by J. J. Murray
I take a step and stop. "How you know that?" And it ain't a date ... Is it?
He taps the glass with an index finger. "And make sure you watch the little arrows and not the pins. That's the key."
I cannot believe this. "God told you all that?"
He cocks his head like he's listening. He nods a couple times. "And don't worry about the weight of the ball. Just find one that fits your fingers"
"I will." Lord, are You hearing what Fred's telling me that You said? Why didn't You just say it to me and cut out the middle man? "I gotta go"
He holds up one finger, nods once, and smiles. "Take your time. They ain't ready. The littlest one is havin' a fit"
"Dec?"
He puts the jar down. "That boy needs your help, Ruth Childress."
I have so many chill bumps my skin feels tight. How does Fred know all this? "How you know my name? And don't tell me God told you"
"Okay." He blows in the jar and sticks it back up to his ear. "I won't tell you."
He doesn't say another word. "I'll see you later," I say, and I practically jog the four blocks to Dewey's apartment as the sun becomes an orange ball in the sky. I tap on the door till Tee opens it.
"Good morning, Miss Jones."
She looks at my shoes, her little nose twitching. Shit, I sprayed too much. "Hi, Penny. C'mon in."
I step inside the apartment ... and am almost out of it. This ain't no shotgun apartment; it's a little pistol no bigger than the size of my sitting room. An old joke finally makes sense to me: "Your apartment so small, when you put the key in the lock, you break the back window." A two-seater sofa hugs the left wall. Probably a sleeper for Dewey, but I don't see how he can fit in it. The back wall is the kitchen with only three cabinets, a single sink, a skinny, two-burner electric stove, and a noisy Kelvinator fridge from back in the '50s. Some stools sit in front of a skinny counter. Not much of a dinner table. To the right is the only other door, most likely to the bathroom. A bunk bed, neatly made, and an enormous antique dresser with a mirror cover most of the space to the right. A small, dusty TV sits on the dresser.
"Daddy and Dee are in the bathroom," Tee says, sitting on the couch.
I sit next to her, realizing that I'm sitting on Dewey's bed. And we haven't even kissed yet! "Everything all right?"
She shakes her head. "Dee peed himself again."
"Again?"
She nods. "Daddy says it's the medicine." She points at the bunk bed. "I sleep in the top bunk"
I look at the bottom bunk and see plastic sticking out from the mattress. Poor child is peeing his bed, too. "How long they been in there?"
She shrugs. "A long time. Dee's taking another bath"
Maybe it was more than pee. "Did, um, did Dee throw a temper tantrum this morning?"
"Uh-huh. He doesn't want to go"
"I thought he liked bowling."
"He does" She puts her hand on mine. "But when Daddy told him you were goin' with us, Dee fell out on the floor and started kicking his legs."
"What?"
"Wanna watch TV? Cartoons are on"
"Yeah, sure"
She leaps from the couch and snaps on the TV.
Dee pitched a fit when he heard that I was going? What'd I ever do to him? The last time I was with him, he drew those pictures for me. Dee "spoke" to me ... And the very next day, he's off to the psychiatrist. He can't blame me for that, can he? I was trying to help him, Lord. Make that child understand!
The door to the bathroom opens, and Dee, wrapped in a towel, comes shivering across the room to his bunk where he sits. His eyes are sunken into his head, his lips permanently frowning, his shoulders hunched. There doesn't seem to be any life in him at all. Dewey follows a few moments later with a bottle of lotion. "We'll be ready in a few minutes, Ruth," he says, and he begins lotioning Dee's legs.
I stand. "I can do that if you like."
"It's all right," Dewey says without turning to me. "I'm getting pretty good at it."
I see a stack of clothes on the dresser and go to them, unrolling a pair of almost-white socks. When Dewey turns, I hand the socks to him and look at his eyes. This man has not slept at all, and he's looking older than me. He takes the socks with a nod, and I turn to the stack again. Staring up at me are a pair of underwear and some plastic underpants, the kind kids wear when they're potty training. Lord Jesus, why are You lettin' this happen to this boy? What did this child ever do to You? I hand Dewey the underwear and the plastic pants, and he slides them up Dee's legs. Dee barely moves at all. It's almost like Dewey's dressing a doll. I shake out Dee's jeans before giving them to Dewey, and the sound jolts Dee, making him look quickly at me. You little devil! You're here, all right. You're just playin' a little game.
"It's okay, it's okay," Dewey whispers to Dec. "Stand up" Dee slides off the bed and steps into his jeans, looking, as far as I can tell, at absolutely nothing again. This child is a pretty good zombie, but I've seen better staring at me from my own bathroom mirror.
Dewey removes the towel from around Dee and lotions his little bird chest and back while I pick lint off Dee's little maroon sweatshirt. I stretch out the neck opening and make my move, stepping between Dewey and Dee when he turns to take the sweatshirt from me. "I'll do it," I say, slipping the sweatshirt over Dee's head.
"Thanks. I'll, uh, wash my hands"
I have to hold Dee's arms up to get them into the sleeves, and Dee's eyes never leave that nowhere place he's so fond of. I look up and see Tee leaning over to watch. I smooth my hand on Dee's chest. "Looking good, Mr. Dee. Where are your shoes?" I see them peeking from under the bed and grab them. "Sit back on the bed, boy." He doesn't move. I put my eyes as close to his eyes as I can. "I said, sit back on the bed, boy." Dee's eyes dart to the side; then he backs up and sits. "Give me your right foot" His feet stay still. I lock eyes with his. "Your right foot, Mr. Dee." He shoots it out faster than I can move away, his big toe digging into my knee. I know it hurt him more than it hurt me, so I don't react at all ... though the little boy needs to have that toenail trimmed. Tee laughs from her perch above us, but I ignore her. I slide the shoe on but don't tie it. "Your left foot now, Mr. Dec." This time I back away before he can nail me, and I slip the left shoe on. I duck my head under the top bunk and sit next to him. "Now tie 'em up"
"He won't do it," Tee says.
"Wanna bet?" I say to her. "Tie your shoes, Dee"
Dee doesn't move, his legs still sticking straight out.
I put my lips right next to his ear. "You ain't foolin' no one, little boy," I whisper. "There ain't a thing wrong with you a switch couldn't fix. Now tie 'em up or I'll take a switch to your ass" He turns his face slowly to me. "Saw a nice switch on my way over; think it mighta even had a few thorns on it." He tries to jump off the bed, but I haul him back on. "I ain't kiddin', boy. Tie 'em up. Now."
Dee starts to shake, his little face turning red. He takes a huge gulp of air and closes his mouth.
"Uh-oh!" Tee yells.
"I know this game," I whisper, and I pinch Dee's nose tightly for good measure. Dee's eyes pop open, but he won't take a breath. "You want to play this game right, you got to cut off all the openings. Otherwise you might cheat"
Dewey comes out of the bathroom wiping his hands on a towel. "What are you doing?"
Dee starts to swoon. "Winning a little game that me and Dee are playing," I say. "He thinks he can hold his breath so he won't have to tie his shoes"
"He's holdin' his breath?"
"Uh-huh. He holds it long enough, he gonna pass out"
"Let go!" Dewey yells, taking a step toward me.
I shake my head and put out my hand. "Watch"
In a matter of seconds, Dee's eyes flutter, he falls over, I let go of his nose, and he takes an enormous breath. He starts shaking again.
"Scared you, didn't it?" I say.
Dee nods. Thank You, Lord. The nodding boy is back.
"And you ain't gonna ever do it again, are you?"
He
shakes his head.
"And you're gonna tie those shoes, right?"
His hands fly to those shoes, and though he has trouble with the loops, he ties 'em up just fine.
I duck out from under the bunk and put my hand out to Dee. He takes it without any commands from me--as he should. His mama must have schooled him on switches. Tiffany Jones didn't play that, and neither will I. "We ready."
I can tell that Dewey doesn't know what to say because he doesn't say anything. He lifts Tee off the bunk and carries her to the front door. He holds it open for Dee and me, and we walk out to the truck, Dewey running around to the passenger side to open that door. Two doors in one day! I put Dee in ahead of me and slide in, fitting just fine on the bench seat. I like me some truck, yes sir. Plenty of room in a truck for us big-boned women, though I don't like the fact that it leans to the right when I finally settle in. I pull Dee close to me, Tee slides in from the driver's side, and Dewey gets in, tilting the truck back to his side. Lord Jesus, thank You for making a man on this earth who is bigger than me.
Dewey backs out, turning the wheel with those massive arms of his, and we're off to the bowling alley. And little Dee doesn't let go of my hand the entire way there. Dewey lets Tee fiddle with the radio dial, but she doesn't find anything since the truck only has an AM radio that brings in mostly all-news stations.
"Rides nice," I say.
"Yep," Dewey says. "Got over two hundred thousand miles on her."
Her? Why is it that a truck is a "her"? For that matter, why is a ship called a "she"? What are men trying to say about us women?
"Yep, Gert and me been together for ten years now."
"Geri?"
Dewey smiles. "Just always called her that"
"Short for Gertrude?"
"Nope. Just ... Gert. Seems to fit her."
"Nanna calls her truck Betsy," Tee says. "She say, `C'mon, Betsy. Get me up the hill, girl.' "
"Truck's older than Mama," Dewey says. "Still runs like a dream." The truck or Nanna?
But this scene ... is a dream. I'm finally with this man, his children in between us, going out and away from Vine Street, and we're making conversation. About trucks. Hmm. Long as he don't start talkin' about NASCAR, we might just get along.
The parking lot at Mountainside Lanes is almost full when we arrive. "Kids' league," Dewey says. "But they always have a few lanes open"
When we get inside, I hear the glorious giggles and shouts of children and see half the bowling alley filled with dancing, jumping ... white kids. Ain't a black person in here besides me, Tee, and Dee. We follow Dewey to his locker, he gets his ball bag, and we go to the front counter.
"Need a lane, Charlie," he says to the bearded man behind the counter.
Charlie looks us over and presses a button on a computer. "Lane forty. Y'all need bumpers?"
"Yeah"
Charlie picks up a microphone. "Bumpers on lane forty." He puts the microphone down. "Y'all need shoes?"
"Yeah" Dewey bends down and looks inside one of Tee's shoes, then inside one of Dee's. Man doesn't even know his own children's shoe sizes. "A two and a thirteen," he says to Charlie.
Charlie gets the shoes and looks at me. "A woman's twelve," I say softly.
"Man's nine, okay?" Charlie asks. "They run kinda big."
This is embarrassing. "Sure"
We carry our shoes to the other end of the alley away from the kids' league and sit on the bench in front of the last lane. Tryin' to keep us as far away from the white folks as possible, huh, Charlie? My red-and-blue shoes don't quite fit my feet may be long, but they ain't wide enough-but I lace them up tight, checking and tightening Tee's and Dee's shoes. Another alley dude lays these long plastic tubes down each gutter. Dewey shines his ball with a towel. "Find yourselves a ball," he says to us, pointing at a rack of colorful balls.
Tee races to the rack and tries to lift a purple ball with enormous holes. I take her hand away from it. "That's a bit big for you, girl." "
"I'm only gonna push it, Penny"
110h" I put my fingers in the purple ball and find that they fit pretty well. "I'll use this one, too" Fifteen pounds? Geez. I'm in men's shoes about to use a man's ball.
Dee picks out a red ball, and we carry the balls to the circular rack. Dewey has already entered our names on the big blue computer screen, Dee's name first. "Y'all ready?" he asks. Dee nods, and Tee says, "Yeah!"
I don't say a thing. No, I am not ready. My hands and knees start to sweat. Lord, please keep inc from making a fool of myself.
Dewey carries Dee's ball to a spot behind a line. Dee squats over the ball and holds it on the sides, rolling it back and forth before pushing it down the lane. It starts out straight, then rolls left into the bumper before straightening out and heading right down the middle. The pins don't do a whole lot, falling over one by one like real slow dominos, but only four are left standing.
"Way to go!" Dewey shouts, and Dee almost smiles, backing away from the pins to the ball return. Dee's second ball knocks down three more, and he returns to his seat beside me.
"Almost got 'em all," I say, and I put my arm around him. He stiffens and looks at my hand on his right shoulder, but I don't let go. This is my child today.
Dewey helps Tee with her ball, and Tee obviously likes to keep folks in suspense, rolling that ball back and forth between her legs for the longest time before pushing it down the lane with a loud "Whoo!" She squats and mumbles, "come on, come on" nonstop till the ball hits the pins. Only four fall. "Shoot," she says with a snap of the fingers. Her next ball misses everything, but she doesn't seem to care, skipping back to us. "I'm just gettin' warmed up," she says.
And now, it's my turn. I slide my fingers into the holes and center myself on the little dots at my feet. "Don't look at the pins; look at the arrows," I whisper to myself. I step forward with my right leg, do a little pitter-pat, throw the ball out behind me, and rocket it forward staring at those little arrows. That ball ... daa-em ... hauls some God-honest ass down that lane and knocks them all down. Lord Jesus, thank You, oh, my God!
I try to remain calm, but I do a little dance back to my seat. Dee's eyes are wide, and Tee's yelling, "Strike!"
Dewey smiles and nods. "Looks like I got some competition."
"Just lucky," I say.
He stands and picks up his ball. "You have nice form"
Whoo, my heart! "Thank you"
He wipes the ball only once, does his little routine, launches that ball, and only knocks down nine, the one in the very middle left standing.
"Ah, Daddy, you missed the booty pin!" Tee shouts.
Dewey's face turns red.
"The what?" I whisper to Tee.
She points at the lonely pin. "That's called the booty pin."
I am not about to ask a six-year-old why ... so I ask Dewey. "Why's it called the booty pin, Dewey?"
His face gets even redder. "Urn, if I don't knock it down, um, I don't. . ." He grabs his ball and turns before finishing his sentence. He don't get no booty? Daa-em. Hope he makes it, for my sake.
He approaches the pin slowly, releases a little more smoothly, and turns his back on that lonely pin, closing his eyes. Tee and I look around him to see the ball just barely slide by the pin.
"You missed the booty pin, Daddy!"
"Yup," he says, his face nearly as red as some of my freckles. He sits next to Tee.
I look at the scoreboard, and I'm actually winning. I push Dee off the seat, and the two of us go to get his ball. I hand it to him, and he cradles it against his chest. "Want you to do the whole thing, boy," I say.
He carries the ball to the line and sets it down, pulls it way back, and rolls it to the right. It bounces off the right bumper, the left bumper, and the right bumper again before taking out six pins, two pins left on either side with a big hole in the middle. Dee turns to look at me with scrunchedup lips.
"It's okay," I say. The ball squirts out of its tunnel, and I hand it to him. "Just knock down as man
y as you can"
His second ball is another pinball off the bumpers that ends up right down the middle and misses everything. Dee pouts.
"What you poutin' for, boy?" I say. "You just kicked a field goal."
I hand the purple ball to Tee. She has some difficulty getting that heavy thing to the line and drops it with a bang. "Oops," she says. She flops to her butt and pushes the ball down the lane with her feet, knocking down eight without hitting either bumper.
I carry the ball to her this time. "Pretty good, girl."
"Thanks" She takes the ball, lines it up with a thumb, and kicks it down the lane ... missing everything. "Oh, well," she says.
"Good try," I say, helping her up. "Use a little more right foot next time."
I stand at the ball return with my hand above the little fan. "Dewey, I have a confession to make"
"What?"
I pick up my ball. "This is the first time I have ever bowled in my life."
"You're kidding."
I shake my head. "So if you can give me any help, I'd surely appreciate it." And if you want to touch me, position my hips, say, you go right on. And if your hand should slip, oh, onto my ass, well-
"Just keep doin' what you're doin'."
I knew he was going to say that. Men and their "don't fix it if it ain't broke" mentality. The second ball I've ever bowled goes right down the middle leaving two pins far apart. "What do I do now?" I ask.
"Just try to get one," he says. "Seven-ten splits are nearly impossible to get"
I get my ball, take smaller steps, don't throw it as hardand throw it straight down the middle. I turn and smile. "Got a field goal, too, Mr. Dec."
Dee smiles. You brought smiling boy back, too, Lord. Thank You.
For the rest of my first game, I throw it consistently down the middle, get another strike, two spares, and the rest? Splits. Lots of splits. "How do I keep from gettin' them?" I ask Dewey as he removes the scores from the screen. He won with a 189, and I had a 119. Dee and Tee tied at 84.
He points to the dots at the beginning of the lane. "Just stand a little to the right or left of the center dot. Your ball will hit the pocket more often" He looks over at a little clock on the wall. "Time for Dee's medicine." He pulls a bottle of pills from his shirt pocket.