South of Sunshine

  I cock my head to the side, Cheshire grin to boot. Fear and anticipation knot my stomach. What I’m considering could mean some serious retaliation, but I can’t let what they did to Bren go unanswered. I can’t let them think we will stand for that kind of treatment. People like Mr. Bobby fought for equality in the sixties; it’s my turn to stand up now. Most importantly, this town needs to wake up and join the twenty-first century. And I have just the idea to get their attention with a little gay pride. “Who says we can’t leave our mark?”

  “This does not bode well. We’re not going to do anything … illegal, are we?”

  I’m fully aware that he has just signed on as an accomplice to whatever it is I’m scheming.

  “It’s only illegal if we get caught.”

  Van’s eyes twinkle.

  Chapter 21

  I check the messages on the home phone again, hoping there’s one from Bren. Nothing. I called Bren earlier in the week with one long rambling message of apology. Not that I really expected her to call me back, but I had hoped.

  I also clued Van in on my master plan, knowing the only way it was going to go down without a hitch was if he swore to absolute secrecy. What we’re doing tonight is what I wish someone would have done for me. Like Mr. Bobby did a long time ago.

  He stood up for an injustice. When he did, he gave others the strength to stand alongside him. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t black. What mattered was people accepting others for who they were and letting them live equally. For others like me who live in shame or fear, I want to be their strength, their hope.

  My last instructions to Van were to dress in black, meet me at the Wal-Mart parking lot at nine thirty on Thursday night, and bring a flashlight. I’d take care of the rest. I throw on my dark jeans, a black sweater, and my black canvas Toms. The sweater is baggier than I remember, but it’ll do.

  “Where are you going?” Mother asks.

  I jump like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. She stands in my bedroom doorway with a dishtowel in her hand, staring at me. No anger in her voice or judgment in her eyes, but something hard in her face. Concern.

  “I uh … I know I’m grounded and can only go to school, work, and church, but … it’s just this one thing I wanted to do tonight. That’s all. Last-minute homecoming stuff.” Not a lie. I had no intention of sneaking out, unless she said no. I cross my fingers she doesn’t ask me who I’m going out with. I know she’s heard the rumors by now that Bren’s family is gone, so she doesn’t have to worry about that. But telling her I’m going on a secret mission with Van is also maybe not such a good idea.

  “Do you have a minute before you go?”

  The lack of the third degree shocks me. I hesitate to answer because I’m not sure if I’m walking into a trap or what. “Yeah … I guess.” I walk toward my door, but Mother surprises me when she comes into my room.

  “Talks” are usually held at the kitchen table. On instinct, I scan my room for stray clothing, unmade bed, or any other untidy infraction she might catch me on. My room looks utterly unlived in since I spend so much of my time at the truck stop and school. Betsy had no problem giving me the night off either.

  She takes a seat on the end of my bed and pats the space next to her.

  Yep. It’s a trap. I’m sure of it. Mother in my room at all, much less sitting on my bed—I can count on one hand how many times this has happened. Once when she told me I had to get my tonsils taken out, once when my grandfather passed away, and once when she told me my father left us. Only big events around here prompt my mother to have come-to-Jesus meetings. The only living grandparent I have is Nana, who was the epitome of health the last time we drove up to Nashville to visit her. Man, that was this past summer. I hope things didn’t go south for some reason. Old people are like that—healthy one day, dead the next.

  Regarding her like a grizzly bear, I make a big circle and sit on the far side of her. As if distance will somehow soften the blow.

  “This sweater looks too big for you.” She reaches to touch the black wool, but her hand doesn’t go the distance. “I don’t think you’ve been eating enough.”

  My mother is not in here to discuss my eating habits, which have been for shit lately.

  Maybe between the gossip about me and Bren’s father getting fired, my mother has already started to see a drop in sales. I knew all of this would affect us, but it doesn’t make sense that it could have financially affected us so fast.

  “You know, I could make you a bologna sandwich before you go, maybe some chips too.” Mother moves as if to stand, but I snag her by the elbow. I have to know what she’s doing.

  “I ate dinner already. I’m good. What’s going on? Is this about the shop? Are you worried about the factory closing?”

  “Oh no. Not worried about that, yet. There’s nothing like a half-off sale to get people spending again.” She tries to pass off a shaky smile, but I can see underneath she’s scared. “I heard the Japanese people are still considering us for one of their factory locations, but Larry Beaudroux doesn’t know the first thing about negotiations with foreigners. There’s just no way of knowing what’s going to happen.” She breathes a deep sigh and sits back down. The bed sags heavily from the burden she brings with her. Her hands wring the dishtowel into a chokehold.

  Then I know. This little chat is about sending me away. Somehow, she’s found a way to get rid of me sooner. The hairs on my neck stand on end. Life begins to seep out of me like water down a drain. The resigned gurgle is almost audible.

  Mother speaks but doesn’t look at me. “When I was in junior high, they found this black boy’s body next to the dumpster behind Big Star grocery. He had been beaten so bad, his own parents couldn’t identify him.”

  My heart drops to the floor. Mother never speaks about her past or of unpleasant incidents. It’s tacky and vulgar to do so. I keep as still as a statue. Scared that if I move, I’ll spook her and won’t get to hear what she has to say.

  She stares at the rag in her hand. “I don’t remember his name, but he rode my bus—a senior I think. You could tell he was different. Too flamboyant for the likes of folks around here. I do remember he had two little sisters and a little baby brother. His mother used to clean our church, but for some reason after that, they fired her.” Mother keeps her eyes pointed downward. A teardrop hits her dishtowel. A fat dot spreads on the absorbent cloth. She takes a breath. “One of the siblings died that year from pneumonia, maybe the baby. I don’t remember. I’ve always thought about that boy and wondered what horrible thing he must have done to get himself killed like that.” She pauses.

  I’m not sure if she’s finished or if she has more to say. I memorize how the wrinkled lines of her khakis match her hands. The slump of her shoulders—they’re wilted over, not tight and back like they should be. A trail of moisture glosses over her powdered cheek. It’s a rare moment to witness my mother weak, vulnerable. Right here and now she’s sharing a piece of her soul with me. And I wish it were like a piece of brass from my military collection—something I could hold and savor forever.

  “It took me a long time,” she breaks the silence, “many a year of growing up before I realized he had done nothing wrong.” She looks up at me, glassy eyes on the verge of spilling over. “They killed him because he was gay. That’s all. The killed him because the good Lord didn’t make him like the other boys. He was different and that scared them, so they killed him. When they fired his mother for no good reason, they killed that baby too.”

  My vision blurs, and I’m sobbing hard before I can stop myself.

  Mother grabs my hands. “I’m just scared they’re going to kill you, because you’re … different.” She uses the dishtowel to wipe the tears from my face. “But I’ve come to realize these last few weeks, that if I force you to be something you’re not, I’m going to be the one who kills you, not them. I may not understand
or agree, and I can’t say I’ll ever get used to the idea, but I’m willing to give it a try. I know no matter what you are, you will always be my baby girl. And I love you.”

  I collapse into her arms and heave uncontrollable sobs. She squeezes me tight, and I can feel her body taking in ragged breaths. Shame on me for thinking she could never love me as her gay daughter. It brings on tears of guilt. It never dawned on me that Mother’s rejection was born out of fear for my safety—her way of protecting me from the hate of others or from harming myself. I always assumed she detested that part of me.

  I’m not sure how long I stay there, wrapped in her cradling arms. And she doesn’t push me away to resume her stuffy persona when I’ve reached what could be considered a sufficient amount of blubbering. She holds me until the tears dry and my breathing is even again.

  I sit up and use the dishtowel to blot the wet stain on Mother’s blouse.

  “Don’t worry about that.” She stops me. “This thing needs to go to the dry cleaners anyway.”

  We sniffle at the same time, making us both giggle a little.

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing—maybe for not being the down-the-aisle kind of daughter or maybe never trusting her to keep loving me, no matter what.

  “Well.” She tries to tuck my wild waves behind my ear, but they’re too stubborn. “I’m sorry I never gave you a safe place to turn when you needed one.” She smiles down at me. “And I just think a place like Straight Path With God will keep you safe.”

  I’ve already made up my mind that I’m not going, and there’s nothing she can do about it. I shake my head no with more confidence than I ever have in my whole life. So it really doesn’t surprise me when the words come out of my mouth calm and strong. “No. I’m not going. I understand what you’re trying to do, but I won’t be safe. It’ll make me miserable. And if you make me go, I’ll fight you tooth and nail. I’ll petition the court for emancipation, or I’ll run away if I have to, but I will not go to that place. You can’t make me.”

  Her lip quivers, and she stares at me. “I know. I’m terrified of what the world will do to you. I’m terrified of what you’ll do to yourself if I force you. I’m terrified of what will happen if I do nothing. I don’t know what to do anymore. The idea of sending you off never settled with me. I think a part of me hoped your behavior was something you were doing to be trendy, or maybe it was teen rebellion or something. But it’s a part of you, right? Always has been. I can’t pretend any longer that I didn’t suspect all along. There’s only so much I can do to protect you. But all I’ve ever wanted was to protect you and keep you safe. That’s all any mother wants for her child.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  “Thank you, Mother.” My tears have choked my words to a whisper. I realize that now I’m out in the open, there will be consequences that will befall upon her as well. She’ll lose business, friends, and maybe even her boyfriend. “You think this will mess up your chances of ever getting married to Mr. Billy?”

  She straightens her spine. “Well, that won’t be a problem, because I told him to take off. I don’t need an asshole like him in my life.”

  My eyes bug out. My mother just said “asshole.”

  When did she kick Mr. Billy to the curb? I’ve been so lost in my own fog, I never even noticed. As much as I want to ask what happened between them, I don’t want to push Mother over the edge. And I have a sneaking feeling it has something to do with me.

  She stands and smoothes her slacks. “You said you had homecoming stuff to do?”

  “Uh huh,” I say. There’s a brief, uncomfortable moment as we both resume our normal tone, as if what we just discussed was only a hiccup in our lives. I check my alarm clock. It’s almost nine thirty. “I shouldn’t be back too late.” Though I have no clue how long it will take Van and me to do this.

  “I look forward to watching the parade tomorrow. I hope y’all win,” she says. And just like that, Mother is composed and complacent, and I am the ever-obeying daughter.

  Until tomorrow, that is.

  Chapter 22

  The Wal-Mart parking lot on a Thursday night in the middle of October is not where covert military people converge. But in a small town like Sunshine, it’s that or Big Star grocery. Van gets out of his car. He’s dressed in commando black—turtleneck, military fatigues, and beanie. He slings a duffle bag onto his shoulder, and the contents inside clank. His heavy swagger over to my car tells me he’s been watching way too many black ops movies this week. He tosses something dark to me, and I catch it. “Wear this. You don’t want to be recognized,” he says in a flat, deep tone. I choke down a giggle from his tough-guy voice.

  What he tossed me is not a beanie cap, but a full-on ski mask, eye holes only. “Seriously? You’re scaring me, Van. I don’t think driving through town with a robber’s mask on my face is going to go over well with the cops.” I shove the thing into my console as we get into my car.

  I start to drive out of the parking lot and Van asks, “You know we’re going to get some serious backlash for this, right?”

  I look at him with a mock cold stare, my face the epitome of stone. “Sometimes it takes a slap in the face to wake people up. Sunshine is about to get bitch-slapped.” I waggle my eyebrows.

  Twenty minutes later we creep down the old Sunshine highway, lights off, about a half a mile from Andrew’s farmhouse. I pull over into one of the entrances that lead out into a cotton field. It curves behind a grove of trees, blocking my nothing-special Civic from the view of the road. It’s one of the Goodman’s fields I’m sure. I’m wishing I had a case of toilet paper with me, but as much as I’d like to vandalize Mrs. Goodman’s house, that is not the mission tonight.

  “Van, are you ready? We can do this,” I whisper, even though it’s pointless to do so when the only house within miles is the Goodman’s. Knowing what we are about to do, the need to be stealthy overwhelms me. Both of us get out of the car and shut our doors with soft clips.

  The musky smell of dirt from the field thickens in my nostrils. Cricket chirps ricochet all around. Glowing lights from the fireflies twinkle along the tops of the growing cotton. Off in the distance, the yelp of a coyote floats on the night air. The country, with all its peaceful but untamed nature, chills me until I shiver.

  “You got your flashlight?” asks Van.

  I pull out my penlight and click it on.

  “That’s the worst excuse for a flashlight I’ve ever seen.” Van retrieves a handheld spotlight and clunks it onto the trunk of my car with a damaging thunk. “Now that’s a flashlight.”

  “What else you got in there?” I lean over to look in his bag.

  “Nothing much. Road flares, smoke bombs, tape recorder … just the usual spy stuff.”

  I aim the penlight on his face. “You watch way too many movies.”

  “Hey, a good spy always comes prepared.”

  “I think that’s the Boy Scout motto.”

  “Shut up. Whatever. You’ll thank me later.”

  Headlights down the road yank our attention that way. I dive into the ditch next to my car. Briars and sticks jab my legs. “Get over here, Van. They’re going to see you.”

  I jerk my arm for him to come down with me. He completely ignores my military hand signals. Instead, he walks straight up to the edge of the road like a bonehead, points that big spotlight toward the vehicle, and flicks the thing on and off.

  “Vander! What the heck is your problem?”

  The diesel engine chugs as it approaches. The big white Chevy Dually slows to a stop right in front of him. Van steps up to the passenger window as it rolls down. If that is Mr. Goodman, this whole mission is canned. I squat lower, in the hopes of disappearing in the brush.

  “Is that Kaycee cowering in the ditch?”

  I stand to attention at the sound of her voice. Sarabeth stares at me like I�
�ve lost my ever-lovin’ mind.

  “What are you doing in the ditch?”

  Van laughs. Sarabeth shakes her head as she pulls the truck over and parks it beside my car.

  “Ha ha,” I say and slap away the hand Van offers me. “I’ve probably got poison ivy all over me now. Thanks, Vander.” I scrabble up the side of the ditch.

  Once up top, I sweep away the debris on my pants and sweater. I cut my eyes to Van when Sarabeth walks over. “What is she doing here?” I’m well aware she can hear me, but I don’t care.

  “We can’t steal the float with a Civic, now can we? Sarabeth offered her dad’s truck.”

  “You swore to secrecy. Traitor,” I say. “And I didn’t say anything about stealing the float. I said we’d make a few changes. That’s it.”

  Van clamps his hands down on his hips. “Seriously? You expected us to redecorate with a bag full of streamers and colorful balloons? First of all, Sarabeth has more supplies left over from decorating committees than you have Civil War scrap. And technically, it’s not stealing since we are all seniors and have part ownership. We’re just relocating and redecorating.”

  “Under the cover of night in black ops clothing … yeah, that’s not stealing at all. I said we were going to adjust a few things on the float. Change some of the colors. Not take the whole darn thing.”

  “How do you expect us to make any changes in the comforts of Andrew’s shed? And did you really think we could redecorate and have Andrew not rip the stuff off tomorrow morning?” he asks. I say nothing. “Exactly. Besides, Sarabeth has a key, so that will keep us from violating any breaking and entering laws.”

  She jangles the keys in her hand.

  Van’s eyes travel between the two of us. He whips out a spiral notebook from his duffle bag. “I, uh, I need to make a plan and check Sarabeth’s supplies to see what we have to work with.” He scurries over to her truck and buries his nose in the boxes she brought. Not obvious at all.

  Sarabeth watches Van walk away before she speaks. “I’m sorry, Kaycee. I really am.”