by Kim Holden
Tuesday, November 28
(Gus)
Bingo with Mrs. Randolph starts at ten-thirty this morning. She insisted I pick her up at nine-thirty. It’s only a fifteen minute drive. She’s dressed in a purple blouse and matching purple dress slacks. Her outfit highlights the lavender tint of her silver hair. She looks nice, and I know she put effort into her clothes and her coif this morning. She went ballistic when I showed up ten minutes late and said I’ve messed up everything and there won’t be any good seats or cards left by the time we get there. We’ll be fine, I assured her. It’s a goddamn game of chance; there are no good cards. And as far as the seats go, there are monitors all over the room with the numbers on them so there really aren’t any bad seats. Besides, I’ve been here before, and she hasn’t.
When we arrive, I stop in front of the entrance and help her out of my truck. I think she’s going to wait for me while I park, but when I return to the entrance she’s nowhere to be found. I freak out momentarily and wonder how I’m going to tell Francine I’ve lost her mother, but then I realize she’s probably already inside, buying her loot.
And that’s exactly where I find her. She’s at the cashier buying a stack of cards and two dobbers.
I pull a few twenties out of my pocket and try to pay, but she swats my hand away. “Put that money away, boy. This is my treat.”
I laugh at the sting she left on the back of my hand and shove the bills back in my pocket.
After she pays, she surveys the room and points me in the direction of an empty table in the front corner.
I point to two empty seats at the table directly in front of us. “Why don’t we just sit here?” I’m trying to save her the walk across the room.
She puts her hand up to shield her words. “Them people don’t look like the friendly-type.” Then she looks pointedly at the three women sitting across the table from the empty seats.
They don’t look friendly. They look territorial and they’re shooting daggers at me and Mrs. R. with their eyes. The vibe they’re putting off is far from welcoming. So, I follow her to the front corner and when I make sure she’s comfortable, I check my watch: five minutes past ten. “Hey, we’ve got some time before they start.” I turn toward the snack bar to see what they’re offering. “Looks like they’ve got quite a selection of delectable donuts and some damn tasty coffee. You want some?”
She’s arranging her cards in front of her. It’s meticulous, a science really. She doesn’t look up when she answers. “Don’t give me that delectable and tasty sales pitch. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
I laugh. “You’re right. Looks like they’ve got a sad selection of day-old donuts and shitty coffee. You want some?”
She grins at that, but still doesn’t look up at me. “I’ll take a stale, chocolate donut and a shitty coffee. Two sugars.”
I walk away laughing to myself. I love this lady.
We eat our donuts, which were, to our surprise, pretty damn delectable indeed, and drink our shitty, but sugar-filled coffee while we wait for the first game to begin.
When the first ball drops, I find out just how bad Mrs. Randolph’s eyesight and short-term memory is. She can’t read the monitors at all and she’s squinting to read the cards in front of her, even with her reading glasses on. After watching her struggle with the first few calls, I start repeating the letter and number aloud after the caller says it. I say it quietly to myself, but loud enough that she can hear me. “B ten, B ten,” I say repeatedly while scanning my cards and hers, as if I need the reminder while I search. I notice she does much better when I do this, so I keep it up for the remainder of the morning.
Mrs. Randolph walks out with four hundred-dollar bills. During the ride home, she's wearing a look of contentment and pride. I pull up in front of her house to drop her off, killing the engine and walking around to open the door for her and pull the walker from the bed of my truck. She tries to give me half. “Here, boy, you take this. You ain’t got no steady job. Everybody needs a little spendin’ money.”
I shake my head. “No, I can’t accept that. You won it. You keep it. And what makes you think I don’t have a job?”
“You’re almost always home. You don’t go nowhere, unless it’s out to the beach. You drive that old truck. And you just ain’t got no fire. Nothin’ drivin’ you.”
“I’m a musician. I’m in a band.”
“Say what? Why didn’t you mention that before?”
I shrug. “I haven’t played in a while.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess maybe you're right.” I sigh. “Maybe the fire died.”
She grabs my hand and holds tight. Her fingers are crooked with arthritis, but she’s pretty damn strong. “Listen to me, boy. You only get one chance at this circus called life. Don’t sit in the crowd watchin’ it happen. You jump right in and be the ringleader. That’s where you find your fire.”
“What if your fire died with someone else?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Here’s the thing about life, boy. We meet a lot of people along this journey. Some of them are sonsabitches and some are special. When you find the special ones you don’t take a moment for granted, because you never know when your time with them is gonna be up. I got over fifty years with my Fritz. Fifty wonderful years. When he died, I was lost for a few months. I lost my fire. But then I realized that life’s short and I had a choice to make. I could keep bein’ miserable, or I could go find joy and live again.” She’s squeezing even harder now. “If you only listen to one thing this crazy old lady tells you, I hope it’s this: ain’t nobody gonna stoke your fire but you, boy.” She looks at me hard with her grey, cloudy eyes. “You go make life happen.”
I nod.
She smiles and loosens her grip and releases my hands. “So, you any good?”
“At what?”
She huffs. “At music, boy.”
“I’m all right.”
“All right?” She gives me a scolding look. “Have some pride. Tell me you’re good. I have a feeling you are. No need to be humble with me, we’re old friends now.”
I smile and nod and then I lay it on thick for her because even though she’s got me thinking, I can’t be serious. “I’m fantastic.”
She rolls her eyes at my sarcasm and answers with a little of her own. “Who do you think you are, Elvis Presley? The good lord only done made one of those.” She pulls the bingo parlor schedule from her purse and begins fanning herself with it. “That man certainly had himself some fire,” she adds under her breath.
I laugh. “Have a good one, Mrs. Randolph.”
Thursday, November 30
(Gus)
Ma is in the kitchen, wrapped in a bright red apron, up to her elbows in dead carcass cooking glory this morning. I’ve been a vegetarian since I was fifteen, and Bright Side and Gracie were, too, so Ma hasn’t cooked a bird for Thanksgiving in years. I’m severely outnumbered by carnivores this year, judging by this gigantic turkey. Good thing she’s making shitloads of green bean casserole and sweet potatoes to accompany that pumpkin pie. I’ll be in food heaven all afternoon.
Ma and Impatient are both in the kitchen when I check in. “Need any help?”
Ma smiles. I haven’t seen her this happy in a long time. She only busts out her apron when things get hardcore. “I don’t think so, honey. Scout and I have everything under control. But, can you get some more whipped cream when you go to the airport.” She looks pointedly at me. “Someone ate all of it.”
I raise my eyebrows and shrug my shoulders, feigning innocence.
She smiles again. “I don’t want Stella to have to eat her pie with no whipped cream.”
“I’ll buy extra.” I look to Scout. “Wanna ride with me to the airport?” I don’t really know why I’m offering because I know she needs to help Ma, but I can’t help but feel protective of her after all the shit that went down last week. Plus, I like being around her.
She nods her h
ead toward the front door. “When we’re done with this, I’m gonna go for a run while I can. Thanks, though.”
I nod. I understand, but disappointment tugs at me.
After a quick cigarette, I take Ma’s car (because I can’t get everyone in my truck) and head to the grocery store. Four cans of whipped cream and a Twix bar and I’m out the door and on the way to the airport. Keller and Stella’s flight gets in about twenty minutes before his father’s. I find the closest parking spot I can, which is like finding a needle in a haystack on a holiday weekend, and head to baggage claim. I’m early; it’s a miracle. I take a seat and people watch. The airport is crowded and bustling with hurried people. Emotions range from extreme irritation to complete, off-the-charts happiness on the faces before me. You can both see and feel which people are doing holiday travel out of obligation, and which ones are amped up on the prospect of what’s to come. I like watching the happy ones. It feels almost therapeutic, like a reminder that this life is all about embracing the good and making the most out of the good moments, even if they’re fleeting.
As I’m watching the masses, I catch the eye of a teenage boy. He’s probably sixteen. He’s standing by the baggage carousel with two adults—I’m guessing they're his parents. He’s keeping a distance from them that says, I’m not with these people, but I have a feeling they're family. He has earbuds in his ears, and he’s wearing a Rook T-shirt. For a moment, I debate my next move. I treasure being inconspicuous. On stage, I’m all about the crowd. Off stage, I’m just Gus. He’s open-mouth staring now; I’ve just been recognized, so I wave him over. He looks behind him with wide eyes, as if I’m gesturing to someone else. When he looks back at me, I nod and smile and wave him over again. He says something to his mom quickly and points to me. Her eyes widen, too. This kid has his mom’s eyes. She smiles and nods and I see her mouth form the word, “Go,” and he walks quickly toward me, but not so quickly that he’s lost his swagger. Teenage boys know how to work the image-thing, 24/7.
When he’s standing in front of me, I hold out my hand to bump knuckles. “S’up? I like the shirt.”
He glances down at the crow on his shirt like he doesn’t know what to say and pops the earbuds out of his ears.
“What’s your name, dude?”
“Josh.” The swagger is fading and nerves are taking over. I was this kid not so long ago.
“What’re you listening to, Josh?”
He smiles. He’s trying to hold it back for the sake of appearance, but he’s too nervous and excited. He’s fidgeting with the earbuds in his hand. “Rook,” he answers.
I smile again. “No shit?”
He shakes his head, but says quickly, “No shit. You guys kick ass.”
“Thanks, dude. Traveling with your family today?”
“Yeah, going to see my gran in La Jolla for Thanksgiving.” He glances back over his shoulder and his mom and dad are standing at a distance waiting patiently with what looks to be all of their luggage.
“Well, have fun. I’d better let you get back to la familia; it looks like they’re waiting.” I stick my hand in my front pocket and pull out a handful of change. In amongst the coins are two guitar picks. Don’t ask me why, but ever since I started playing I’ve always carried a few around with me. I hand one of the picks to him.
A smile appears on his face appears instantaneously. He looks like he’s ten years old instead of sixteen. It’s funny how joy unleashed makes a person seem younger. “Thanks, Gustov.”
I pat him on the shoulder. “It’s just Gus, dude. And you’re welcome. Tell your gran I said hey.”
He nods, still looking at the pick in his hand. When he looks up at me sheepishly, he says, “You think I could get a picture with you?”
“Absolutely.” I hate having my photo taken, but I’ll do anything to keep that smile on this kid’s face.
He calls back over his shoulder while he pulls out his phone from his pocket, “Mom, can you take our picture?”
She practically runs over as if she’s been waiting all her life for this moment, like there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for this boy. It reminds me of Ma. I know how lucky they are to have each other.
I extend my hand. “Hey, Josh’s mom. I’m Gus.”
She accepts my hand and shakes it vigorously. “Oh, I know who you are. Josh has posters of your band all over his room.”
Josh protests, mortified. “Mom.”
She nods an apology to him and smiles at me. We pose for a couple of shots. I even ask them to take one with my own phone.
When they walk away, I feel good. Not because I’ve been recognized and praised—I certainly don’t need the praise. I feel good because I just made that boy happy. I gave him a guitar pick and he looked at it like it was a goddamn gold bar in his hand. Bright Side always said our music made people feel something. I think I know exactly what she meant. Because right now, I feel it.
A text alert comes from the phone in my pocket a few minutes later.
KELLER: On the ground. Meet you at baggage 23C.
GUS: No hurry. I’m here.
Ten minutes later, Stella is running at me full throttle and squealing my name. “Gus!”
I stand and scoop her up when she crashes into my legs. She’s grown a lot since I saw her in January. “How’s my favorite pint-size girly?”
She giggles. “Good. We just flew on an airplane. It was fun.”
I nod. “You like flying?”
She answers absently. “Yeah,” she says, draping her right arm around my shoulder and grabbing my ponytail. She runs it through her hand once, scalp to the end and then cranes her neck over my shoulder to take a look. “Your hair is really long, Gus.” She says “really” like two separate words.
I laugh.
“It’s so pretty.”
I feel like one of her dolls, but I accept the compliment. “Well, thank you, Stella.”
Keller finally approaches; he’s out of breath as if he’s been chasing her through the entire airport. He extends his hand to shake and in between deep breaths he says, “Hey, Gus. Sorry about the ambush. I’ve got a runner.”
I laugh. “No worries. A Stella ambush is the best kind of ambush.”
He laughs with me. He looks a little tired, but he looks good. His hair is longer than when I last saw him. There’s a lot of it poking out from under his beanie. “I just need to grab our bag and Stella’s booster seat.”
“Take your time. I’ve got all day, dude.”
I sit down with Stella in my lap and she proceeds to fill me in on Miss Higgins, her turtle, and life in Grant while we share the Twix bar I brought for her. She loves it in Grant, but I think she’d love it anywhere Keller is. She idolizes her dad. I know how she feels; I feel the same way about Ma.
Before long Keller returns with their belongings, and not long after that Keller’s dad arrives. Stella goes apeshit upon sighting him. She’s squealing excitedly and jumps off my lap, but before she can make a break for him Keller’s got a handful of the back of her shirt. He’s quick. He looks at me and mouths, “See, a runner,” but he’s smiling. She’s giggling and waving her arms, trying unsuccessfully to get away.
After his dad hugs Stella, he hugs Keller, which puts me at ease. I remember Bright Side saying they had a pretty strained relationship.
I extend my hand by way of introduction. “Hey, Doc Banks. I’m Gus.” I saw him at Bright Side’s funeral, but I didn’t stick around long enough to talk to anyone. This is our first encounter.
He shakes my hand, nods his head formally. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you, Gus. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I nod and look to Keller. “Good or bad?” I ask. “What have you been telling him?”
Keller laughs and claps me on the back. “It’s all good, man. It’s all good.”
The conversation on the ride home is dominated by the tiny redhead in her booster in the backseat. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Daddy, can we make a sandcastle
again when we get to Gus’s?”
“Tomorrow, baby girl. Today’s Thanksgiving. Audrey’s making lots of yummy food for all of us today. Maybe we can play a game inside after dinner, okay?”
“Okay.” It’s as easy as that.
I can’t help but smile at how agreeable she is.
“Gus, you wanna have a play date with us tomorrow and make sandcastles on the beach?”
“Heck yeah, Stella.”
At that, she cheers, “Yay!” And then she sings, “We’re gonna have play date. We’re gonna have a play date.”
When we get home, Ma greets us all at the door with a hug, because that’s what Ma does.
After all of the hugging, I gesture to Keller and Stella to follow me down the hall toward my bedroom. Impatient walks out of her room just as we approach. Keller looks startled when the bedroom door opens and someone walks out. I see him look inside the room, and I can’t help but notice the sadness in his eyes. He's thinking about Bright Side. I live here, but Keller hasn’t been here since Bright Side’s last days. It has to be shocking to see the room where she died after all these months.
Stella breaks the silence for all of us. “Who are you?” she asks curiously.
Impatient looks down and a smile lights her eyes as she squats down in front of Stella. It’s a smile that transforms her, patient and loving. Some people just love little kids. I’m one of them. So is she. “I’m Scout. What’s your name?”
“I’m Stella.” She tugs on Keller’s pant leg. “This is my daddy. His name’s Keller.”
I have to laugh, because Stella’s so goddamn cute. Impatient looks up at Keller but doesn’t stand. “Hello, Keller.”
“Hey … Scout was it?” He’s being polite, but he still looks a million miles away.
She nods.
I motion for Keller to follow me. “Why don’t you put your stuff in here? You guys can crash in my room.”
Keller shakes his head, but he’s still in a fog. “I don’t want to put you out. Stella and I can sleep on the sofa. We’ll be fine for a few days.”