by David Haynes
Right by My Side
For my family,
who have always been by mine.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THE AUTHOR THANKS the following for their assistance in the creation of this book: Mary P. Clemons, Leonard Lang, Laura Littleford, Cindy Filipek Johnson, Daniel T. Max, Alice Martell, Paul J. Hintz, Bill Truesdale, Katie Maehr, and David Cline.
Special thanks to the Cummington Community of the Arts, where most of this novel was written, and to the Ragdale Foundation and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, which have provided nurturing environments for my work to grow.
Also to my friends and family—this is what you get for putting up with me. (Extra special thanks to Brian and Jim who water the plants when I’m gone.)
Chapter One appeared in a slightly different form in Other Voices.
Lines from “Sweet Dancer” are reprinted with the permission of Macmillan Publishing Company from The Poems of W. B. Yeats: A New Edition, edited by Richard J. Finneran. © 1940 by George Yeats, renewed 1968 by Bertha Georgie Yeats, Michael Butler Yeats, and Anne Yeats.
New Rivers Press wishes to extend its heartfelt thanks, in memoriam, to Garth Tate and the Dayton Hudson Foundation.
I
I’M A VERY dangerous boy. I’ve been known to say almost anything.
Sam and Rose—two people who are supposed to be my parents—have washed out my so-called fresh mouth with soap more than once, but not since I turned fifteen and turned into an overgrown moose. Just maybe it was my big mouth got us into this mess. I don’t think anyone knows or cares. It’s been more than a year since all this started. Here we are: right back where we began. Same old Sam and Rose and Marshall. Probably forever and ever and ever.
*
That February day was a bad day from the get go.
Such as:
I walk into this class. World Literature for Sophomore Redneck Pinheads, I think they called it. Miss O’Hare is having Black Studies week in 1986 for the first time in her life, and if she flashed her nasty yellow teeth at me one more time, anyway, I’d have knocked them down her throat. We read—get this—excerpts from Tom Sawyer. Aunt Polly sends the nigra Jim to fetch Huck and Becky and Tom for victuals.
Pinheads. Each and every one.
“I thought today,” says O’Hare, “that we would have a discussion about Black slang. It has made such an important contribution to our language. Let’s brainstorm a list of expressions which I’ll record on the board. Shall we? Who will begin?”
I’m sitting there wth sixteen or seventeen of them. Pink cheeked and cheery, looking at each other out of the sides of their eyes. O’Hare, scanning for a sucker, catches my eye, hopefully. I drop out my bottom lip about four inches and look at her as if she’s asked me to explain nuclear fission. I want to drool, but that would be a little too much.
Finally, she is saved by sophomore class president Connie Jo Hartberger. “I have heard a few times some of them say the word crucial. As a slang word, I mean.”
“Very good, Connie Jo,” says Ohairy, wiping the sweat from her upper lip. She records it on the top of the list.
Connie Jo beams proudly. Her father is a vice president at General Dynamics. He bought her a Honda because she got a B+ in advanced algebra. She told me how “neat” she thought it was that there were now black kids at her school.
“Who can tell us?” Miss O’Hare pushes on, “Does any one here know what crucial means? How is it used?”
She knows better than to call on me. I’d tell her it would be crucial if someone peeled the Youth for Reagan bumper sticker from Connie Jo’s Civic and pasted it over her fat butt. That would also be “neat.”
The slang lesson limps along. On the board she scrawls a list of ten or so worn out and ancient words: bad, cool, far out. Ohairy is beetfaced and stammering.
Buzz Simpkins, from whose daddy’s dealership Connie Jo got her Honda, raises his hand up by his thick linebacker neck. Buzz’s class election commercial featured farting and belching, and a rousing version of “We Are the World.” It was a big hit. He is our sophomore class secretary/treasurer. Quick, Buzz: How many pennies in a dollar?
Miss O’Hare calls on him tentatively.
“I know one,” he simpers, “but I don’t know that I ought to say it. Haw haw haw.”
“Use your discretion,” teacher encourages. Not even she will look at him.
The pinheads wait on the edge of their chairs. Miss O’Hare poses, chalk at the ready.
“Here goes nothing.” Buzz clears his throat. “Your mama. Haw haw haw.”
The chalk freezes on the Y, trembling. No one moves. Todd, my red-headed friend who sits behind me, swallows loudly, just as if he knows what to expect.
He does.
The dozens, huh? I stand up. “How about this. Your mammy, your pappy, your whole goddamn family and everyone you know.” I get my stuff and walk. I bet they all pissed their pants, too. Everyone of them.
*
So I overreacted. Put up with what I put up with and you’d have an edge on you, too.
*
Such as:
After all of that, after the wise-ass A.P. Mr. Shannon gives me a letter “trusting you’ll show your parents,” lets me off with a warning “this time, considering the situation,” after I have Todd and our other lamebrained friend Artie forge a suitable ass-kissy response to it, which I then have to edit because Todd has such a foul mouth and because Artie is so illiterate, (Artie: “You won’t be having no more trouble with our son”; Todd: “We beat Marshall’s ass real good when we got your note”), after we ride the school bus across west Saint Louis County, Missouri’s finest real estate, through rolling fields, and by green-lawned country clubs, past the landfill to the top of Washington Park, after all of that:
I come through the front door—which is of course wide open even though it is all hours of the day—and there’s ma and she says to me, “Do me a favor and fill this up.”
No “How are you?” No “Have a good day?” No nothing.
She’s got this glass held out to me and there she sits: one hand with the glass, the other stretched before her, arm’s length, holding a novel. She is on the green-plaid couch, sitting at an impossible angle with her legs curled to the side like an S. The television set is on—daytime PBS, she watches. Shows about pets and about acrylic painting; it is background noise only. Her eyes never leave the novels. Mysteries with such names as I Walk the Night, and The Bracelets of Bangkok. She’s got on a new dress today. White and frilly, and she’s shod with clunky-heeled shoes. Her sharp shiny fingernails are the color of strawberries to match the shoes.
The dress ought to have been a clue to what was up, but I wasn’t as good at this stuff then as I am now.
She jiggles the ice in the glass. I walk right by, grinding my Nikes into her yellow, short-shag, stall-to-stall carpeting. I throw my notebooks in my room. Then I go change the TV—to the Flintstones.
She jiggles the glass again. Like a chump I give in and get her some more Kool-Aid. Grape. There is a loud snap as I slam it down on the glass-topped coffee table, right on the crack where Daddy fell into it last New Year’s Eve. Another three inches: not a bad addition if I don’t say so myself. She ignores the crack and scratches my arm by way of thanks.
“What’s for dinner?” I want to know.
“What are you fixing?” she answers.
“Shoot,” I say, and go get a snack. I munch some plain Cheerios, catching the little dried circles on my eye teeth and crushing them with my tongue. I lie down and nap in front of the set. Wilma and Barney and Fred wander in and out of my dreams. Dino the dinosaur, on the 26-inch set, is the size of a full-grown cat. Ma stays there posed with the mystery.
When Gilligan
comes on, “Look at this,” I say to her, “Daddy’ll be here soon.”
“All right, for Christsake,” she seethes. She goes to the kitchen and starts banging stuff around. God knows what dinner will be. Canned corned beef with leftover eggs. Nacho cheeseburger helper. This is a woman who named me after a department store. Marshall Field Finney. Connie Jo Hartberger throws away garbage in bags with my name on them.
From the floor by the TV I can see the top part of her in there wandering aimlessly. “How was school today?” she asks in the pass-through-bar window. Moms are always on that. On with those questions. Dip, dip, dip.
“Fine. Artie and Todd and I poured brown dye in the swimming pool and set the football bleachers on fire.”
“That’s nice,” she says. That’s how much she really cares. “Have you by any chance seen anywhere my little portable radio?”
“I’m trying to watch TV,” I answer.
Something crashes purposely in the sink. I sit up and meet her eyes. The red claws are spread and taut on the counter, and pointed in my direction. She glares at me, but I don’t look away. Her eyes are red, too. I wonder how much sleep she’s been getting. Neither of us blinks.
Just then, in walks Daddy. “Still in front of that set, I see. You’ll rot your mind.”
I don’t say a word. Sam wears his striped bibs that make him tall and lean, except he looks around the middle as though he’s swallowed a whole salami. All swelled up like a snake that just ate.
“Evening, Sam,” she says.
“Rose.” He drops on the couch and picks up the paper. Dust rises like steam from his overalls.
“You want a beer, Daddy?” I ask, waving away the cloud. She is already passing a Budweiser through for him.
He closes one giant paw around the can. His fingers meet easily, squeezing out the first swallow and slightly crushing the can. The clay and soot from his fingers mix with the sweat on the can forming rivers of mud.
“Good day today, Sam?” she asks.
“Fine, Rose.” he answers.
Sam. Rose. Not Big Sam, or Rosie, or honey or sweetie. Clue #2, that ought to have been. Unfortunately at the time I am caught up in the Hillbillies. Mr. Drysdale is trying to convince the Clampetts that the climate in southern California is getting colder by turning the air conditioning in the Beverly Hills mansion down as far as it will go. Life was in black and white back then. In real life Sam “tsk, tsks” at the headlines, Rose bangs away in the kitchen, and I am too stupid to figure out what’s up.
“If you’re going to eat this stuff, best get it now.”
5:15. One thing for her—she’s always on time.
She’s set on the table two plastic plates and two glasses of green liquid. And a casserole.
Daddy scoops up a big helping and starts shoveling it in.
I take a little and test it. Tuna and macaroni. That was it. No sauce. No spice. Nothing.
“You expect me to eat this slop?” I say. I turn the plate over on the table and cross my arms.
“Look here, Sam.” she says. “You better tell this little nigger of yours something.”
“Ug,” Sam gurgles. His mouth is full of the crap.
“Clean it up,” she says.
I don’t move. Then I get up and open the refrigerator door.
She kicks it closed, hard, with her foot, leaving a half-moon-shaped indentation near the center. “There’s your dinner,” she says, pointing to the mess.
Big Sam’s like he’s turned to stone. I go get the Cheerios out of the cupboard again.
“Give me that,” she says. She grabs the other side of the box. I pull. The cardboard rips. Cheerios fly and land everywhere: dots, pyramids, and rings all over her sticky linoleum floor. It looks like a code.
“Goddamn you to hell,” she says, and bursts into a shaking fit of tears.
I go to my room and slam the door and look at the ceiling a while. I do that a lot. Look at the ceiling. From my bed. It is white and gravelly. If you stare long enough you can see things in it.
I’m not staring long this time. After all: I live here too.
I come out and park in front of the set. Lucy and Ricky. I’ll grab some grub when the coast’s clear. Sam and Rose are really into it now—a continuation of last night and the last month and forever. I’ve probably missed the best parts.
“It’s those filthy hoodlums he runs with,” she’s saying. “Thieves and delinquents. Urchins.”
A lot she knows. Artie writes thank you notes for the thank you notes he gets, and Todd is afraid of almost everything. Loud noises, shadows, even some common vegetables. What’s more, he is even white.
Ma goes right on …
“… and here I am stuck in a crackerbox house with a … trash man and a loud mouth child. I could have been something.”
“Rose, please,” sighs Sam.
“Don’t touch me,” she sobs. And she starts stomping back and forth from the kitchen to her bedroom, to the toilet, to the closet. Stomp, stomp, stomp.
“My mother tried to warn me,” she hollers.
That old line, I think to myself. Sam’s at the table with his head in his big hands. Sick from the food, no doubt.
Ma stops behind me after a while and I can feel her eyes on me. I turn slowly. Her face is pale beige and her much too red cheeks are streaked with tears. The blue raincoat drapes over her arm and a purse hangs from her shoulder—a little girl’s purse on a long metal chain. Just then I know she is really going.
“I can’t anymore,” she says to me. “I’m sorry.”
I turn back to the TV. “Good riddance,” I mumble.
Back in the kitchen she and Sam whisper. “No!” he shouts. He comes and stands in front of the door by which she has placed one packed bag. “No, I won’t let you.” He blocks the door.
“Get out of my way,” she says.
I watch the action in the round mirror just above the set. Sam and Rose—framed in smoky-engraved curlicues and butterflies. They aren’t looking at each other. Daddy’s closed up like a little boy hiding something behind him in a corner. He’s looking around like he doesn’t know where to look. Our reflected eyes meet.
Come on Sam: use those big hands. Show her who’s the boss round here.
“Please.” she says. “Don’t make this worse. Sam.”
Just as he moves to step out of her way she swings the suitcase back to hit him with it. The Samsonite catches him in the groin and he topples over.
And she is gone.
He lies there a long time. So, finally I go over to him.
“Are you all right?” I ask. “Want another beer?”
“Rose,” he whines. “My sweet Rosie.”
I tell him to get up.
2
As I THINK about it I probably don’t want to be telling all this. If I could get it all into my head at once, I’d probably say I’m not putting this story out for the whole world to see. It’s too personal,” and me, I’m not the sort to spread my personal business up and down the street. If folks want to get their jollies, let em do it someplace else. But, what the hell, I was just a dumb kid then, anyway, and I know now that real life is not always pretty to look at. You got to face that. You got to be honest. Real life is also one of those “he goes” and then “she goes” deals. You start telling, and once you get going like that, you can’t stop. Before you know it, you come to the end, and, if you’re lucky, you’ve figured something out. But even though I already know how this whole story goes, I’m gonna run it by again to see what I come up with this time. I might know some different stuff now that I didn’t know back then. Little things. About him and her. And me.
Pay attention. The goal of these deals, at least as I figure it, is to see if you can make it come out so you look real good on the last page.
I’ll pick up the story early next morning and try to remember to get in all the good parts.
*
All night long I hear Big Sam pacing the floor, opening doors, checking
dresser drawers.
As if he expected her to pop up jack-in the-box style and say “gotcha” at any time. Like this was some big joke or something.
He’s playing cat and mouse with me, too, so as we don’t have to run into each other. I catch him peeking out to make sure the coast is clear at 2:30, a time when almost every night Sam and I run into each other at the bathroom. That’s when the famous Finney bladder fills. Every night like clockwork. I’m right on schedule, and I hear him in there bouncing back on his bed, trying to sneak, pretending like this ain’t our usual time to pee. Where’s my pat on the head? I always get a pat on the head. I think it’s leftover from when I was a baby and old what’s-her-name claimed I’d wet her mattresses every night. She’s a lie, among other things. After I close my door, I hear Sam open his. Like I was going to demand answers, give him the fifth degree in the middle of the night.
You got any answers, Big Sam? You know what’s the story here?
Naw, you ain’t got no answers.
He’s laying in there listening for that key in the lock. Listening for the pitter-patter of little feet in big high heels. Go to sleep, old man. What this is, is one of those head game deals. You and me, we’re supposed to be having a big fit, right about now. We are supposed to call the police and the sheriff—we’re supposed to call out the National Guard. We are supposed to be lying here waiting.
Do you see me in here worrying? Hell, no. Don’t give it another thought. After all: how far could she get? She’s a mom. Mom’s be getting on your nerves—always doing some stuff like this. She’s just down at Lucille’s or up at Miss Ida’s. She’ll be sitting there on the couch tomorrow just like every other day—reading that trash, doing her nails, trying to get into my personal business. She’ll cook up another batch of slop and things’ll be right back to normal.
Give yourself a break, big guy. Go to sleep.