“Exactly,” Alex said.
“My Lord!” Earlene was staring at Lester. “You can’t talk about the boy’s mother that way.”
“You haven’t met her, sis.”
“All right, enough,” Rebecca said. “Regardless of what you think, she is his mother, and she wants him back.” She looked at Alex. “But she can be reasonable. She was kind enough to let you drive up with Mr. Bray, as long as you’re home by Friday evening.”
“And what if we’re not?” Alex asked. As strange as the trip was so far, he didn’t want it to end.
“Then you’ll both be in some serious trouble. Mr. Bray will have no place to stay, and he’ll be looking at kidnapping charges. And you’ll have to deal with your mother’s consequences. I don’t think they’ll be pleasant.”
“So,” Lester said. “We’re all agreed. We get back Friday. That gives us time for a nice little visit.” He raised his glass of tea.
Alex raised his glass to Lester. It was a triumphant moment of sorts, but the thought of the old man ending up homeless threw Alex back to feeling guilty over the deal he’d made with his mother. Earlene and Rebecca raised and clinked their glasses.
“Sweetheart,” Earlene said to Rebecca, “I do hope you’ll be staying for supper. Selma’s making smothered chicken, and I’ve already made pineapple upside down cake.”
“Thank you so much, Earlene,” Rebecca said. “But I have to be moving on. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting the rest of my caseload because of these two.” She pointed across the table.
Rebecca hugged everyone, including a tight embrace for Alex, which made him want to hop into her little red Scion and stare at her all the way up to New York.
LESTER AND EARLENE sat across from each other at the kitchen table reminiscing about things Alex had no interest in. He felt the sinking approach of boredom. Selma pulled a broom from the gap between wall and fridge and began sweeping. Alex’s thoughts turned to dinner and how they’d manage to eat in this cramped kitchen while there seemed to be an ample-sized dining room next to it. But when he got up from the table and stepped into the adjacent room, he knew the reason. “There’s a bed in here,” he said to no one in particular.
Selma was standing behind him. She rested the broom against the door jamb. “That’s where Miss Earlene sleeps. Stairs got to be too much.”
In addition to the bed, there was a nightstand, a floor lamp and three piles of newspapers stacked about as high as Alex’s waist. A little nudge and they’d landslide out onto the blemished floorboards. On the opposite side of the room stood an old dresser painted glossy brown with runs and brush marks. There were about a dozen medicine bottles clustered on one half of the dresser top and nearly a dozen framed photos on the other side. It felt too personal to look at them.
He turned back to Selma. “She doesn’t use the second floor at all?”
“Twice a week, I help her up for a bath. There’s just the half-bath down here.” She pointed to a narrow door in the kitchen.
Alex wondered how anyone could survive on two baths per week. Then his mind went to where it always seemed to go when he was talking with pretty females.
Although he wasn’t privy to scientific data on the topic, he came to believe that black girls, on average, had larger breasts than those of white girls. And the God of Breasts was particularly kind to Selma. Alex’s eyes lingered at the grapefruit-size protrusions propping up her lime green shirt. Citrus Heaven. How he’d love to see those beauties in full glory. The mental snapshot brought him to full erection.
How could it happen so quickly? He had to think of something else. Then it struck him. “Selma,” he said. “Isn’t there a city named that?”
“Course there is,” she said. “That’s how I got my name—March on Selma, 1965, way before I was born, of course, but my grandma was there, and Dr. King was there. They called it Bloody Sunday, because the white troopers shot at us and beat us. But that’s what led to us getting our rights.” When she said these words, her chin became more prominent. She looked proud.
Alex no longer felt hot in the crotch. Instead he felt ashamed for thinking of her that way. This girl—woman, actually—was something special. “Have you been to Selma?” he asked.
“Quite a few times,” she said. “There’s a bridge where the march started and where things got ugly, but the people kept on walking. It’s a good place to visit.” She crossed her hands over her chest. “It stirs our souls.”
Alex felt proud of himself for being able to focus on her words and not on the place where her hands had just gone. He was becoming more mature.
“Tell you what,” she said, placing the broom back to its original slot, “let’s get your bags into the house before supper. Rain’s coming.”
He followed her through the kitchen while Lester and Earlene debated who had the worst medical ailments. Lester seemed to be dominating the contest until Earlene pulled back her sleeve, revealing a hideous scar that ran from the bottom of her sagging arm to someplace Alex didn’t care to know about.
“That’s nothing,” Lester said, “just cosmetics.”
Outside, Alex opened the trunk and pulled out his duffel bag with one hand and Lester’s old Samsonite with the other.
“I can help,” Selma said.
“I’m fine, you just get the trunk.”
She slammed the trunk. “You can’t carry both those all the way upstairs.”
“Sure I can.” He began lumbering his way forward, step by awkward step.
She got in front and held open the kitchen door. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were showing off.” She capped off her words with a smile.
It was true, he realized, and it made him flush. Thankfully, she marched ahead, passing through the makeshift bedroom and into the living room. She stopped at the foot of the stairs. “You ought to let me carry one of those bags. It’s steeper than you think.”
“I can manage,” he said. Although the luggage had become unmercifully heavy, he wasn’t about to wimp out. “I’m working on getting into better shape.” It was totally the wrong thing to say.
She smirked then glided up the stairs, humming a playful melody.
There were three steps up to a landing. Turn left. Another seven or eight at an insanely steep pitch. He took the first three by storm then rested the bags on the landing. His breathing sounded almost like Lester’s. He pivoted his body and bags for the final ascent. Lightning flashed about the room. Then the growl of thunder, just as Selma had predicted. He lunged forward, pulling and dragging the bags, each step making its own prehistoric crackle. A few seemed to pop under excess pressure, but they held strong. And Alex was feeling strong. He stood with the bags at the top of the staircase. Victorious.
“Took you long enough,” she said. “I could’ve taken a nap up here.”
“Funny,” he said, but couldn’t think of a decent comeback.
“There’s three bedrooms, but only two still got beds in’em. I recommend you take this one here.” She pointed to the room at the front of the house, directly above the living room.
“You’re the boss,” he said.
“Ooh, I like the sound of that.”
A roar of thunder, and then the rain began pounding the house. Just like it had pounded Lester’s Cadillac in Statesville. But instead of driving lessons, he got a cooking lesson, courtesy of Selma. And he got to sit across from her at dinner and sneak looks at her the whole time. If she had noticed, she didn’t say anything. And no one got into trouble over his roving eyes. It was a sweet evening.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The single item on Alex’s morning agenda was to find a decent place to exercise. He made his way down to the kitchen where Earlene and Lester sat across from each other, reading sections of the Montgomery Advertiser.
“Good morning, Alex,” Earlene said. “Such a glorious day after all that rain.”
“It’s bright out there,” Alex said. He stopped in front of the fridge without openin
g the door.
“Don’t be shy,” Earlene said. “Get yourself whatever you’d like.”
“Thanks, I’ll just have juice.”
Lester surveyed Alex up and down. “You look like you’re ready for the decathlon, kid.”
“I thought I’d go for a run.”
“You’ll get some looks if you run on the sidewalk.”
“Where’s a good place?”
“Here’s what you do,” Lester said, lowering his paper. “Go down to the middle school. It’s three blocks that way.” He pointed away from the center of town. “Last I remember they had a decent track. Run on that.”
Earlene reached across the table and touched Lester’s hand. “You don’t think he’ll want to join us?”
“Nah,” Lester said, half to Earlene half to Alex. “All we’re doing is driving around visiting some geriatrics and a cemetery. Kid’s got a better plan. Let him be.”
“Yeah, I’ll pass,” Alex said as he filled a glass with orange juice.
“Well, Selma should be arriving around nine,” Earlene said. “You can keep her company till we get back.”
“Sounds good,” Alex said. And suddenly a day in Terrell, Alabama, didn’t seem that bad.
Lester turned to the business of ridiculing his sister. He pointed to her bedroom and said, “What you doing with all those newspapers anyway?”
“I keep’em for reminiscing.”
“You ought to get yourself a computer. Less of a fire hazard.”
“I don’t smoke, and I don’t light candles. I like things the way they are.”
“World’s changing fast.” He sipped his coffee. “You’re a dinosaur, sis.”
“I do fine with my paper.”
Lester shook his head. “Let me have a look at that sports section.”
Dueling dinosaurs, Alex thought, as he stepped outside. Everything was wet and glistening under cloudless brilliance. The gravel driveway had turned into a patchwork of puddles and isthmuses. He walked a roundabout route to the front of the house and followed the sidewalk. Already he could feel that the day would be sweltering.
Three blocks, and there stood Terrell Middle School. It was a white saltbox, two stories high, with chipped paint and shutters that looked like they’d blast apart in a stiff breeze. A square cupola was centered atop the building—its clock stopped at three-thirty. If the school was even half white, Alex figured, the clock probably would’ve read quarter-after-eight. He was starting to think like Lester.
A vacant playground, still dripping wet, stretched along the shade of the school, and the track was behind the schoolhouse and playground. There was a black boy, probably eleven or twelve, running suicide sprints in the grassy center. The boy wore neon orange cleats that looked fresh out of the box. Alex gave a half-wave and began running clockwise.
He settled into a pace that seemed manageable for a long distance run—challenging enough to work his cardiovascular system, but not so fast that he’d have to stop and pant and embarrass himself in front of the boy. As he rounded the second bend, he noticed that the boy had four Gatorade bottles spaced evenly along the length of the field. The first bottle served as home-base. The boy ran from home to the second bottle, reached down, touched it, then he ran back to home. He ran to the third bottle, touched it, and so on. The kid had been running before Alex arrived, so there was no telling how many cycles he had completed. But a narrow streak of ripped grass from the first to fourth bottle suggested he’d been at it awhile.
By lap three, Alex was sweating and breathing vigorously. He cut his speed slightly. Meanwhile, the boy kept sprinting—far faster, Alex knew, than he’d ever be able to run. It didn’t help that his left heel began aching, and he was thirsty to the point of lightheadedness. After completing lap twelve, he decided to call it quits. He slowed to a jog and stopped at a bench where he did a series of push-ups, sit-ups and stretches. While lying with his back twisted away from the field, he heard grassy footsteps approaching. “What you doing wearing shoes like that for running? Them are basketball shoes.”
Alex turned to face the speedster boy. “They’re all I brought with me.”
“Want some Gatorade?” The boy extended a bottle toward him. It was half-filled with green fluid.
Alex immediately thought of germs and germ-borne illnesses. Then he figured the kid wanted money. “I can’t pay.”
“No charge,” the boy said.
Alex uncapped the bottle, suppressed all thoughts of disease and drank the contents in one swig. It was warm but satisfying. He looked up at the boy and said, “You’ve got some serious speed.”
“I know,” the boy said. “My uncle says I’m gonna be the next Bo Jackson. I’ll go pro after my junior year at Auburn, and I’ll buy everyone I like a mansion.”
“Who’s Bo Jackson?”
The boy looked at Alex all screw-faced. “Where you from?”
“Upstate New York,” Alex said, “Albany.”
“Man, you New Yorkers don’t know nothin’.” He took the empty bottle from Alex’s hand and walked away.
Alex rose to his feet and noticed that his heel was still bothering him. The boy was right. The shoes were all wrong for running. He’d have to limp his way back to Earlene’s house.
Up ahead, he could see four black kids hanging out on the sidewalk. As he got closer, he saw that one of them was a girl. She was dribbling a basketball, talking louder than the others, like she was the leader. The others were boys, all about Alex’s age, maybe older. Half a block away, he realized the group wasn’t about to step aside for him. He’d have to make a semi-circle onto someone’s lawn or out onto the street. His thoughts shifted to getting life from the shitty end of the stick. He pictured himself poor and black and stuck in a town with no opportunity. As he began circumnavigating the group, one of them said, “Hey.” But Alex was lost in his own mental picture.
“I said hey, boy!” same voice only louder.
Alex heard it this time, but he was past the group. He looked back and said, “Hey.”
The girl laughed and said, “You need to learn how to re-lax.”
The words struck him immediately. Dr. Kruger could have said the same thing ten times, and it wouldn’t have mattered. But it was different coming from her. She was totally right.
SELMA’S MALIBU was parked on the street in front of Earlene’s house. Alex had watched her leave the previous evening from his bedroom window, watched her open the driver’s side door. That’s when she hesitated, looked up and smiled. He tried to make it look as if he was squinting at magnolia branches, like he was some budding arborist. A lame attempt, and the embarrassment was still fresh.
It would be another source of embarrassment if she got close to him, sweating and stinking the way he did. He hoped to make a dash for the upstairs shower without interference, but the front door was locked. So he gimped past the shrinking puddles in the driveway and peered through the kitchen door window. There was Selma washing dishes at the sink. No chance of avoiding her. He opened the door and entered.
She turned off the faucet and looked at him. “Saw you limping,” she said. “You hurt yourself?” She was wearing a pink t-shirt, sleeveless and form-fitting.
“Not really,” he said. “I just ran with the wrong kind of shoe.”
She looked down at his high-tops and smirked. “And here I thought you were smarter than that.”
“Apparently not.” He passed by her on the opposite side of the table.
“You’re still leaving tomorrow?”
“That’s right,” Alex said. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“I’ve gotta take a shower.” He turned away from her.
“I’ll wait to wash the rest of the dishes then.”
Puzzled, he stopped in the middle of Earlene’s bedroom and looked back into the kitchen. “Why would you do that?”
“Because the water pressure’ll be way off for your shower.”
“Oh,” he said, “thanks.”
He shook his head wondering what other quirks the old house had.
The pipes groaned and clattered as he tested the water and stepped into the scarred enamel tub. He couldn’t take his mind off her. As soon as the warm water struck his penis, it was bone-hard. He could masturbate, just to get rid of the pressure. But then he pictured her downstairs waiting to re-start the dishes, judging him harshly for taking such a long shower. It was no good.
Freshly cleaned, he dried himself off and pushed his saluting penis under the confines of his towel. He angled his body away from the staircase and opened the bedroom door. Then he shut it behind him. Something told him to lock the door. So he locked it.
“I was going to tell you to do that.” It was Selma’s voice.
He turned toward the bed. She was lying under the white sheet. Her whole body covered except for her head. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked.
His chest felt as if it were caving in on him, and his face was flushed, probably looked ridiculous.
“Can you keep a secret?” she repeated.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can…definitely.” He was afraid that if he spoke at any length, his words would come out all pureed and stupid.
“I can’t lose this job. You have to swear.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I swear, honestly.” And he meant it.
“Okay,” she said. “Drop the towel and slip yourself in.” She flipped down the nearest corner of sheet and slid away to make room. “I brought condoms.” She continued speaking, but he barely registered. He released the towel. His penis was staring straight at her. All he could think was that very soon he’d be seeing those breasts with his own eyes and touching them with his very own hands.
“Come on,” she said. “We may not have much time.”
He slid into bed, practically dove into it. His hand reached for her. He felt the side of her. She was naked. “No fair,” he said. “You already saw me. I can’t see you.”
She glared at him. “Men are so visual. Doesn’t matter if you’re black or white.” She raised her left leg clear of the sheet. “I guess you deserve a peek.” Then she pointed her slender toes toward the ceiling and cranked her foot a couple of times. “Happy?”
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