Sweet Dream Baby

by Sterling Watson

  I don’t know what she’s talking about, but I know what I want to know. I say, “Delia?” It’s hard to say her name even in the dark, but I like it, too. And I say, “Were you crying?”

  She sighs and her breath is sweet in my hair and around my face. She says, “Yes, Travis, old Killer, I was.”

  I ask her, “Why were you crying?” and I think of my nights in Omaha lying in my bedroom and listening to my mom and dad talking low and sweet in their bed and the radio playing and Peggy Lee singing, “Fever,” and sometimes listening to them whisper hard and raspy when they don’t want me to hear, and sometimes, late at night, hearing my dad have his dreams about the war. That’s why I want to know what made my Aunt Delia cry.

  Delia sighs again, and again it’s sweet, but this time I feel her body go hard behind me, and she squeezes my hand so hard it hurts, and then she loosens her fingers, and her body goes soft again, and she says, “For someone lost, Travis. I was crying for someone lost.”

  “Who?” I say.

  “I can’t tell you that. I can never tell anyone that,” and then she buries her face in the back of my neck, and she cries. Hard. So hard I think even the storm won’t cover the sound. So hard the bed shakes, and I imagine Grandpa and Grandma Hollister running up the stairs and finding me in my Aunt Delia’s bed, and I wonder what they would do, or if they would do anything, and I wonder if it’s wrong for me to be here.

  Finally I think it isn’t wrong. I’m a cavalier with gallant instincts, and I’m comforting a waif, and there can’t be anything wrong with that. I try to turn around and put my arms around her, but she stops me. She holds me hard, and her breath comes so hot and hard against the back of my neck that I can feel her teeth there, and she says, “No, Travis. No. Just let me…. Don’t move. This will pass, and…”

  Her voice is broken and ragged, and I don’t know what to do, but I think I better stay. I better let her ride my back like a boat in a storm. I’m all she’s got this night. Maybe this will never happen again. Maybe this is just a storm my Aunt Delia has to get through. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. I don’t think she’ll ever tell me who is lost. I don’t think I should ever even ask her.

  My Aunt Delia cries and cries. She sobs until my neck is wet, and the shape of her front teeth is pressed into my neck. Sometimes it’s almost like she’s trying to pull me inside her to stop the crying. I let her do what she wants. I wait. I try not to think about the storm passing over and the sound of her sobbing and the shaking bed waking Grandpa Hollister. And finally, as the rain stops slanting hard, then comes down straight, then just patters in the trees, and then stops and the trees just drip the water left in them, Delia stops sobbing and stops crying, and finally she’s breathing soft into the back of my neck, and after a while, maybe she’s asleep.

  Her breath is long and sweet and slow against the back of my neck, and her arms are loose around me, and I think it’s time for me to go back to my bed. It’s still dark outside, but I’ve heard the birds moving in the oak tree, and I know one of them will sing soon, and then the first dawn glow will show at the window.

  I try to move, but Delia holds me. She presses her fingers into my chest, and her face against my hair, and she says, “No, Travis. Not yet. Stay with me a little while longer, okay? If you stay, I promise I won’t cry anymore.”

  I try to whisper, “Okay,” but nothing comes out, and my voice is stuck from so much worrying, and I clear my throat and softly I say, “I want to stay. I just thought maybe…”

  “Good. Good, Travis my old Killer. I’m glad you want to stay. Aren’t we a couple of messed up kids?”

  I think about it. I guess it’s true, and I guess it’s good to admit it. As long as I admit it only to my Aunt Delia. I say, “Delia, how come you call me Killer?”

  “Geez, Travis, I don’t know. I guess it’s cause you remind me of Jerry Lee Lewis. That’s what they call him. The Killer. ’Cause he plays that killer piano and sings, ‘Great Balls of Fire,’ and ‘Shake, Baby, Shake,’ and ‘Breathless.’” Delia’s arms are around me, and now she shakes me, and the bed squeaks. She giggles in my ear, and I know she’s going to be all right. I’m glad I helped her.

  I say, “Is he good looking?”

  “Who?” Delia asks me.

  “That Jerry Lee what’s his name.”

  “He’s a dreamboat, Travis. He’s a downright dreamboat.”

  I want to ask if I’m a dreamboat. Wendy said I’m gonna be a heartbreaker some day. I wonder if a dreamboat is a heartbreaker. I don’t think I want to be a heartbreaker. Sometimes I think my mom has a broken heart.

  I want to ask Delia about my mom. Maybe she knows. Maybe she knows what nobody will tell me. The things grown-ups say over my head. Delia’s grown up, but she’s not. I’m gonna ask her about my mom, and my dad, too, but not tonight. Some time I’ll ask her, and I know she’ll tell me if she can. I know I can trust her, and she can trust me.

  I wake up with my Aunt Delia against me. I guess it’s the birds singing that wake me. Maybe it’s the good smell from downstairs. Coffee and eggs and toast. I wake up, and I don’t have my back to my Aunt Delia anymore. I’m facing her. I got turned around in the night. And the thing has happened. I don’t know how. I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t the first time. I’m hard. Down there, I’m hard and it feels good, and I’m touching my Aunt Delia. My face gets hot, and my neck gets thick, and I pull away from her slowly, and I hear her moan, “No, don’t go,” and I know she’s not talking to me. There’s someone in her dream and she doesn’t want him to go. Maybe it’s that someone lost she’s talking to.

  I get up and stand by her bed. I don’t want her to see me like this. I give myself a hard pinch, but it doesn’t do any good. It’s like pinching a rock, and it feels good. I go to the door and look out, and I hear someone coming up the stairs. I know I can’t make it to my bedroom without being seen, so I run for the bathroom. I run on tip-toes trying not to make a sound, but the old boards groan and crackle under me. Inside the bathroom, I flush the commode and then run water in the sink. All I’m wearing is my uns, and there’s a tent pole sticking out of me, and I don’t know how to make it go away.

  I hear footsteps out in the hallway, and then my Grandma Hollister calls, “Travis! Breakfast, Honey!” She sounds tired.

  I call from inside the bathroom. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  I can hear her outside the door now, heavy on the old boards. She says, “Do you need anything, Travis, Honey? Is everything all right?”

  I don’t know what to do. I flush the commode again, and make my voice sound small-boy and say, “I’m okay, I guess. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  She says, “All right, Honey,” and I hear her walk away.

  I stand in the tub and run cold water on it. After a while, it goes away.

  Seven

  Grandpa Hollister is finishing breakfast when I come downstairs. He frowns at me over his coffee cup and looks at his watch. He has on the same black pants and white shirt and gold badge he wore to pick me up at the airport, and his black suit coat is folded over a chair. His eyes expect the worst. I stand at the bottom of the stairs and wait. Marvadell comes out of the kitchen and smiles at me. “Sit down, Child, and tell me how you like yo eggs.”

  I look at Grandpa Hollister, and he nods. I tell Marvadell sunny side up. Grandpa Hollister picks up his newspaper and hides his face like my dad. Marvadell brings my eggs, and they look good, and I say, “Thank you, ma’am,” and she smiles and stands over me with her hands on her big hips. There’s bacon grease and flour on her apron, and I can smell her perfume and sweat and butter. She smells good. She waits, and I look at her, and finally Grandpa Hollister says, “Eat boy, so Marvadell can go on back to the kitchen and start cleaning up.”

  Marvadell doesn’t look at him, but I see in her eyes how she feels about him. About what he said. There’s somethin
g hard in there, but it’s not hate. It’s just who she is and who he is. I know she won’t move until I spear an egg, so I take a bite and smile and say, “Wow, ma’am, they’re really good. They’re as good as my mom makes them.” The eggs are good.

  Marvadell smiles and looks at Grandpa Hollister and says, “No they ain’t, Travis. Nobody cooks for a boy as good as his momma does.” She winks at me, or maybe she doesn’t, I can’t tell, and then she turns and walks into the kitchen. Grandpa Hollister drinks the last of his coffee and says, “Travis, white boys don’t call Negro women ‘ma’am.’ It’s the way we do here. You call her Marvadell. You be nice to her like we all do. I don’t ever want to hear about you showing her any disrespect, but you don’t call her ma’am. That’s what you call your Grandma and your Aunt Delia and the other white women you meet here. Do you understand me, Son?”

  I don’t, but I nod. He doesn’t like it, so I nod again and say, “Yes, sir.” My eggs are getting cold. I watch him until his eyes are finished with me, and then I get on with breakfast.

  Grandpa Hollister stands up and stretches and looks at his watch. “I’ve got to go to work, Travis.” He looks at the stairs. “I don’t know what’s got into that lazy bones Delia.” He looks at me like I might know. I just look back like the lonesome wayfaring stranger Delia said I am. He says, “I suppose she’s up there moping. She’s a teenager, Travis. Don’t ever let it happen to you. Jump right over it and become a grown man. Save yourself a lot of trouble.”

  I don’t know if I should smile. I just say, “Yes, sir.”

  Grandpa Hollister leaves, and I hear the Buick light up in the garage, and then I hear it whisper slowly down the street.

  Marvadell comes out of the kitchen and stands over me looking at my plate. Her face is shiny black, and there’s sweat on her temples and on her upper lip, and she’s got little brown moles along her hairline. She’s the first black lady I’ve seen close up. She says, “You doan like my grits, Nebraska boy?” She’s going to be different with me now that Grandpa Hollister is gone.

  I say, “I don’t know. I didn’t try them yet.”

  She says, “Well?”

  So I scoop a big fork full of the grits and close my eyes and shove them in. I’m ready for the worst, and I’m ready to be polite about it. They’re warm and they taste like butter and pepper, and my eyes come open as the smile gets my face. I look at her and nod and spoon in another bite and say, “Eeese griphs are vurr…”

  Marvadell says, “Boy, don’t you talk to me with your mouth full of food,” and she’s gone.

  I’m finished eating when Grandma Hollister comes out of her bedroom wearing her nightgown. Her hair is up in a plastic shower cap, and she’s holding two fingers to her forehead. She looks at me and blinks like she forgot I’m here. “Travis?”

  I say, “Good morning, Grandma Hollister.”

  She smiles a kind of sicky smile and says, “Oh, Travis, your grandma has such a headache this morning. I always get them when the storms come through. The doctor says it’s something about the barometric pressure.” She gets a little brighter. “Did they teach you anything about weather in school, Travis, Honey?”

  I tell her some things I learned about clouds and snow and seasons, and she seems happy with my education so far. I don’t want to think about it. It’s summer, and a kid has a right to forget what he knows.

  Grandma Hollister goes into the kitchen, and I hear her tell Marvadell all she wants is coffee and toast, and I hear Marvadell say, “Humph!” That’s all.

  I’m out in the front yard, sitting on a root under the oak tree. The ground is soaked from the storm, and there’s a bird’s nest in a puddle over by the road. A big black cat was eating one of the baby birds when I came out here after breakfast. It made me sick. The mother blue jay tried to kill the cat with her beak. She dove and pecked at him, but he ignored her. He just pulled his ears in close to his head and hunched over and kept eating.

  I’m thinking about my dad. I’m wondering what he had for breakfast and what he’s doing without me this morning and what my mom is doing in that hospital. I don’t even want to think about the food they give her there. When I was in the hospital with the flu and almost died, the food was awful. It makes me sad thinking about the incense my dad gave my mom. I wonder if they let her burn it, and if it makes the pee and Lysol smell go away. I take out my wallet with Roy Rogers and Trigger on it. It feels good in my hands, and I smell it to see if my mom is on it, but it just smells like leather. It’s still got the five dollars my dad gave me in it, and I wonder how much a boat costs.

  I could put the empty nest back in the tree. Maybe if I climb up and put it on a limb, the mother blue jay will come back and lay more eggs and have some more chicks. She’s perched in a tree across the road, watching the nest. She’s as sad as I am, I think. The black cat is sitting in a patch of sun on a driveway down the street. I want to go down there and kick him in the head, but I know he just did what cats do, and he’d run before I could land a good kick.

  In the backyard, there’s more red dirt, and it’s shady under the oaks, but the sky is high and white and hot, and I’m sweating. Green vines hang from a big wooden frame in the backyard, and they have grapes on them. I want to taste the grapes, but they don’t look ripe. I look at the little house, the one Grandma Hollister said was necessary. I pull open the door and it’s dark inside, and it stinks so bad my eyes water, and I can’t see why it’s necessary. There’s a roll of toilet paper stuck on a long nail and a couple of old Life magazines beside a board seat with a round hole cut in it. I back off and take a deep breath.

  “Exploring, are you?”

  I turn, and it’s my Aunt Delia. She’s wearing jeans, and they’re cut off and rolled up above her knees, and she’s wearing white socks rolled down and her white tennis shoes with the pink laces. She’s got on a white blouse like the one she wore yesterday and lipstick that matches the laces on her tennis shoes. When she bends down to me, the gold cross swings out from her neck.

  “Ever seen one of those before?” She means the little house.

  I shake my head. I’m remembering last night, the storm, my Aunt Delia crying. All of it. She remembers, too, but she isn’t acting like it. She looks happy and fresh except for her eyes. They’re a little red and swollen, and they tell me not to mention what we did. She looks up and down the hill through the backyards. I look with her, and I can see two more necessary houses. “Kind of dumb, aren’t they?” she says.

  I nod. I don’t know where this is going.

  “Well, Travis old Killer, you’re learning about country people. You’re learning about the southern branch of the Hollister family.”

  “What branch am I?” I ask her.

  “You’re the uprooted midwestern branch. That’s what your grandpa says, anyway. He never wanted your daddy to leave Widow Rock.” She points at the little house. “Your grandpa comes out here about once a week just to keep in touch with his heritage.”

  “We don’t have those back home.”

  “Good,” says my Aunt Delia. “Would you like to go for a ride with me?”

  I’ve been out in the yard since Grandma Hollister went back to bed with her headache, and all I’ve seen is a couple of cars go by, and some people wave at the house, and no kids. I was hoping there’d be kids. I say, “Yes.”

  My Aunt Delia says, “Just yes?”

  I say, “I’d like that.”

  My Aunt Delia takes me for a ride. She says she wants to show me the confines of her prison. She wants me to see how small the town is. We drive down the street where the Hollisters live and turn on another street just like it, and at the bottom of a hill we come to the railroad tracks. There’s a gate across the tracks with red reflectors and a big silver weight that raises and lowers it. Down the track, there’s a little station, and I can see boxes and crates waiting to be loaded on some brown Seaboard Coast
line freight cars. The crates have Sifford Container and Packing Co. written on them in big white letters.

  We cross the tracks and turn right, and there’s a barber shop with a red and white–striped pole that looks like a candy cane, and a drugstore with green glass windows and a big sign on the front door that says, Cool Air. The blue letters of the sign are dripping with white-painted icicles.

  “That’s Tolbert’s Drugstore,” my Aunt Delia says. “That’s where the kids all hang out. All ten of them.” My Aunt Delia doesn’t look at me when she says it, and her voice is bored and maybe sad but not that sad.

  She turns on the radio and tunes it, and some scratchy music comes through. “We get the stations from Tallahassee and Birmingham,” she says. “Sometimes Jacksonville comes in pretty good. It depends on the weather, I guess.” I hear someone singing about being a teenager in love, and I ask, “Is that the Killer?”

  My Aunt Delia looks at me, then she throws her head back and shakes her hair. “Oh, you mean Jerry Lee? No, Honey, that’s Dion and the Belmonts. They’re cool though, don’t you think?”

  I watch my Aunt Delia. She wants to know if I think Dion and the Belmonts are cool. It’s called rock ’n’ roll music, and my dad doesn’t like it. When Elvis was on Ed Sullivan, before our old Philco broke, my dad turned him off. For a second, I wonder if Aunt Delia is making fun of me, like grown-ups do, but her eyes say she isn’t. She wants to know what I think. I say, “Yeah, they’re cool, but not as cool as the Killer. When can we hear the Killer?” I like saying that word, “Cool.” It reminds me of the sign in the drugstore window. It makes me feel grown up. It makes me like my Aunt Delia more than I already do, and that’s a lot.

  We listen to the rest of the song, and my Aunt Delia sings along. She’s got a pretty voice. “If you want to make me cry, that won’t be so hard to do. If you should say good-bye, I’ll just go on loving you.” I love the dreamy look she gets in her eyes when she listens to the music.