are fine.”
“Where am I?”
“The hospital. Pneumonia. It came on fast. Maybe something you were breathing with your dad. There was—uncertainty at home, about your symptoms. But the doctor says you’ll be OK. Your dad’s getting him.”
“How was the game?” Aaron whispered.
“Astros won in extra innings. Turk Farrell was on fire. I saw it on TV. Didn’t feel like traveling with you in here.” Richards held up one of the tickets that had seemed flecked with gold a few weeks back. “Keep it,” he said. “Like you were there.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank your dad. He’s here every morning and evening when I swing by. He’s getting the doctor, did I say?” Richards smiled tightly. He leaned in over the bed. “It’s hard knowing what to say to your kids sometimes, Aaron. Maybe you’ll have a son of your own someday and understand. You’re a real joker at school, but I bet you care a lot about your dad, so try to�
��”
A doctor in a white coat knocked and entered, reading a clipboard. His dad peered out from behind the doctor, and the whole ordeal came washing over Aaron again: Ernest on his hands and knees on the motel porch, his dad passing him the bathrobe. Aaron felt the weakness in his bones and wondered vaguely if this moment would be his life, if for the rest of his life he would be the guy who almost got to the Astrodome.
He nodded deferentially at Richards. But deep inside him, in his blood coursing hot with penicillin, Aaron knew it wasn’t in him to forgive Ernest, or to forget.
3
Pen Pals
Lacy sat alone at the window of her dorm room, watching the street below awaken from its long summer nap. Cars parked and doors slammed. Teenagers dragged suitcases ahead of parents loaded with boxes. Everywhere families completed the Labor Day ritual, settling in their young Longhorns and then, after hugs and tears, driving away with empty cars. Lacy scoffed at the maudlin scene. She opened her copy of The Return of the King to a dog-eared page and rejoined Gandalf and Pippin at the siege of Minas Tirith. But the midday heat left her languid. She fanned herself and gazed out the window again, down the street and up to the Tower, where Charles Whitman had opened fire her sophomore year. Thick clouds were rolling in. And like Sauron’s darkness creeping across Middle Earth, Lacy sensed a portent in their weight.
A knock startled her from her reverie. “Miss Adams?” a voice drawled. “It’s Miss Clifton, from down the hall?” Lacy waited. She hadn’t had a single visitor her first year of grad school, or the whole summer. She chose this dorm, with ten black girls and tons of vacancies, precisely because it was a ghost town. And what was the point of lying to her mother about living in a mixed hall, Lacy groused as she opened the door, if not to get some peace and quiet?
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