“Can I get you some tea?” Aunt Minnie asked the redhead. “Got some water on the stove.”
“I’m off tea,” she announced. “Makes me jumpy. But I’ll take me some coffee.”
“Got a pot of that right here,” Aunt Cleo sang out.
“Go bring Mrs. Grimes a cup of coffee, Orphea,” Aunt Minnie prodded. “Your aunt Cleo is right by the pot. She’ll pour it for you.”
I did as I was told, also setting some sugar, cream, and a spoon in front of her.
“I thank ye, thank ye,” Lola said with a nod.
Thank ye, thank ye? What country was she from?
Aunt Cleo took a deep breath.
“Well, now for the introductions—Mrs. Lola Grimes from across the road, meet our great-niece Orphea Proud come from Pennsylvania. Taking time out from school.”
“Hello, Ms. Grimes.”
“Call me Lola.” She gave me the once-over. “What happened to your hair?”
“I got a short haircut. It’s still growing out.”
She poured some sugar into her coffee. “Never get a boyfriend with a buzz cut.”
I looked at the floor. Already I didn’t like her.
“So, what happened? Did you drop out?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you drop out of school?”
“Not forever. I had trouble with math.”
“I hear you. Got a boy across the road who can’t read a lick.” She picked up her coffee. She slurped! Maybe she wasn’t that bad.
“The reason Raynor can’t read is because you keep him at home,” said Aunt Cleo. She pursed her lips. I’d never seen her look testy.
“My business,” said Lola.
Aunt Minnie lifted an eyebrow. “Good neighbors make good fences, Cleo.”
“I think it’s the other way around,” I added quietly. All three of them gave me a look.
“I saw a boy outside this morning. Was that your son?” I asked Lola.
“Only boy around here.”
“I saw him exercising.”
Aunt Minnie spit some tobacco juice into her coffee can. “Acting like a horse, you mean.”
“Kind of …”
Aunt Cleo tugged my elbow. “Horse complex!” she said in a loud whisper. Lola pretended not to hear.
“Hear me?” Aunt Cleo whispered again. “Horse complex!”
Lola slammed down her cup. “I thought we’d been over all that.”
“We have,” Aunt Cleo said quickly. “Ray is your son and you know what’s best for him.”
“He’s a talented boy,” said Lola. “He ain’t in school, but he keeps busy.”
“In a root cellar,” Aunt Minnie added.
“What does your son do?” I asked curiously. “Besides galloping?”
“He’s a painter.”
“House painter,” chimed in Aunt Minnie. “When the weather cooperates.”
“He paints more than houses,” said Lola. “You just have no idea, but someday you will. The whole world will know the name of Raynor Grimes.”
She put a quarter on the table and picked up the matches.
Aunt Cleo shoved the quarter back. “You don’t have to pay, Lola, you know that … for a teeny little cup of coffee.”
Lola stood up. “It’s for the matches. See y’all later.”
“Still working the night shift?” Aunt Minnie called after her.
“Long as I can get my car back up the hill,” she answered. The bell tinkled and the door slammed.
“She’s a barrel of laughs.”
“Grimes,” said Aunt Minnie.
“Yes, I heard. Does she work in town?”
“Chair factory. Glues legs on.”
“Lola loves it,” Aunt Cleo added.
“So, her son, Ray, really doesn’t go to school?”
“Not since he was kicked in the head.” Aunt Cleo sighed.
“Kicked in the head?”
“Yep.”
“And he’s really a painter?”
Aunt Minnie shrugged. “He was supposed to have done our house last summer, but it rained too much and then he got stung by a bee and Lola wanted him to paint that barn she has over there, and one thing led to—”
“I’m talking about painting. Real painting.”
“Painting a house is real.”
“Painting on a canvas or a piece of paper. Does Ray paint like that?”
“Lola claims he does,” said Aunt Cleo.
“The only thing I know about Raynor Grimes is that he likes root beer and cupcakes,” said Aunt Minnie. “Orders them every time he comes over here. Doesn’t come over much anymore, though. But he loved to run across the road when he was a tyke. ‘Tan I have a toot-beer and a tup-take, please?’ ”
Aunt Cleo laughed. “Had himself a little lisp. That Raynor Grimes was the cutest. So skinny; don’t know where he put all those cupcakes, though.”
I eyed the cupcakes on the shelf. “Those look a little stale.”
“He’s a good boy,” said Aunt Minnie. “No matter how funny he acts.”
“He’s also your cousin,” Aunt Cleo announced.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. We got Grimes blood. It’s right on my story quilt.” She pointed to a square with three black bars.
“No need to get into all that now, Cleo,” Aunt Minnie growled.
“Why not?” I asked.
“There are some things I just don’t like to talk about. That’s why.”
I sure understood that. “But what about this cousin deal? That boy I saw galloping looks white to me.”
“Grimeses are white,” said Aunt Minnie. “But the Prouds have got Grimes blood. Since all the Grimeses in Handsome Crossing are kin, that means that Ray is your cousin. That’s one reason we take such an interest in him. Never know who might be in your family. Ain’t it the truth?”
I thought of Rupert. Ain’t it, though.
Sugar pie, oh me, oh my
Racing in the snow
Can you carve a cave in ice
Where you and I could go?
Where I might free the sweet girl’s voice imprisoned in my ear
Where kitty cats with magic paws could make grief disappear
You and I could say our prayers and I’d get back my knees
For another day of play, for another day of ease
Tell me how the snow dares fall
Tell me how the heat does rise
Tell me how to laugh again with a frozen spine
“P” IS FOR—
Poetry
I hadn’t written since Lissa died. Not that I hadn’t thought about it. I’d brought my journal with me. I still owed twenty poems to Icky and Marilyn. Luckily, I hadn’t spent the two hundred dollars. But the part of me that wrote poetry had turned into a desert.
“P” is also for painting.
Lissa was a painter, and so was my new cousin Raynor Grimes.
But Ray was also a boy with a horse complex. That’s what Aunt Cleo had said, and that’s sure the way he acted. Every morning I saw him from my window, galloping. What a ham! He circled and pranced, even had the nerve to jump a fence. Then he looked up at me for a minute and darted away, as if he was daring me to come after him. So, I did. The problem was once I crossed the road, I couldn’t find him. I knocked at the door of the mobile home. Lola answered, half asleep. She slept most of the morning, since she worked the night shift.
“Yeah?” She was wearing rollers.
“Is your son around?”
“Do you see him anywhere?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking.”
She stretched her arm across the door, barring my way.
“He isn’t in here, if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s in the root cellar.”
“Where’s that?”
She yawned and shut the door.
I circled the house looking for stairs. A cellar was like a basement. Maybe there was an outside entrance. But I couldn’t find one.
“What’s a root c
ellar?” I asked Aunt Minnie once I was back in the store.
She had opened a new pack of chewing tobacco and was storing it in a pouch. “A root cellar is just what it sounds like.”
“How does it look?”
“Like a root cellar.”
Aunt Cleo looked up from her sewing. “Come thread me a needle with red thread, Orphea.”
I fished around in her sewing basket and quickly did what she asked.
“You have got the sharpest eye,” she praised me.
“Then how come I can’t find Ray Grimes?”
“Ray? Oh, he’s in the root cellar.”
“But where?”
“You sound frustrated.”
“I am. I see him running in the field, then he just vanishes.”
Aunt Cleo chuckled. “It’s over there behind the house somewhere or another. Probably grown over with trees. It’ll be close to the ground. You’ll find it.”
“Take him a root beer,” Aunt Minnie said. “He’ll guzzle that up.”
I rolled my eyes. Root beer would be the perfect gift for someone who spent all his time in a root cellar. I took the can of soda from the refrigerator case, put on my coat, and crossed back over to the mobile home.
It had been freezing cold since I’d come to Proud Road. My breath froze on my face. Now I was holding an ice-cold soda, to boot. I tromped in the snow to the back of the Grimeses’ house. Ray’s tracks from the morning were everywhere.
I walked behind some trees and spotted a light. It seemed to be coming out of the ground! I followed it to a small window hidden behind a fallen bough. A sort of camouflage affair. The window was part of a small stone building half buried in the earth. No wonder I hadn’t been able to find him. I climbed behind the fallen bough and tried the door. It was locked. But a light was on. So I knew he was in there. I remembered that Lola said he liked candles. Maybe he’d fallen asleep and was about to burn himself up.
“Ray! Are you in there?” I pounded on the door loudly. “Raaay … are you in they-air?” It was embarrassing. I circled round and peeked in the window. He was on the other side of the glass staring at me.
I jumped, almost dropping the root beer. “Brought you something.”
He grinned and disappeared. A second later the door opened up.
I climbed down three small stone steps. Ray grabbed the soda. At first I couldn’t make out what I was seeing, the light inside was so dim. He had a candle perched on a stone in the corner. I squinted, trying to get my eyes adjusted. Then I saw! He was naked except for his underwear! His pale skin was painted all over. He was a walking tattoo.
“What the hell?”
Then I noticed that the walls were painted, too. Not painted a solid color, but painted with pictures. All horses! Phosphorescent horses in yellow, purple, maroon, blue—horses floating and flying and climbing and frothing at the mouth.
“A regular psychedelic rodeo you got here!”
Ray grinned and downed his root beer. “You guessed it.”
“It really is a rodeo?”
He nodded.
“It’s great. You’ve got every wall covered. I’ve never seen a mural this good in my life.”
“That’s what Mama says.”
That’s when I noticed his brushes and pots of paints, scattered every which way.
“Are you some kind of mad genius?”
He looked baffled. “I took off my jeans because it gets hot in here.”
“I didn’t ask about your jeans. I asked if you were a genius.”
“Hell no,” said Ray. “I just got kicked in the head.”
I got down on my knees and peered at the wall. “Mind if I light another candle?”
“I’ll do it,” he said, scrambling to find his pants. He pulled out some matches and lit another stubby candle. He handed me the light. Then he scurried to a corner and climbed into his jeans.
“Don’t let me cramp your style,” I quipped.
“No problem.” When he turned around his face was red, but he didn’t put his shirt on.
“You must have the metabolism of a snake. If you haven’t heard, it’s winter.”
“It’s warm down here, I promise.”
“Kind of like an igloo?”
“I guess.” He motioned to a couple of cushions. “Wanna set down?”
I did. “So, your mother told you who I am?”
“I reckon. Knew you were a Proud by your face.”
I kind of liked that. “I’m Orphea. Thought I’d drop by. Heard you were a painter.”
He tilted the soda can up to his lips. “What else did you hear?”
“That we’re cousins.”
“Yeah. The old ladies told me that Prouds got some Grimes in them. I’m kin to them, too, I expect. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No … how about you?”
“Fine with me. Always wanted more relations. Them rich Grimeses who live down in town don’t want nothing to do with me. I’m glad to have a cousin, hope ’n’ die I am.”
“What’s that? You hope to die?”
“I said hope ’n’ die—it’s just an expression.”
“Oh, I get it—as in ‘cross my heart and hope to die’?”
Ray scratched his head.
“Forget it.” I settled back and looked at the paintings. “I think your horses are incredible! They’re so alive. And they’re really weird! I don’t know why horses aren’t purple for real. I think it’s a good idea. Lissa would like them.”
He tossed his straw-colored head. “They aren’t meant to be like real life. I’m not simple, if that’s what you’re thinking. Who’s Lissa, anyway?”
“My friend.”
He gave me the once-over. “So, how come you’ve been spying on me?”
“Me? What about you? Don’t tell me you weren’t doing all that galloping for my benefit.”
His eyes gleamed. “Oh, galloping is just a habit. I did gallop a little fancier because you were watching.”
“I knew it!”
He sat down in the middle of the floor. He dipped a paintbrush into maroon paint. I stared at his back. It was decorated all over with a small crescent design.
“Are those tattoos on your back?”
“No, paint. I did it myself with a piece of sponge. Horseshoes.”
“You sponge-painted your back with horseshoe designs?”
“Glued the sponge to a back scratcher. Looked at my back in the mirror while I was painting.”
“You really do have a horse complex.”
“Horseshoes are good luck,” he snapped. “Don’t know what you mean by complex.”
“You got to admit, it’s odd for a person to gallop around every morning and spend the rest of his time painting his back with horseshoes.”
“Odd for a person to spend all her time staring out the window, too.”
“I don’t spend all my time that way,” I protested.
He gave me a look. “You dropped out of school. Mama thinks you’re sad because you’re pregnant.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Well, how come you ran away here, then?”
“My brother kicked me out,” I blurted. “But don’t tell my aunts—it’s a secret. And don’t tell your mother.”
He turned back around and began painting a hoof.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah. It’s a secret. I understand. Now I have to paint, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. I’ll just watch.”
I curled up my legs and watched him paint. No wonder he was hot. His arms went fifty miles an hour. He painted over things he’d already done. I heard Lola’s car peel out. Then around four it began to turn dark. Outside the wind was whistling. Ray stopped to light more candles.
“When do you eat supper?” I asked him.
“In a while. Mama leaves something for me on the stove in the house.”
I stood up. “Thanks for letting me stay. I have to go help my aunts.” I opened the small wooden door.
“See you out the window.”
“Want to come galloping?”
“I don’t think so. But … can I come back here? I’ll bring you another root beer.”
“How about a cupcake?”
“Are you sure? Those cupcakes at our store are mighty stale.”
“That’s the way I like them.”
“Hey, Ray … you’re funny.”
“Thank ye, thank ye.”
“You’re welcome. Hope ’n’ die.”
I went the next day and the day after that. Watching him paint was like being swallowed by magic. Then one day I brought my journal. Since I was spending so much time there, I figured I might as well do something. But all I did was bite my pencil. Then I began scribbling a word. The same word over and over.
“What are you writing?”
“Somebody’s name.”
“Lissa’s?”
“How did you guess?”
“I don’t know, I just did. If you miss her so much, why don’t you call her?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t, that’s all.” I fumbled through my journal. I’d tucked a picture of her in the back. “Want to see what she looks like?”
He reached for the photo.
“It’s an old one, from ninth grade. But it still looks pretty much like her.”
He studied the picture for quite a while, then gave it back. “She’s pretty.”
“Her eyes are gray. You might not be able to tell from that.”
“My eyes are gray, too.”
I peered at his face. “I hadn’t noticed. So how come you’re not in school?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Have trouble reading.”
“That’s no reason to drop out.”
“You dropped out on account of your math.”
“Oh … right …”
“That’s a lie, huh?”
“Look, there are some things I can’t talk about. Let me ask the questions.”
“Okay.”
“How did you get kicked in the head?”
“That’s easy. A horse did it.”
“So that’s why you paint horses?”
“It’s only one horse I paint, just all in different colors.”
I looked at the mural. “There is something about the eyes that’s the same.”
Ray nodded. “His name is Saint. He’s scared.”
“How come?”
“He knows he’s going to get shot.”
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