by Joanna Scott
“Aw, now when you put it that way I got to argue with you and say I know the difference between appreciation and foolishness as well as you, Erma, and when you remember how I was short on the getting for all of my early years, you’ll paint a kinder picture of me, coming up from the bottom of the heap as I did, hauling scrap metal with my daddy, missing out on school and smashing my kneecap when I slipped and fell carrying a rusty old iron auger, and then no money to pay the doctor so we went back into debt, we gave up our sugar and coffee and even our vitamin A. But you know how I stayed good as gold, Erma, and how when the next war came around I spent it working on equipment heading out to Korea, I learned my trade, and I came out ready to get some of the things I’d been wanting, you most of all, Erma, far as I can tell God made us a perfect fit, and as for my barbecue chips, well, they are exactly to my liking, it’s true, and maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe the manufacturers keep me in mind when they’re writing their recipes, who can say?”
“And every planked steak and every pineapple and every turnip and potato and beet, and every chicken wing with dipping sauce, every bottled beer and all the greens I heap on your plate, the TV shows, the magazines, the books I bring home, they’re all absolutely to your liking, eh, the stars are winking right at you, the sun is shining for your sake, the whole planet is to your liking because you’re living on it!”
“I can’t help it if I know how to turn even the bad times inside out and wear them with pride. I can’t help my good nature.”
“Just like you can’t help your good looks.”
“Nope. Can’t help that either.”
“Then I’m going to have to kick you to wake you up to the fact of what’s happening. Since September Jenny’s folks have been closing in on us. Now time is running out, there’s a court date set, and that caseworker has been sizing us up. You’ve seen the way she smiled, like she had reason to feel sorry for us. We’re going to lose Bo like we lost Kamon, all of it happening right here on this good planet while Heaven stands by watching and waiting for us to take charge, Sam Gilbert, waiting for us to think a thought or take a step!”
“You’re not starting on that again, are you? I thought that evaluator was plenty nice. And I’ll remind you we got Sue Bruno working on the case for us, and when you consider how she’s a woman who’s used to winning, why then you can believe she’s going to win us our boy. Trouble is it takes time, like anything else. When you consider how the light from the sun takes more than eight minutes to reach my appreciating face, why then you’ll understand about time. We are just going to have to be patient, Erma, that’s what we can do, we can be patient and wait for Sue to put together a case on our behalf.”
“I’ll tell you what she’ll put together! Smoke in the air, that’s what, and nothing she’ll say will make any difference, the judge will see white versus black and have no trouble deciding against us. We’ll lose soon as we walk into his courtroom, Sam, soon as we show our appreciating faces. So we’re not going to that courtroom, you hear? We’re going to turn and head in the opposite direction and make up a new story to take the place of the other, the one Jenny’s folks are planning to tell to all their friends and neighbors, how they went to court and got what’s due them, pulled their grandson up out of the pit of nigger-hell and bundled him up in a soft white blanket and took him home. No, Sam, we’re going to make up a new story, and if you just put your mind to it you’ll come up with a razzly-dazzly start, something like —”
“On a cold January day the old grandma tucked her grandson under her arm and took off running, and the old granddaddy ran after her, they ran out of the city and across a field and into the woods, they kept running through the night, and when morning came they tucked themselves against the trunk of a tree and tried to sleep, holding the boy in the center of their huddle to keep him warm, thinking to themselves that they couldn’t go on much longer like this, no ma’am, they were on their own and so stiff from the cold that they could hardly stand up and move on.”
“You’re taking too long to get to the happiness part, Sam, so it’s my turn. You go fetch the canvas bag from the basement, the one Kamon used to take to scouts camp, and you start packing our clothes.”
“Erma, you keep wanting to tell a different sort of story, the fact kind, the kind I can’t tinker with.”
“Let me spell it out for you, Sam: We’re going to take a vacation, so you pack two outfits for winter and three warm-weather outfits for both of us. And then you go fill up the car with gas, a full tank, Sam, and stop at the machine for as much cash as it will spit out, and I’ll pack up Bo’s stuff along with enough food to last us a few days at least, we’re going to be eating plenty of peanut butter sandwiches for a while so don’t bother complaining. When you’re ready you pull up behind the house and I’ll meet you there.”
“We run, they catch us, we might never see the boy again. Understand what you’re suggesting.”
“Listen to me, Sam — here’s something that came to me last night. I figured out what’s wrong. It’s not just losing Bo. It’s a hunch I got about those folks in Hadleyville. Now I know I’ve had hunches before, and most of them have been mighty ridiculous, but this one here won’t let up. I’ve got a hunch things won’t turn out well for Bo. Those folks don’t want him. I know they’re paying plenty in lawyer fees, I know they’re working hard to steal him away from us, I know they will be pleased to win. But they didn’t want Jenny around, and they won’t want her son. I can’t say why they’ve gone to all the trouble. But I got a hunch that once they bring him home they’re going to want him even less. It’s a hunch so close to the truth I wonder if an angel whispered it in my ear while I was sleeping.”
“You know as well as I do the way a human mind works. You know how a human mind can pull amazing stunts and trick us into believing that the desert is an ocean and the devil is God. It could be — now don’t be angry at me for saying this, Erma — but it could be your hunch comes from your own strong wanting. You want Bo to stay here where he belongs. So you come up with a hunch that suits the wanting —”
“It doesn’t matter whether this hunch comes from outside or inside, it’s making my heart beat fast right now, it’s pumping blood into these stout old legs, it’s telling me to pack up and go away for a while. Do you hear me, Sam. This isn’t just talk now. No matter whether you choose to come along or stay behind, I’m going away for a time, and I’m taking the child with me. Sam, you hear? Sam!”
“That old canvas bag, the one Kamon used for scouts?”
“Yeah.”
“Two winter outfits, three sets for summer?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’ll fill up the tank and meet you out back?”
“That’s what I said. Just don’t go honking the horn and waking up the neighbors. Go on now. Get to work.”
“I got my orders. See you in a bit.”
“See ya. Bye-bye. Go on!”
I guess I finally wore him down then, all the chattering I’ve done these last months. You know he’d prefer to let others decide the matter for us. But I say our only hope is to get out of here, try out someplace new and see if we can make it work, put this mess behind us until Jenny’s folks forget what they were wanting. Why? Because you belong to us, child, that’s why. Wouldn’t matter to that judge if you were Kamon’s carbon copy. Jenny was her mother’s daughter, and that mother wants you in her life and is ready to pay a load to get you. Easy as fitting the last piece in a puzzle. Trouble is, Bo, you don’t fit. Won’t matter to the judge. But it matters to me, so we’re taking you away, snatching you right out of the arms of the law, and on the count of three we’re going to vanish! Anyone else do such a thing I’d call them wicked. Then we’re all going to be wicked together, singing and joking and eating peanut butter sandwiches as we head south, leaving the rest of our family to guess what we’ve done, leaving without kissing them goodbye so they won’t be liable in any way. We’ve got to keep them innocent no matter how much
they’re going to miss us. You see they’d give up everything for us but we won’t let them, we’re going to sneak away tonight, Bo, that’s why I’m packing these bags, we’re going out into the cold and we’re going for a drive, we’ll keep driving until we find a proper summer and the flowers start blooming along the roadside and the ocean is warm as bathwater and nobody knows us from Adam.
Funny how it is, Erma with enough sense for both of us. But this job we’re about to undertake makes all the sparking service panels I ever handled seem like cotton candy in comparison, all the hot wires and cracked caps, they’re nothing to what’s ahead of us, running away from the law, sixty-five years old, me with my bum knee and Erma with her asthma, and here we are running away from the law. Comes from having our third baby so late in life, Kamon taking us by surprise in our middle age and then hurrying up to Heaven ahead of us. He never got used to waiting, did he? He couldn’t wait for tomorrow, always in a hurry, running up ahead of the rest of us when we were in an ambling mood, scampering around the curve of the park path, paying no mind when we called him, hiding in the branches of the magnolia, dropping soon as we spotted him and running on, leading us wherever. Now we’re getting set to run wherever, just wish I were better at it, younger, richer, braver. Instead I’m so sick with worry I can’t stop my hands from shaking long enough to zip up this duffel, wondering if I believe what I’m trying to tell myself, that everything is going to be all right, everything is going to be all right.
“How you making out, Sam?”
“I’m nearly set. I’ll go ahead and take the bag down and go get us some money. I’ll be seeing you, what, in about ten minutes, I’d say.”
“Ten minutes, then.”
“Round back.”
Now here’s Sam’s toothbrush and mine and Bo’s, our Crest paste, Sam’s razor and blades, my perfume and lipstick, Sam’s aftershave, my skin lotion, Sam’s aspirin, my Advil, our Ben-Gay, Sam’s prescriptions, my prescriptions, Children’s Tylenol and cough syrup, our hair scissors and nail clippers, my polish, my tweezers, Sam’s comb, my brush and pins, our antacid and fiber and vitamins, some tissues and towelettes, my jewelry, Sam’s reading glasses, my reading glasses, peanut butter, a loaf of bread, cookies, chips, a knife, a roll of paper towels, my wrist-watch, my pocket mirror, a pad of paper, a pillow, a blanket, a flashlight and batteries, a picture book for Bo, a book for me, another book for me, a book for Sam, a book for both of us, another book for Bo, maybe this other one here for me, and this one for Sam, maybe one or two more, no harm in that, a magazine for the trip, this soapstone heart Kamon gave me when he was ten, these photographs, old letters, postcards, an extra set of keys, stamps, envelopes, pots and pans and coffee cups and while I’m at it how about that old sitting chair Sam likes so much along with the sofa, the dining table, the lamps, the walls, here it comes, everything we own and every thought I’ve ever had in this house, every feeling, every moment of surprise, all the worry, one deep breath, come on, breathe, breathe, take the deepest breath you’ve ever taken, draw it all inside.
Then breathe it out, let it go, the copper wires you put in, the extra outlets, the fuses, all the washers on the faucets, the plastering and sanding, the pipes, the bookcases, the storm windows — on and off, on again and off, year after year — and all the snow I shoveled, the garbage hauled out on Thursdays, leaves raked to the curb, house scraped and painted, scraped and painted, scraped and painted, fence repaired, gate set back on its hinges, bulbs planted up at the corner, bushes trimmed around the street sign, driving away, driving home, driving away and home and away, driving home again one last time, home and away. Breathe it out now slow and easy, let it all go.
Moonlight lighting up the floor.
This gas station, this pump handle, this hose, this old Pontiac ready for the junkyard.
This telephone in its place, my voice.
This money in my hands.
My babies.
These streets.
This child.
These houses.
This child asleep in my arms.
“Hey there.”
“Shhh, don’t wake up Bo. Lift in that bag for me, will you, Sam? Just keep on sleeping, Bo, keep on dreaming. We’re going for a ride.”
“That everything?”
“Most everything we’re going to need. You give us a full tank?”
“And checked the oil.”
“Then we’re ready.”
“You sure?”
“Sure as I’ll ever be.”
Where are we going? he wanted to ask after he’d been awake for a while, but he understood just by studying the back of their heads that they didn’t want to hear from him right then. Instead he breathed circles of fog on the window and then licked the glass to make curlicues. Cold, slick glass against his tongue reminded him that it was winter. And nighttime. If Gran and Pop had chosen to drive off late on a winter’s night when snow was swirling in the air, then there must be something wrong. If Gran was holding her neck that straight and Pop was gripping the steering wheel with both hands and Bo wasn’t asleep in his own bed, then there must be something wrong. They were running from trouble. Not wandering step by step down the street picking up acorns and bottle caps but speeding as fast as they could away from trouble. They were running away and taking Bo with them. They were running away from a huge rumbling monster with yellow eyes and rubbery paws. Look, he was gaining on them, opening his mouth to crunch their car in a single gulp. Faster, Pop, faster! But Pop didn’t drive fast enough, so the monster pushed past them and barreled ahead in the left lane, disappearing around a bend in the highway.
They were surrounded by darkness again. Darkness tasted like canned pears that had been left for a week in the refrigerator. It is always better to head toward daytime. If you crawl through an old sewage tunnel beneath the road, you must hold your breath until you can breathe in the day. Never walk into the center of the night — walk away from it, up the steps onto the front porch lit by an overhead bulb.
What do you do when you leave a room?
Turn off the light, Gran.
As you slide into sleep, think about the morning. Drive toward the sun, though don’t get so close that your wings melt and your hair catches on fire.
Miraja liked to tap him on the arm and declare, You’re it! Pop and Gran were it now, and they were bringing Bo along for the ride. It, the thing you become when you’ve been left alone. Pop and Gran were alone together and were keeping Bo near for company, the way Bo kept Josie near when he was tried of being it.
“Josie!”
“Shhh, sweetie, that’s all right, now try to sleep some more.”
“I want Josie!”
“Hush.”
“I want her!” If they were running away from home, and Josie was still at home, then they were running away from Josie.
“I want Josie!”
“Hey Mr. Macaroni.” Pop glanced back at Bo in the rearview mirror. “You go back to sleep and I’ll give you a dollar when you wake up.”
Now that was tempting. “Two dollars!” Bo squealed.
“All right then, two dollars. Good night, you little comedian. And don’t worry about Josie, she’ll be fine.”
Josie would be fine — that’s as much as Bo understood, and he was trusting enough to believe that his grandparents would send for Josie once they were settled in their new home. Bo felt sorry for Josie but could comfort himself by looking forward to seeing her again. Where? If he spoke aloud Pop would know he wasn’t asleep, and Bo would forfeit the two dollars. He shoved his thumb into his mouth to keep himself quiet and scissored two fingers of the same hand around the smooth hem of his blanket. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. He imagined that he was playing bubble basketball with Miraja, chasing a bubble as big as his fist, puffing to guide it through the air toward the empty bucket. Then he remembered that Uncle Al had promised to teach him the Morse code. Then he thought that he’d like to build an obstacle course with string and paper
and pillows. He leaned his cheek against the window, opened his eyes, and watched the blur of the guardrail, like a stream of water flowing backward into the night. The snow had stopped but Pop hadn’t bothered to turn off the wipers, so they squeaked against the dry glass with every rise. Bo had the feeling that he was about to remember something he didn’t want to remember. Whenever that happened he counted to himself, from one to one billion trillion infinity. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
“My money, please. You promised!”
Somehow the sky had turned the color of the rug in his old bedroom, wherever that was, and above the trees Bo could see a stripe of glitter-red fingernail polish, the kind worn by his mama, whoever she was. Gran once told him that because his mama and daddy were watching over him, Bo was never alone. So he couldn’t get away with pouring his orange juice milk shake into the sink or drawing on the windows with a bar of soap or lighting a match without his mama knowing. Oh, he’d be in for it! For this reason he preferred to think of other things. Like the two dollars Pop owed him.
“Two dollars. Pay up, mister.”
“Shhh, Bo. Let your granddaddy sleep.” How could he be sleeping and driving at the same time? It couldn’t be done, even Bo knew that! But the guardrail wasn’t flowing past anymore, and the highway signs didn’t look like green-winged birds darting away from the car. So the car had stopped. Through the far window Bo saw a strip of road, another guardrail, and the highway. Through the near window he could see dimples in the snow where pinecones had fallen from the trees. He smelled the pine smell and car exhaust and Gran’s perfume. Pop slept in the front seat with his head tipped back, his breath making the sound of sneakered feet scampering down a staircase. Bo wanted him to wake up. He asked loudly, “Why’s Pop sleeping?”