Right by My Side

by David Haynes

  “Parents’ night is March twelfth. Remind your folks, I want a big turnout.”

  At long last the bell rings.

  “See you guys tomorrow. We’ll be talking about Amnesty International. Don’t forget your report, Todd.”

  Did I see what I saw? When we walked by her desk?

  “I won’t.”

  Did she just pat him on the ass?

  *

  “Boring,” I scream. We are standing out by Artie’s car waiting for him to show up. He and Susan have to do a couple of laps around the hall at the end of the day. All the couples do that. To show off.

  No, she would never do anything like that. It’s my imagination acting weird again.

  “Your mind has just turned to crap, Marshall. All that television you watch.”

  “Well. At least that’s entertaining. Why does everything have to be so … heavy.” I drop my head when I say ‘heavy.’ See if I can get some reaction out of him.

  “You’re incapable of taking anything seriously, aren’t you.”

  “Here comes old Artie.” Old Artie strolls out the front door like he owns the joint.

  “Everything’s got to be a joke for you. You already know everything in the whole damn world.”

  If I clench my fist real tight, I will not pop him in the mouth.

  “Afternoon, fellas,” Artie says. He is grinning ear to ear. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “What, you get lost on the way to the car again?” I ask.

  “Marshall is in one of his moods,” Todd says.

  “We got to get him a woman,” Artie says. He and Todd laugh gross hyena laughs.

  “You know, I’ll stop this car and kick both your asses.”

  They both just laugh some more, so I lean back in the back seat and put my feet up so that my left foot is by Artie’s head and the right foot is by Todd.

  “P. U.” That from Artie. “Don’t you ever change your socks? I get fresh socks put out every morning.”

  “Marshall is protecting the environment. He’s saving wash water.”

  They laugh some more. I stick my feet closer, right up in their faces.

  *

  After Artie drops us off, Todd walks down the hill with me.

  “So, what are we gonna write about?”

  “We?”

  “I told Kathy you and me would work together. I guess I forgot to mention that.”

  “I don’t even know if I’m doing this stupid assignment.”

  “Sure you are. And you’re just saying it’s stupid because you’re too lazy to put any effort into thinking about it.”

  “I got a lot on my mind. Down here at the house and all.” I nod up toward where I live.

  Todd comes all up in my face. “You got it pretty hard, huh.” He says this as if I were a puppy or a little boy. He even pats me on the arm. I’ll be up after supper. You think of something to write on. Before I get there.”

  *

  As I go to turn the key in the lock, it’s as if it has a life of its own. The knob turns, and I’m actually pulled by the door into the crackerbox.

  “Hi there. I mean, I heard your key in the door so I thought I’d … I mean, Sam told me to expect you …”

  She says all this as I’m trying to wiggle my key out of the lock. She’s got a shaggy wet lettuce balled up in a long, blue striped apron. I follow her back to the kitchen where she drops the lettuce into a beige plastic bowl.

  “Towels? Paper towels?” She shrugs and waves her hands around. “Where do you keep them?”

  I reach under the sink and hand her a fresh package.

  “Great. Thanks.” She rips off the plastic then tears off a hunk of towels. She starts rolling the ball of lettuce around the bowl.

  “Pig grass, they call this in Europe. You couldn’t give it away.” She balls up the towels and hoops them over toward the trash can. Just as quick she grabs my hand and squeezes it between the two of hers.

  “Gayle,” she says.

  *

  So this time it’s Gayle.

  I have to give her credit: usually they take their time, worm their way in. This gal’s walked right in, made herself at home.

  What do you do when there’s someone you don’t know in your kitchen and they’re … doing stuff? This sort of thing’s been the rule around here of late—always folks you don’t really know in the bathroom, in the kitchen, elsewhere. And since they’re not your guests, there’s not a whole lot you can say to them. Yet, you have all these questions. Like: why are you here? And what do you think you’re doing?

  “Can I help you with something?” I ask.

  “Can you make lemonade?” she asks. “It’d be just the thing with dinner.” She hands me lemons from a grocery bag on the table. As she hands me the lemons she looks me right in the eyes, all around in my face—gives me the double O.

  “Use what you need,” she says, and I drop two or three of them to the floor.

  “Sorry,” I say. She giggles at my clumsiness.

  I sit at the dinette table, cut the lemons in half and begin squeezing them into a pitcher. Gayle, at the sink, uses her hands to rip the lettuce to shreds. “May I?” she asks. She takes one of the lemons and squeezes some of the juice onto the cut up lettuce.

  “I’ll finish the salad nearer to suppertime.”

  “We don’t eat much salad,” I tell her.

  “That’s true of too many black folks,” she says. “It would be a good idea to add a lot of raw fresh food to your diet. Think about it.”

  I nod politely, think to myself, damn—one of those know-it-all types. One who still hasn’t told me what she’s doing here in my kitchen fixing dinner. Whatever’s on the stove sure smells good, though.

  “May I ask what we’re having for supper?”

  “Yes, you may ask,” she says. She makes my “may” sound childish. “I’m cooking Groundnut Stew, an African dish made with peanut butter.”

  “Ick.”

  “Come on and give it a try,” she says, laughing. “There’s plenty of salad if it’s that nasty. Come here,” she orders. She takes the lid off the pot, spoons up a little and aims it at my mouth.

  I run the brown liquid over my tongue quickly and swallow. It leaves behind the taste of pepper, cinnamon, some things I don’t recognize. And peanuts, too.

  “Be honest,” Gayle prompts.

  I shrug and nod my head.

  Gayle shoves me on the shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean? This some of that good down home cookin—probably prevents cancer, too. Say something about it.”

  “It’s different. Sam and I are sort of meat and potato types.”

  “I bet that Sam eats anything put in front of him,” she says. “And there’s plenty of salad for him, too.”

  As if on cue, himself comes in the front door.

  “Speak of the devil,” Gayle says, raising her eyebrows at me.

  Sam comes back to the kitchen. He says a quiet “Hi” to each of us. He’s acting all shy and stuff.

  “I see you’ve met,” he says.

  Gayle gives Sam a little peck on the cheek on the way to the fridge. She rubs at the half-moon indentation on the door. Then she points at me and says to Sam. “That’s something else you’ve got there.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Sam says. He goes over to the stove and opens the stew pot. Behind Gayle’s back he gives me a frightened look, as if his eyes will pop out of his head.

  *

  Sam and Gayle disappear after the dishes are done. Todd shows up a little while later, notebook in hand.

  “So, partner, what’s it gonna be?”

  “How about: What I did on my summer vacation.”

  “Get serious.”

  “I am serious. I have a real exciting life. I go to the mall at least once a week. My mom’s crazy, she ran off and lives in the desert. My dad has a new girlfriend every week. People enjoy reading this sort of thing.”

  “I mean it, Marshall. You are going to have to get rea
l. If you and I are gonna stay friends.” He looks at me over his glasses like he was my grandpa or something. Real serious and stern.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I wonder if it’s worth it.

  “Because we’re working together we have to do five or six pages for the grade. I got some ideas, if you want to hear them.”

  “Five or six? What happened to three?”

  “Look, I don’t need this grade at all. I’ve already done enough extra credit.”

  Extra credit. Snicker, snicker, snicker.

  “Whatever,” I say.

  Todd takes over. “I thought I’d like to focus on nuclear waste this time. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” I say.

  I know as much about nuclear waste as I do about nuclear physics.

  “Kathy and I were thinking this might be just the issue to bring the community together.”

  “Why should anybody around here care about it?”

  “Duh, Marshall. They ship that stuff all over the place. On trains. In trucks. What if there was a derailment? What if some of it spilled? No, better. What if it got left in the dump? What would you do then?”

  I shrug. The dump is Sam’s problem.

  “If you knew more, you’d worry more. Let’s get to it. Let’s make a list of all the reasons why we’re against it. You write.”

  I do.

  This is how it goes for the entire project. Todd spouts off at the mouth and I write it down. I go “Oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” every now and then, so he thinks I’m really into it. I, of course, get stuck with all the organizing into a final paper. Todd’s no good at that. He gets too excited. His writing sounds hysterical.

  I get stuck with the typing, too. I do it on Rose’s electric that she kept in the back of the linen closet. It has a dark brown case, tortoiseshell hard.

  The last thing we have to do is memorize all this so we can present it on parents’ night. Why we’re bothering, I’ll never know, because Sam don’t go to that stuff—that was Rose’s job and Lord knows the P.W.T. haven’t set foot in a school, probably not in their entire lives.

  So, there I am getting dressed to go up to Eisenhower. Todd and I have hitched a ride from Artie and Miss Ida. Artie and his crowd are putting on a little play or the special olympics or something. It’s better than taking the bus at least.

  “Where you off to?” Sam wants to know.

  “A thing at school,” I say.

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Parents’ night.”

  “Hang on there,” he says. “Just one cotton-pickin minute.”

  He gets a goofy smile on his face and goes strutting back to his room. A few minutes later he comes strutting back out. He’s changed into some slacks and a shirt. He looks sort of presentable.

  “You’re going to this?” I say. “You never go to this stuff.”

  “It’s a new day,” he says. He twirls his keys indicating it’s time to go.

  We pick up the others up at the store. They all pile into the truck with us. Miss Ida rides in the cab, and us boys sprawl out in the truckbed. It is a beautiful night, clear and warm. It’s just after dark when we go. We lie on our backs and watch the new leaves on the trees flash by overhead.

  At school there aren’t many people at Miss O’Hare’s event. Just a few of the parents of a few of the people from our composition class. And Sam. He sits right up front by the teacher’s desk. That’s where Todd and I sit to give our report.

  Ohairy, who is standing by the doorway, leaning against the frame, nods for us to begin.

  “Thank you for coming,” Todd says. “Marshall and I are going to share some facts with you about nuclear waste.”

  I stammer, trying to remember my first line. I can remember something about the need for people to be informed, so I say something like that. I look at my notes a lot, which we aren’t supposed to do. Todd says it is lot more effective to say it from memory, but if I look up I’m afraid Sam will be looking at me. I see him once or twice. He’s got one finger on his chin. He looks concerned.

  Finally, Todd says, “and, so in conclusion, the problem of nuclear waste is one that is easy to ignore, though doing so will not make it go away. Not for thousands and thousands of years. Thank you very much.”

  The few people in the room applaud. Todd beams.

  “Any questions?” Miss O’Hare asks.

  Mercifully, there are none.

  “I want to thank you parents for coming,” Ohairy says. “As a follow-up to tonight’s discussion, my students will be looking into the problem of nuclear waste disposal. You may be hearing from us about some upcoming events. Feel free to visit and look around our school.”

  Sam is standing there waiting for us with a big grin going. He shakes my hand and Todd’s hand.

  “You boys done good,” he says. “Seem to know what you’re talking about.”

  I can’t spend too much time basking in his praise because I can see Ohairy waiting for us at the door.

  “Hello,” she says, real enthusiastic. “You must be Marshall’s dad. I can really see the resemblance.”

  “This is Miss O’Hare.” I mumble it. “My father, Mr. Finney.”

  “It’s a real pleasure,” Sam says. He says it with this real smooth, deep voice. “A pleasure indeed. Call me Sam.” He shakes her hand entirely too long.

  I’m with them, too,” Todd says. Ohairy smiles at him.

  “I’m so glad to meet you, Sam. Marshall has been in my classes for a couple of years now.”

  “How’s the boy doing?”

  I start dragging him toward the door. He balks.

  “He’s plenty bright, but I’m sure you know how he is. Getting Marshall to think sometimes is like pulling teeth.”

  “That’s him, all right.”

  “We got some people to meet, right Todd.” I’m hoping he’ll get on the other side and help drag Sam out of there, but he is too busy sneaking grins.

  I manage to get him moving toward the door.

  “Let me know if he’s one bit of trouble,” Sam shouts.

  “Nice meeting you,” Ohairy says.

  “My pleasure indeed. Indeed.”

  *

  We round up Artie and Miss Ida and get Sam back to the truck. He is having a great evening. He drives us to Dairy Queen and springs for treats.

  After we drop the others off, Sam coasts down the hill from the store.

  “Good work tonight, son.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing pretty good out there. You keep it up. Watch your step.”

  “It’s not as hard as it looks.”

  “That’s your teacher, huh? That nice one? The one I met.”

  “She’s one of them.”

  “I see,” he says. “Nice looking little gal.”

  I put a hand up by the side of my face to hide from him the sick look that comes over me. This man never quits.

  “Umph, umph, umph. Nice looking gal indeed.”

  *

  This Gayle decides to teach Sam the right way to cook. She says a person doesn’t need all that fat, all that canned crap. Says that a man ought to be able to take care of himself better than that.

  Sounds good to me.

  “Lord help me,” Sam says, but he comically rolls his eyes when he says it, and joins her in the kitchen without hesitation.

  Lord help us indeed.

  This is a Sunday dinner they’re cooking, a Sunday late in March. I stand in the pass-through bar and watch.

  “Pay attention, you,” Gayle orders me. “I’m gonna stuff up this chicken.”

  “Not a damn chicken again.” Sam throws up his hands. “I swear to God this girl here don’t cook nothing else. Am I right?” he says to me. He pretends to walk away, but she tells him to hush and orders him to pull all the skin off the meat. She gives us a lecture about how blacks eat too much red meat, too much salted meat. Tells us we got to be responsible for our own health.

  Gayle’s alw
ays saying this stuff—stuff you have to wonder how she knows it. Still, it sounds true to me. That could be the way she says it. She’s playful, so that even someone such as me who hates nothing worse than a show-off—says to himself, “Well, maybe.”

  She’s even got Big Sam in there wrapping sweet potatos in foil. He’s carrying on like a fool, too. He tears off the tiniest piece of foil he can and then starts winding it around the potato as if he were wrapping a mummy.

  “Like this?” he asks.

  Gayle looks at him with one eye closed. She purses her lips and rewraps the potato in almost one perfect motion. “Like that,” she says. She cuts her eyes back and forth from me to him with a fake-evil, squinch-eyed smile.

  Sam looks at me, bright-eyed, suppressing his laugh. He bites his lips and points at her.

  *

  Gayle tells a story at dinner about how she traveled with a hospital unit when she was in the army.

  “I was on a burn team. We would move from base to base, as needed. Following a crash or an explosion, working on special cases. On-call twenty-four hours a day.”

  “It sounds like hard work,” I say.

  “I enjoyed it. If we could get to a site soon enough, we could make a big difference in a patient’s recovery. I saw a lot of this country. A lot of the world.”

  I ask her what she remembered most.

  “All the different kinds of people out there. What I loved most was that wherever you went, if you saw a black face and caught an eye, there’d be a warm response. I felt at home all over the world.”

  Her talking starts Sam talking, too.

  “I haven’t been much beyond the Saint Louis area,” he says. “Missed Vietnam. That enlisting place over in Clayton … you believe they didn’t want no blacks in the sixties. Back in the early days of the war. Wadn’t even good enough to shoot at back then. A lot of us went anyway. When they got desperate for bodies.”