“Mind explaining?”
His fingers dripped green. He wiped them off with a sponge. He covered his legs with a blanket.
“When I was eight years old, I went to a rodeo with Mama and Jerome. I went off by myself to the corrals, while they were winning me a stuffed animal.
“There was a real powerful horse named Saint. He was a star in the rodeo. He was snorting and pawing the ground like crazy. His leg was tethered. So, I hopped in to help him.”
“You hopped into a corral at a rodeo? No wonder you got kicked in the head!”
“Folks were scared of Saint. But for some reason I wasn’t. When I climbed into the corral, he calmed down. He let me on his back. I was going to ride him.”
“Are you telling the truth or is this some kind of tall tale?”
“I was on his back for just a minute. I whispered in his ear. Then I got off his back and kneeled down next to his foot. He got spooked and kicked me. After that, I went to the hospital. I didn’t wake up for a long time.”
“Man, you could have been killed!”
“I was trying to let him go free. Saint was a good horse.”
“Where is he now?”
“People got upset with Saint. They thought he’d set out to kill me. They said he was crazy and good for nothing, so they shot him. And it wasn’t even his fault.”
“It wasn’t yours either, Ray,” I told him. “You were just trying to help. You were a little kid.”
“He was beautiful. That’s what I whispered in his ear. ‘Saint, you are beautiful.’ ”
“Did your brain get hurt?” I asked quietly. “Was there damage?”
“I expect, though I can’t tell the difference. Anyway, Lola says I missed so much school, I’d never catch up in reading. Since I have a talent at painting, I might as well do that.”
“You are very talented. At least I think so.”
“Would Lissa think so?”
“Yes.”
Ray touched the wall with his brush and painted a blue mane.
One evening, Lola caught me out in the yard. “You’re spending a lot of time with my boy.”
“I like his paintings. Anyway, he’s my cousin.”
“Don’t go foolin’ around.”
“With Ray? He’s a kid.”
“So are you, missie.”
I stood taller. “I’m sixteen.”
“And little Ray is mighty cute. I saw you with him through the window. Ray was near naked.”
“He gets hot,” I explained. “I’m not going to tell him how to dress when he paints. Besides, I’m not remotely interested in dating my fourteen-year-old cousin. Another thing—I’m not pregnant. Ray told me that’s what you think.”
“Still waters run deep. Why are you here? It ain’t because of your math.”
“I’m here because my aunts want me here.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it’s something I’d come to believe.
“Sorry to get your back up. I worry ’bout Ray. He needs protecting.”
It was about two weeks later. I finished my chores for the day, scouring out the oven in the kitchen and setting the mousetraps. I grabbed the last of the root beer out of the refrigerator case. When I closed the door to the case, Aunt Cleo’s head popped up. She was over by the cash register, snoozing as usual, wrapped up in her quilt. “Can I help you?”
“It wasn’t a customer, Cleo,” Aunt Minnie said. “Just Orphea running across the road as usual.”
“When is the soda delivery coming?” I asked. “We’re out of root beer.”
Aunt Minnie grunted. “Spring. He’ll drink ginger ale, I reckon. Next time take him one of them.”
The day was overcast but not as cold. I’d been on Proud Road for six weeks. The daylight was lasting longer. Ray and I had fallen into a routine. Every day after chores, I went over. He painted. I sat. The whole idea of writing had gone down the tubes. This particular day when I got there, something unusual occurred. The door to the cellar was padlocked. Whenever Ray locked his root cellar it was always from the inside.
I knocked. “Hey, Ray! It’s me! Are you in there?”
He stepped out from behind a tree. He wasn’t wearing his coat. He did, however, have on his shirt and jeans.
“Good morning. Going for a gallop? Didn’t see you out here earlier.”
There was a glint in his eye. “I was up all night.”
“Painting horses?”
“Not exactly.”
He unlocked the padlock on the cellar door with an old iron key. “Didn’t want to take a chance on you getting here before I woke up.”
“What’s going on?”
He propped open the door with a loose rock. The cellar walls were washed with light. To my right, I saw the usual horses. But directly to my left I saw something that hadn’t been there before. A life-size girl with pale gray eyes, taking up a whole wall! I drew in a breath. Lissa!
“How did you do that, Ray?”
He had gotten her just right!
“You showed me her picture, remember? But then she kind of painted herself.”
“She looks so alive.”
“Glad you like it.”
He’d managed to capture the light in her eyes, her moon-shaped face, her long arms and thick black braid … she was wearing an orange blouse.
“Orange was one of her favorite colors. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. Color just goes good with her hair.”
I felt a stab in my chest. “I miss her, Ray.”
“That’s what you keep saying. Ask her to come for a visit. She can stay with us, if your aunts ain’t got the room. She can sleep in my bed.”
“Thanks, that’s sweet. But there’s a reason she can’t visit. She died.”
He hung his head. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“It’s a secret. Don’t tell my aunts, okay? And don’t tell Lola.”
“If that’s what suits you.”
I sat down in front of the portrait. I couldn’t stop looking at her, even though it hurt.
Ray scooted for the door. “I’m going to my house. I ain’t brushed my teeth.”
“Want to know another secret, Ray?& I loved her.”
“Same way I loved Saint?”
“Sort of …”
The tears I’d saved up since I came to Proud Road began to trickle out.
That night I tossed and turned in the little bed in the loft. Seeing Lissa in the root cellar looking so alive made me remember how happy she made me; and that made me remember that she was gone. I got up and tiptoed downstairs. Aunt Cleo and Aunt Minnie were sound asleep in their room, both of them snoring. The only light came from the glowing embers in the potbellied stove and the half-moon out the window.
I felt my way to Nadine’s room and sat stiffly on the side of her bed. The room smelled like musty lavender. Was that the way she had smelled? I tried to remember. She had smelled like … herself. But what was that? I began to cry again. The memory of her fragrance had disappeared. I peered at the walls covered with pictures of Nadine as a child. Since I’d shied away from coming into her room, I hadn’t yet gotten a good look at them. And now it was too dark to see. But I could feel her all around me.…
She had lived in this place before I existed. She’d gone away and had me. Then she’d left the world. And me.
Mom, some things can’t be forgiven
The orange skirt put out in a bag
Never mind it was ruined
Your voice turned to vapor
The thousand braids, the hugs
All gone
Yet I remain to blow out my candles
Year after year, clenching in my fist
The same futile wish
That you were here
THE GIG
Not long after that, I started writing. My brain was wormy with words; I couldn’t get them down fast enough. Ray was on to a new mural as well, so things were even hotter down in the root cellar. He whitewashed one of the walls and the ceil
ing and started all over with more Saint variations—that’s how I came to think of them. The portrait of Lissa he left; she was just in the middle of a rodeo was all. Sometimes Ray would ask me what I was writing. It was hard to say. I seemed to be blatting out my whole life onto the page. I wrote about Nadine and Daddy, Rupert and Ruby; mainly about losing Lissa, though. Most of the poetry was about that. After a while, I had quite a few poems. I had no idea that someday I’d share all that stuff I was writing with all of you. I began thinking a lot about Icky and Marilyn. I hadn’t been in touch with them since the day they told me about leaving for Queens. So I tried their cell number. Icky picked right up.
“Hey, kiddo! Where did you disappear to? We called you before we left, but your brother said you were visiting relatives. Wouldn’t give us your number.”
“I’m with my aunts down in Virginia. Sorry I didn’t call you myself. I was in the dumps for a while.”
“No more fertility pills, I hope?”
I chuckled. “Nothing like that.”
“So, written any poems?”
“I haven’t forgotten that I owe you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“How’s it going in Queens?”
“We got a place to stay and the whole bit. Renovating an old warehouse for the club. Going to call it Club Nirvana.”
“Cool. Well, I just wanted you to know that I have written a few poems, not twenty, but getting there.”
“Coming up this summer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Got to read your poems at the open mike.”
“I’m not sure they’re good enough, Icky. And … I don’t know if I feel like going anywhere.”
“I hear you. Lissa’s death will take time to get over, I expect.”
“I could mail you the twenty poems when I’m done.”
“No hurry.”
“I’m writing some other stuff, too.”
“Such as?”
“The story of some of the things I’ve been through … the story of Lissa and me. I’m not sure I want to read that at an open mike, though.”
“Listen, kid, you do whatever you like. But if you want a gig this summer …”
“A gig? A real gig?”
“You heard me. If you’re not up for it, you can just come and help me with the lights. Marilyn and I think you’re great, kiddo.”
“I think you’re great, too, Icky. Here’s my aunts’ telephone number and address in case you want to reach me.”
After that call, I wrote even faster. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking. I could never talk about what happened with Lissa and me in public! I thought I’d just send them my poetry. Or someday when I wrote about something else, I might accept that gig at Club Nirvana.
Out of my way, Giant
I’ve got bumblebees on my side
They’ll sting you with honey
And steal all your money
They’ll tan your hide
Now I don’t mean to threaten
But love is a weapon
It can slay you good as a gun
So out of my way, Giant
Your lazy day is done
PUZZLE
Do you ever feel like your life is a puzzle? Sometimes I do. A few months after arriving at Proud Road, I really felt like that. There were so many pieces of me floating around: me and Lissa, me and Nadine, me and Daddy; me and my aunts and me and Ray, me and poetry and Icky and Marilyn; my old life with Rupert and Ruby and my new one on Proud Road. And then there was the biggest puzzle piece of all, being “gay.” I say it was the biggest piece because so much space inside me was taken up in hiding it. I was hiding, no getting around it. I’d gone as far as telling Ray about Lissa, even told him I loved her. But I was pretty sure he didn’t get the actual gist of what I meant. And Aunt Cleo and Aunt Minnie—I’d kept them totally in the dark. They still thought I left home because of some problem with math. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t talk with them about Lissa and my being gay because I didn’t want to upset them. The truth is I was scared. I was pretty certain they wouldn’t knock me upside the head the way Rupert had; but suppose they asked me to leave? Suppose they didn’t like me anymore? Some people might call that a chickenshit way of thinking. Be who you are—if others don’t like it, screw them. But suppose you really, really care about somebody? And what if they find out something about you to make them not want to know you anymore? Or even be afraid of you as if you’re some kind of freak? I cared a lot about Aunt Cleo and Aunt Minnie. I couldn’t chance losing them.
Spring came. Icicles cracked from the eaves of the store, making big puddles. Runoff from the melting snow left the road with even more ruts. Lola’s car got stuck coming out of her driveway four times a week. Ray and I gave her a push every time.
“This mud is worse than the snow,” she’d mutter, skidding off down the mountain.
Over at our place, my aunts began their spring cleaning. I helped them take down the lace curtains and wash them gently in the bathtub. Then Aunt Minnie and I hung them out in the sun to dry on a clothesline strung between two trees. Aunt Minnie and I took everything off the shelves while Aunt Cleo did a final inventory. There were lots of stale cupcakes left, which we crushed up to add to some chicken feed. Aunt Cleo explained that every spring they bought a few chicks.
Across the road, Ray spring-cleaned for Lola, running the vacuum and washing the windows. She’d decided she wanted a paint job on the mobile home and had settled on lavender. So, Ray had to postpone our daily meetings in the root cellar. Sometimes I went over alone; I’d gotten so used to writing there. Lissa’s portrait was still on the wall, but when we weren’t in the cellar, we kept her covered with a sheet. Ray was cooperative about that. Even though he was dying to show off the painting, he’d even kept it from Lola, because I’d asked him to.
Every day after he was done painting their home, Ray took to coming to the store. He’d gone through the rest of the ginger ale and was working on a case of orange pop. He was kind of mad when he found out we were planning to use the stale cupcakes to feed our chickens. Sometimes he stayed for supper. But he still saved time for galloping. Sometimes I even joined him, but I couldn’t actually bring myself to gallop. Even though no one was looking, I was afraid to act like a fool. So instead of galloping next to Ray, I jogged.
There were lots of logs to split in the spring. We’d gone to the end of the woodpile and it was so chilly we still used the stove. Time and again Aunt Minnie coached me, but I still hadn’t hit the sweet spot. I’d take a log from under the porch and lean it up against a stump. I’d hit it with the ax, and the ax would get stuck. Aunt Minnie would watch me, chuckling.
“What am I doing wrong?”
“You’ve got to develop a feel for it. Once you hit that sweet spot, your troubles will be over.”
On a day when the first warm breeze was licking my face, I finally made a clean cut and split a huge log in two.
“I found it!” I cried, jumping up and down. “I found the sweet spot!”
All the snow vanished, except on the tippy-tops of the mountains. My legs got so restless! I walked up and down the road. Then I walked into the woods beyond the spot where I’d been splitting logs. The markers in our family graveyard peeked up through dark, soggy leaves along with some tiny white crocuses. My heart beat faster. This was the place where they’d lowered Nadine’s coffin into the ground. I tried to remember the details, but I couldn’t. Where was the mountain that I had seen? Where was the spot where they had lowered her? I got down on my hands and knees looking for her name. PROUD was on all the markers, but I didn’t see Nadine’s.
“She’s under the tree,” a voice said behind me. It was Aunt Minnie. She was standing there in a jacket and work boots.
“You and I were thinking the same thing,” she said.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to come here.” I got up quickly.
“Well, this is your mama’s.” She pointed out a spot a little apart
from the rest. “She used to like to climb that tree. So we put her under it.”
I crossed to the stone. My eyes scanned what was written on it. NADINE PROUD, 1970–1996. I turned away quickly.
“She played in the graveyard? That’s spooky.”
“There wasn’t much your mama was afraid of. A few ghosts wouldn’t have scared her.”
“Right. She did what she wanted to. That much I remember.”
“Your grandmother and grandfather are over where the rest of them are buried.”
My palms began to sweat. “Nadine never talked about them much. I can’t even remember how they died.”
“Train accident. My brother Thomas, your grandfather, was a porter. Good job. He took your grandmother Cassie on a trip to Chicago. Thomas was going to have a layover there and he thought they might as well … Anyhow, they left your mama with us when they went on their trip. After they died, she just stayed on. She was only ten. It was hard on her.”
The sun ducked behind the clouds. I suddenly felt cold. “Some family—I’m in a long line of dead people.”
“Some of us are still hanging on.”
“Nadine died so young. Does that mean I’ll die young?” I joked.
“Your life is all your own. It doesn’t have to be like your mother’s.”
A taste like iron came into my mouth. “You would think that Nadine would have tried to hold out a little longer—she knew what it was like to lose her own parents. She could have waited at least until I was eighteen before she died, instead of leaving me with that jerk brother of mine.”
“She loved you.”
“You know she used to sing opera? She went to this guy’s apartment and took me with her. Daddy didn’t know anything about it. After Daddy died, she didn’t sing opera anymore. She developed these headaches and could hardly get out of bed. She stared off into space. She couldn’t read a simple bedtime story.”
“Could be that she was sick for longer than we knew. If only Cleo and I had lived closer, we could have checked on her. When your father died, she was heartbroken.”
“She loved him?”
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