Just Shelby

by Brooklyn James

  “Mom,” I whisper-scold. The first real dialogue she and Ace have had—must it go like this.

  “It ain’t no more offensive than what his father has said to you.” She does have a point there. “It’s fall in the mountains. Shirts weather, not skins.”

  “Tone it down.” My shoulder knocks into hers, passing by her toward the Jeep. Boy, has she ever been in a mood lately.

  “Would you rather have me pleasant or clean, baby?” she calls after me, half joking, half serious. “Come on back. Let the music play. I’m gonna have to get used to it sometime.”

  Without losing stride, I make a U-turn away from the Jeep, letting it continue to wail music. Trigger away! “Sorry,” I mouth to Ace before standing slightly in front of him, a barrier of sorts.

  She looks at the two of us, disapproval in her penetrating eyes. “You do make a good-looking couple. Your daddy would approve. He always thought highly of Miss Wren.”

  I can’t tell if she is being facetious, a hint of jealousy in her tone as she says “Miss” when Wren is no more than two years older than she. Or is she acknowledging Wren, honoring her tutelage through the first few months of my life.

  “Was that pleasant enough?” Her wry question answers mine. “So, Ace. You like that name?”

  “Never gave it any thought.” He shrugs, an audacious smile surfacing. “Only ever answered to it.”

  If her eyes weren’t so hellbent on staring a hole through him, they would crinkle at the corners. She likes him. “You remind me of a guy I used to know.” Her arms crossed, another barrier of sorts, she continues. “Same build, same look. The hair is the only difference. He was good with cars and music. You play music, don’t you.”

  Ace nods. I nod with him. She’s talking about music? About some guy? What guy? About her past? She’s talking…period!

  “But he sucked with women.” She ruins it, again. “Anyway, what have you tried thus far? With this ol’ girl.” Her hand caresses the Shelby, as if reuniting with a long-forgotten friend.

  “Plugs, wires, filters, fluids, battery, alternator, fuse, relay…starter,” Ace begins the checklist. “The engine looks good,” he says, surprised, nearly a decade since it has run.

  “It is. He never made it to the paint job, but Mason had just rebuilt the engine before…” Mom clears her throat, redirecting from death to newfound clean life. “What about your ground? You checked your cables and connectors…for rust?”

  “Cables look good. I didn’t think about the connectors,” he says, surprised that she did.

  “You turn it over yet?”

  “Yep. Click, click, click.”

  “The solenoid is good?”

  “Better be, it’s new.”

  Like watching a game of ping pong, my neck swivels back and forth between their troubleshooting of things I have not the faintest idea about. And how does my mother know all of this? How has she neglected to teach me any of this? Furthermore, if she knows how to fix the Shelby, why has it been sitting under the carport for the past eight years!

  “Shelby, hop in,” she says. “Turn her over, but make sure the dome light’s on. See if it dims at all.”

  I walk to the driver’s side door and pull it open, but I do not get in. Instead I motion for her to take the helm.

  Her resistance is expected. She hasn’t been inside the thing since my father’s death. With the exception of Ace today, no one has. The authorities held it for weeks, part of the crime scene after they found my father’s body a few feet from it in the river.

  “You’re gonna have to get used to it sometime,” I hope my using her words will prove as inspiring.

  She hesitates once more, then rips off the Band-Aid. The bucket seat receives her like an old mattress that has memorized her familiar form.

  “Oh, Shelby,” she whispers, trembling hands at ten and two gripping the wood grain steering wheel crossed with a T, a silver cobra insignia in the center.

  Is she talking to me or to the car?

  “It’s like a time capsule in a time warp.” She sucks in a fluttering chuckle. Cognizant that all eyes are on her, she pushes forward, pushing the clutch and the brake to the floor and turning the key. “See that,” she says, pointing up at the dome light.

  A low ride, Ace and I bend and squat to see.

  “It’s not flickering, so I don’t think it’s your alternator. But it’s dim.”

  “Electrical?” Ace says.

  She nods. “Ground connections. You’ve got rust somewhere. Clean it all the way to the firewall.”

  Renewed with direction, Ace accepts the challenge. As he is under the hood and out of sight, Mom’s breakdown is similar to that of the car she sits in.

  “Where did it all go wrong? I can see it so clearly. Just like you, ol’ girl…” she strokes the Shelby’s dash and any other part within reach “…we were full of promise. God, I’m so sorry, baby.” She strokes my face, her hand gripping around the back of my neck. “We were gonna be something you could be proud of.”

  “You don’t have to be a rock star for me to be proud of you.” I squeeze her hand at the base of my neck. “What you just did right here, right now is pretty amazing. She’s gonna start. And you are going to be okay.”

  “You are the most amazing thing I ever did. And I didn’t do anything but make the choice to keep you. I could have…I should have done so much more. I’m so sorry, Shelby.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” This is good. She’s never opened up this much before. This is a good place in recovery, right? Grayson’s admit and accept—one leads to the other. “Do more from here. Do what you ‘could have’ and ‘should have’ going forward.”

  She nods, but her tear-stained eyes falter.

  “I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too. How can I help? What do you need,” I say, letting Grayson’s insight continue to guide me. Don’t pressure. Acknowledge. Be there…with a helpful attitude.

  “A job is a good place to start. I was going to ask for Miss Patterson’s help. Until Enisi ran her off…with a gun.” Mom’s still in disbelief over that scene. “Maybe you could help me brush up on my interviewing skills. You’re smart like that.” She coaxes my braid over the side of my shoulder, her fingers running the length of it. “Your daddy kept the braid from your very first haircut. It’s in the cedar chest. I’ve missed so much.” Her gaze at me begs the question, how are you fully grown?

  “I read an article about interviewing in the library at school.” I took notes. “We should totally try out the pointers.” I smile before segueing into, “Have you thought about a support group.” Too soon? Too much pressure?

  She retracts her hand from my braid. “I’ve never been good with groups.”

  “I know this guy. He’s not good with cars or music. I don’t know how he is with women.” I don’t really know about Grayson’s talent with cars or music, but I assume he buys cars outright and that he is too busy making waves to make music. My copycat oration makes Mom smile, so I roll with it. “But he’s good at recovery. He’s been there himself, Mom. Maybe I could see if he has any resources for us?”

  She shrugs, then goes along. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to ask. Is that me?” Her head whips in the direction of the Jeep with the shuffling song change. “Us? Bootleg?”

  “I don’t know which Ace loves more, the band or your voice.” I hope I don’t sound too envious that I didn’t inherit it.

  “My voice?” She scrunches up her face. “I always thought I sounded like…”

  “…a goat.” I beat her to the punch.

  She laughs, a unique guffaw, proving to be more mule than goat. An amalgamation of the horse and donkey that make the mule, it is neither a whinny nor a hee-haw but an aw ah aw.

  A bizarre but relieving sound. Could she be happy?

  Like daughter like mother, Maisy is surprising. She knows her way around a car.

  The ground connectors were corroded. After a good brushing and cleaning, the Shelby fired up.

 
I hadn’t planned on it running so soon. More so than that, I hadn’t planned on her mother’s participation. They’re out logging miles. If she starts logging miles with her mom, when will I see her. Hold her. Kiss her. Spend time with her.

  If she has her mother, will she need me?

  I return two amber bottles to the medicine cabinet. They weren’t Mom’s. She had them tested for me in the hospital lab. I took them a few at a time, Pop none the wiser. Mullein and CBD oil, all past their shelf life, according to the lab report. Guess that explains why some are half full, partially unused.

  CBD oil, like mullein, is an “expectorant” and “bronchodilator” that clears and soothes the lungs, Mom said. Pop must have been using them to ease the symptoms of black lung.

  Why were the labels peeled off?

  Maybe he didn’t want anyone knowing what they were or where he got them, Mom said. You are a teenager in the same house, and CBD does come from the cannabis plant. Maybe he didn’t want you associating it with marijuana.

  Why not just throw them out? They were expired. Obviously he remembers how to use them. He couldn’t get the top off of Shelby’s grandmother’s mullein fast enough. And if that mullein was from Mason’s mother, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the expired bottles in his medicine cabinet likely came from Mason, also expired.

  Mason had professional labels and everything, Mom said, followed by despair. It’s such a shame; just when things were starting to come together.

  Pop didn’t like the guy but his drugs—tinctures, elixirs, whatever the hell you want to call them—were good enough? He had to buy them at intervals before using up what he already had? Because he couldn’t find them anywhere else or because he was keeping tabs on the guy? Keeping his enemy closer.

  “Like you didn’t pal around with him even after you left. Concerts, playing middleman for his city dope shop. Didn’t think I knew about that, did ya.” Pop had confronted Mom.

  How would he know about that?

  Closing the medicine cabinet, I can’t tolerate the reflection in the mirror. Ungrateful fuck. After all he’s done for you, these are the thoughts you have about him! Shelby must be rubbing off on you. You’re overthinking it. Jealousy is a natural emotion. Pop is a good man.

  Johnny Allman—is he a good man? He started all of this, then tucked tail and ran.

  Hey kid we’ll be in your neck of the woods opening for some big shot in a couple months. Maybe I’ll swing by, make good on that promise, switch guitars, jam a little, sample those songs I know you ARE writing! Peace.

  I read for the tenth time the latest text he sent.

  If jealousy is so natural, why do I lock Johnny’s texts. Password protected, Pop can’t inadvertently access them on the occasion that he checks my phone. And why am I still hiding the Bootleg guitar.

  I pull it from under my bed, open the case, and run my fingers down its “golden” strings. Maybe playing it as much as I have, breaking in the new strings, Johnny won’t notice that I did touch them.

  Eyeballing the label, I wonder if it is obvious that the secret note square is missing from behind it.

  So stupid—how could I let Shelby walk off in my jacket that night after the hospital. That night we kissed in the hospital garage, and pulled over to kiss three more times on the way home.

  High on the way she felt in my arms, and heedless to everything but, I guess I figured at least my jacket could hold her when I couldn’t. It wasn’t until she was walking away that the blood returned from my cock to my brain, remembering the damn square in the pocket.

  She returned the jacket the next time she saw me. Freshly laundered, the square was nowhere to be found. Is it too much to hope it disintegrated in the wash.

  She has a right to know. But it should come from her mother or Johnny. Shouldn’t it?

  If you want anyone in this industry to take you seriously, you gotta do more than play. You gotta write, Johnny said about “those songs.” And not just write but fucking bleed on the page, kid. You gotta take your listener somewhere, make them feel something. Send their soul soaring or rip it right out of their gut.

  I open my notebook, leafing through original verses and choruses and hooks, waiting for anything soul-stirring or gut-wrenching to jump out.

  Plain girl in a plain town. Big dreams of making it out. Runaway, misunderstood, no one could love her like I could. Worst and all, she sees the best in me. For who I am, no apologies. Lost boy in a lost town. In her plain eyes I am found. Plain ain’t so plain, you see. It’s the color turquoise, wild and free. Hair down and touching me. Plain is everything no other girl could be…

  Nothing—I got nothing. It’s all mediocre slop.

  A week later, I ride home from the regional cross country meet with Mr. Jackson and his son Ty.

  Mr. Jackson, a miner by trade, should be duly compensated as an activity bus driver. He puts many miles on his personal vehicle, seeing to it that his son and son’s fellow athletes have opportunities otherwise inaccessible to them. Driving out of his way to drop me at my door, Mr. Jackson says he wouldn’t have his own daughter walk home. Why would he have me.

  Ty is the fastest runner on our team. The fastest on any team in the state, colleges are courting him from miles around. Not only in his stride, freedom is in focus in his determined eyes: Poke County is already a distant memory.

  Before getting out of the car, I slide twenty dollars of Hot Brown ones into the seatback pocket. Mr. Jackson wouldn’t take twenty dollars of his own daughter’s money. Why would he take mine.

  “Great run, Ty,” I say, squeezing his shoulder that rests against the passenger seat.

  “You, too!” he says, squeezing and tapping my hand with his.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Anytime, sis. See you next week!”

  Next week should be the rousing part of his farewell, considering how he is referring to the state meet that Ty invariably—and I finally—qualifies for.

  Ravenous for any familial affiliation, I hold on to sis. I adore how Mr. Jackson calls me this, one of few who does not hold my family against me.

  With the Shelby running and Mom clean, I hoped that she would’ve attended the meet today. Log more miles, get out, see some people, experience something, anything. Would it kill her to actively support me, cheer me on, wait for me at the finish line, regardless if I place or not.

  “I’m just not ready to face everyone yet. The pity, the judgment, you know,” she said.

  Yes! I do.

  “We’ll celebrate when you get home.”

  She’s been using the Shelby to get to and from work, an encouraging turn of events. Even though she detests the only job she was able to land right away—in the meat department at the only grocers in the county.

  “I don’t like the cold. And I don’t eat meat!” she has vented to me more than once.

  “I didn’t fix it for her. I fixed it for you,” Ace said of her driving the Shelby at all.

  Her eyes as spiritless as a kid with no Christmas, her body as restless as a cat with fleas—I’m losing Mom.

  The Shelby’s gone. It’s dusk. Judging from the smell of lavender bath salts and dime store perfume as I walk through the front door of the house, she has started the celebration without me.

  Fifty percent, then. One win. One loss. Par for the course.

  Still the screen door shuts on hope as I turn around and walk right back out of it, the porch steps creaking under the weight of my running shoes.

  “How was the meet, Shelby Lynn, honey,” I hear Grandpa’s voice in the absence of his form. He would be waiting here for me—reading and whittling and spitting.

  “We’re going to state,” I whisper in the direction of the empty tree stump. We. There would be no me without Grandpa.

  Who would my mother be without him? The shameful and unwanted thought dashes through my conscience, the significance—if any—of the syringe container full of pills and the pallet full of pop, the enabling
.

  “Let ’er look after herself,” he said, as if it could make a difference.

  The sound of Ace’s Jeep pulling in the drive is not as much titillating in this moment but more so embarrassing. The look on his face is soft and sympathetic. He knows.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” I keep it short, masking the tremor in my voice. I was fine, until he showed up. Why is it so easy to cry in front of Ace? Because he cares? Wishing on the moon for resolve at dusk—still too light for stars—it looks as abandoned as I feel.

  “Word is you killed it at regionals,” he says, sitting down beside me on the step.

  No big feat, I was expected to. My region, small and slow comparatively, on average is a minute or two behind the larger and faster regions. “So…where is she?” Word about my mother must have traveled as fast as word about regionals.

  “I ran into Silas Haskell at the fights…”

  Silas Haskell whose cousin-in-law is a cop. “At the fights? I thought you were done with those.” Music or I, perhaps both, was supposed to fill the void. The tips of my fingers turn his face to mine, underlining his features by the light of the moon.

  “Bruise-free,” he says, kissing my temple where I kissed his for the first time on the mountain after the fights. “I skipped out on my bout.” He stares off in the direction of his Jeep. “I have a lot on my mind, is all. I thought the fights might ‘knock it out.’”

  “Can girls fight, too?” I jest at the Neanderthal notion of relieving stress, knocking my knee into his.

  “Not that I know of, but you might be the first after I tell you what Silas told me.”

  That bad, huh.

  “He said his brother saw Billy Don driving your Shelby,” Ace says flatly. Not exactly blaming, but the underlying inference being that if I was driving it, Billy Don wouldn’t be.

  Mason jar shoving, Destiny leaving, threw my mother out like yesterday’s trash—that Billy Don is driving the Shelby. The Shelby that Ace spent his own money and time fixing.