by Lori Roy
Jo Lynne finally looks tired. Her hair has wilted where it would usually be curled at its ends, her eyelids hang low, and even the belt around her robe has pulled loose. Normally, Imogene’s the cause of Jo Lynne’s exhaustion. But not today, or rather Imogene isn’t the only one causing it. Garland has gotten himself in a bad way with some very bad men.
Back at her bedroom, the first thing Imogene sees is her bed. The quilt has been smoothed out, the pillows plumped and straightened, and Mama and the boy are gone. Pushing open the door, Imogene takes two quick steps inside. Straightaway, she sees them. They’re marching past the foot of the bed, and the boy is quietly counting. He runs his fingers along the oak footboard as if trailing them along an iron fence. When he reaches six, he says turn left and looks up at the ceiling.
“There’s the two crosses and the pointed roofs,” he says. “Do you see them?”
“Yes, look how shiny,” Mama says, holding one of her hands as if the sun is hitting her full in the face. “Now which way?”
The boy points straight ahead. “Four more blocks is four more steps.”
Mama counts. One. Two. Three. Four.
“And there.” The boy points at the window. “That’s Mr. Tillie’s store, where Imogene goes.”
“How about that, Immy?” Mama says, smiling and clapping.
“Two more blocks is two more steps,” the boy says. “And that’s where I do school. I need a chair. And a square table. Do you have a chair and square table?”
“Is this how you go to school?” Imogene says. Her voice startles them. In her pocket, her cell phone buzzes. She presses a hand over it but doesn’t take it out.
The boy leans into Mama’s hip.
“Imogene,” Mama says. “You surprised us.”
“I’m sorry,” Imogene says. “I’m sorry, Christopher. But tell me, please.”
“There’s not rain, so we walked,” the boy says. “If it rains, we can’t take outside time.”
Again, Imogene’s phone starts to vibrate and buzz. This time, she slides it out of her pocket to see who is calling. It’s Tillie. She leaves the call to roll to voicemail, and as she tucks the phone back in her front pocket, she says, “Rain?” Her chest begins to lift and lower. She swallows and says it again. “Rain?”
“When water falls from the sky.” The boy lets go of Mama and points to the end of the bed. “When there’s not rain, we walk past the cemetery where the soldiers is buried. It has the tall fence. It’s black and iron. Iron is hard. We walk two more blocks to the church with two crosses and then there’s where I do school.”
“Was your school there in the basement?” Imogene says, taking care to talk quietly so she doesn’t frighten Christopher. She drops onto the edge of the bed. She’s said it, and now Mama will know. She’s said right out loud that the boy was living in the basement.
The boy says nothing, and instead looks up at Mama as if for an answer.
“Whatever you have to say, little one,” Mama says, cupping the boy’s cheek and showing no sign she heard Imogene mention the basement, “go on and say it.”
“We drive and we walk and we do school at the kitchen table. Except it isn’t the kitchen table when we do school. It’s my school.”
Without looking back at Mama or the boy, Imogene pushes herself off the mattress and walks toward the bedroom door. She moves slowly, her legs weak, and the things around her . . . the pine floors, the wooden credenza inside the door, the light switch on the wall . . . drift in and out of focus.
Placing a hand on the wall when she’s near enough to reach it, she says, “Can you wait here with Christopher, Mama?”
If Mama answers, Imogene doesn’t hear her. Still bracing herself with a hand to the wall, she turns to face the boy. He sits in the wingback chair now. Mama must have helped him into it. He has turned so his back is to the light that trims the heavy curtains. His eyelids flutter as if his eyes are dry. It’s the light. No, it’s daylight. He’s a person who doesn’t know daylight.
Hugging herself with both arms because she’s begun to shiver, Imogene closes her eyes and turns away. She thought she’d been wrong about the boy living down there. She thought he hadn’t been trapped by locks on the outside of the door and that Daddy had been no part of it. She thought the boy had been coming and going, attending school like every other child, and if he had been locked in down there, it had been his own mama doing it. She thought the mother had been driving him into town and walking with him to school, somehow covering up how they were living. But they were doing school at the kitchen table. That’s what the boy said. The walking and driving through town weren’t real. The boy squinted at an imaginary sun, ran his fingers along a nonexistent iron fence. It was pretend. All of it.
“Do you know Jo Lynne too?” Imogene says to the boy without looking at him again. This is what Imogene always does, at least it’s what she does now. It’s who she has become. She knows enough to know she can’t do this. She can’t be the person this boy needs her to be. “I mean, did you already know Jo Lynne like you already knew me?”
When she hears nothing, she looks back at the boy. He has sunk into the chair. Its broad back is far wider than his narrow shoulders. He isn’t afraid to look at Imogene anymore. His eyes are light and trimmed by long dark lashes. They’re tired eyes, lined with red, but they’re warm too. He puckers his lips as if thinking over what Imogene has asked and then nods. Yes, he already knew about Jo Lynne like he already knew about Imogene.
It was coincidence that Imogene was the one to find the boy. She isn’t meant to save him any more than Jo Lynne is. This is no great turning point in Imogene’s life, not a moment she will rise to. Whoever told the boy about Imogene told about Jo Lynne too. Imogene can step aside now and let Jo Lynne take over. It’s sound reasoning, as sound as she needs, anyway. There’s always a way out. She’s had to learn that, had to believe that if she were to go on living these past five years. This, whatever it all turns out to be, is too big for Imogene. She can manage taking care of Mama and paying a few bills. How much could the old place really need? But this boy is something different. For him, she can’t be the strong one, never really could be. It has always been Jo Lynne.
“I’m going to go get Jo Lynne,” Imogene says, resting a hand on the gold doorknob and pulling open the door. “I think we should let her and Christopher have some time together.”
“Is he one of Jo Lynne’s boys? You dear child.”
Out in the hallway, Imogene turns back long enough to nod at Mama, so she’ll know that, yes, Christopher is one of Jo Lynne’s now. Mama stares at Imogene, waiting for more of an answer. Next to her, the boy rocks from side to side as he slides forward, pushing himself out of the deep chair.
Once standing, the boy says, “But Mama always told me Imogene was the one who would save us.”
Chapter 36
BETH
Before
I began to change the day he told me about Stone Mountain being close by and after I felt the sun on my hair and cool dirt under my hands. Even though it’s white and not chocolate, I drink the milk he brings me instead of pouring it down the drain. I eat the sliced roast beef and ham so fast he has to bring it twice a week, and I eat eggs too, lots of eggs, because he lets me use the hot plate now. After a time, my stomach stops hurting when I put food in it. My hair stops falling out in my brush and the room stops swirling when I stand too quickly and my lips don’t flake and peel anymore. I’m getting stronger, not only my body but my mind too. Mama is only gone because that’s what he said. The day we saw those men standing on the courthouse steps, Mama said people like that, people with hate in their hearts, will say anything to scare you because that’s the only muscle they have. They fool people into thinking they need protecting. Never believe people with hate in their hearts, she said, so I don’t believe him. I don’t believe Mama is gone.
I know all about eating good because sometimes Mama would stop eating and she would stop going to work too, and Mr.
Williamson would call and leave a message on our phone machine. He’d tell Mama she’d better pull it together because he would hate to fire a single mother. I would take Mama food in her bed, good food like carrots with ranch dressing to dip in and peanut butter sandwiches, until she felt like throwing open the curtains and rejoining the real world. That’s how she always said it. I figure this is my time for rejoining the real world.
I also get better at keeping track of Sundays and Wednesdays because I only sleep when I’m supposed to now, and on the days I know he won’t come to the house, I walk up and down the stairs even though they creak like they might one day topple over. I walk them not only so I can manage them without making any noise but so I will be stronger. I walk them until I collapse on the hard floors, thankful for once that they are cool. I know about exercise from Mama’s doctor. He worked at the clinic where Mama went when she had to get out of bed so the woman wouldn’t start visiting us again once a month. He told Mama she needed solid food and a good walk every day. Exercise will heal the soul, he said to Mama, which left me wondering what bad thing had happened to Mama’s soul. And after I walk those stairs until I drop to the cold floor, I begin to run them.
I keep getting to go outside for exactly twenty minutes every Sunday, and every time he leads me up the stairs, he ties a kerchief over my eyes. I count our steps and memorize the turns we take and the spots where the floors creak or are uneven. Outside, while he looks at his watch or smokes a cigarette, I look hard at the field of pampas grass that hasn’t started to green up yet, but it will when the days stretch out and the air warms. I try to look beyond them, the dry, brittle bunches of grass that grow like rows of wheat, but can’t. Off to my left, where I can’t quite see it, is Stone Mountain, and to the right, far beyond the side of the house, the land dips and he once told me there is a lake nearby. Maybe we’ll go someday, he said. It’s nearer to heaven than any other place on earth. We’ll go in the morning, just one time, and you’ll see how the clouds settle in over it, like smoke almost. Beyond the lake, the land rises again, and above it, I can see the very peak of a chimney. He has also told me there are plenty more books for me if I’m good.
He is happy that I’m eating more and am always awake when he comes and that I talk about my books and listen to his stories. He tells me about his job fixing up the houses that his daddy rents out to the poor folks in the town. He says anybody can take care of numbers and bank accounts. What he does takes real skill, talent even. Craftsmanship, he calls it. He asks me what color I think he should paint a house or what kind of flowers would look best in the window boxes he wants to build for his mama, and he smiles and nods when I tell him what I think.
He likes that I’m studying a math book meant for tenth graders now and that I’m reading science books that are two inches thick. He brings me paper and pencils so I can work my problems, and one Sunday, he brings a small air conditioner that he puts in one of the windows. He uses bolts to make it stay and tells me those bolts are in there for good, no sense trying to pry them loose. I promise I won’t try because he says the air conditioner can keep me warm and cool too and make the air not so wet anymore. On another Sunday, he brings needles and different colors of thread and old sheets. One of my books teaches me how to embroider. I practice, and when I’m good enough, I cut out a piece of one of the sheets so it’s just the right size and stitch a magnolia like the ones at Mama’s house, and now I have a tea towel.
Every time he brings me something new, I tell him thank you, especially for the books, so he’ll keep bringing them. My favorites aren’t the books about Laura anymore, but I don’t tell him that. My favorite is a second-grade science workbook—even though I’m way too old for it—that teaches me about daylight savings time. It’s January 17 now, and in March, I’m not exactly sure which day because the workbook is old and tells me the date for a different year, the time will change and there will be an extra hour of light. I know from laying a hand on the stone walls that the nights are cold and the days too, and I can’t run in the cold and dark. But my second-grade workbook taught me that autumn is followed by winter and winter by spring.
Even though the books about Laura aren’t my favorite anymore, I still remember about Pa and the plans he made. I’m smarter now about the days and times he comes and I know I’m not so far from home. Mama is still out there. I’m sure of that too. He lied to me when he told me Mama was dead because he wants me to need him like Imogene’s baby needs her. He talks most about Imogene because I think he wants what she has. But even though I’m certain he lied and that Mama is close, she might not be forever. When the weather is warm and when we have an extra hour, I’ll run.
Chapter 37
IMOGENE
Today
Standing on her bedroom threshold, Imogene isn’t sure how long since the boy last spoke, telling her that his mama said Imogene was the one who would save them. Imogene. Not Jo Lynne. Not Eddie. Imogene. That’s what the boy said, but how much time has passed since he said it?
Beyond the hallway, sunlight spills into the house, but inside Imogene’s bedroom, the drawn curtains have made another dark place the boy is being held. And yet he seems content now, as if he’s waiting for something or someone, as he stares at Imogene. His pale blue eyes brighten and hold firm, even when Mama rests a hand on his shoulder. The fear he had last night, and of Imogene just moments ago, is gone, or perhaps it has overwhelmed him and he’s in some sort of shock. Or perhaps he mistakenly believes what his mama said.
Mama lowers to the boy’s level, bracing herself with one hand on the bed. It’ll be hard on her knees to be squatting like that. As if she understands what Christopher has said and why he said it, Mama nods and strokes his hair. But she can’t possibly understand. She can’t understand how the boy already knew about Imogene and Jo Lynne. She must have questions. And still Mama believes the boy and believes that Imogene will be the one to save him. She believes so strongly that she doesn’t even ask what he needs saving from. The boy hasn’t been going to school in town, hasn’t been leaving that basement every day. His mama had built an imaginary world for him. They had pretended to walk through the streets and past the church. Imogene was right after all. The basement was a home with tea towels, a clothesline, and books on a shelf, and the boy lived there a long time. Maybe forever, as far as his life is concerned. And his mama too.
“Jo Lynne is cooking up something for you,” Imogene says to Christopher.
“Imogene, didn’t you hear him?” Mama says. “This child needs your help.”
“Come on with me,” Imogene says to Christopher. It’s the only thing she can muster. Mama gives Imogene another scolding look. “We’ll let you get dressed, Mama.”
“But, Imogene,” Mama says.
Imogene steps into the hallway to prove to the boy it’s safe. She taps a toe on the ground to show it’s real and solid and spreads her arms to reassure him there’s nothing lurking.
“I’m guessing Garland and Eddie will be back soon,” she says to Mama as the boy walks toward the door. “And Warren’s here too.”
She means to tell Mama she has to keep her distance as long as those fellows are in the house because her beating heart will overwhelm them. But she also means to keep Mama from seeing Imogene pass the boy off to Jo Lynne. Imogene isn’t anyone’s savior, but she’d just as soon not have Mama see that messy truth splashed about. She should also tell Mama the old house burned and the field too, but it’s one more thing she isn’t strong enough to do.
Out in the kitchen, Warren has come back inside, and Jo Lynne has cracked open a can of cinnamon rolls, something she’d never serve in her own home because she’d make them from scratch.
“Have a seat, you all,” Jo Lynne says, smiling at Christopher but also not making a fuss when he walks into the kitchen. Instead, she behaves as if he has walked into this kitchen and sat at this table every day of his life. She’s tightened up her robe and smoothed her hair, and all signs of her exhaustion ar
e gone.
The boy, Christopher, is smaller here in the main of the house. He walks with his head lowered, his hands clasped in front, and his small feet slide forward a half step at a time, as if he’s afraid of something falling on top of him. At the table, he stands next to a chair until Imogene pulls it back and motions for him to sit. He squints and dips his head at the sunlight filling the house. Imogene nods at Warren and then points, but he still doesn’t understand.
“The drapes, Warren,” Jo Lynne says, because she noticed straightaway what was bothering the boy. “Why don’t you pull them best you can?”
As Warren walks about the living room and kitchen, drawing the same drapes and lowering the same blinds Imogene had last night when she was afraid of who might still be out there, Imogene sits across from Christopher.
“Go ahead,” she says to him, nudging a small glass of juice in his direction. It leaves a water ring on the Formica tabletop. “Orange juice. You like it?”
The boy’s back rounds and his shoulders slump forward as he slides a hand across the table and draws a finger across the sweaty glass.
“Probably better wait on that,” Jo Lynne says, setting the tray of cinnamon rolls in the hot oven. It’s her second batch. The first already rests on a cooling rack near the sink. “Let’s get something in that stomach of yours first.”
Jo Lynne knows about things like orange juice upsetting an empty stomach and Imogene doesn’t. Imogene might know things like that too if she’d been a mother longer. It’s another sign she isn’t the one meant to save this child.
“Imogene, sweetie.” It’s Mama, peeking out from the hallway. She’ll be looking for any sign of Eddie or Garland because she won’t want to cause them distress. Clutching the top of her housedress so it doesn’t gap, she leans into the living room and gives a wave.