Then Moochi appeared.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he nodded, shuffling his feet.
“I’m really confused,” I said, relieved to see him. “I ran away but…”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got a plan.”
The shrieking Whoooop Whoooop of a police siren exploded into the night. I jerked around, scared to death.
“Hey,” the policeman said as he pulled up next to me. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”
Ummm . . . what am I doing? What am I doing? Hmmm . . . Uhhh . . .
Moochi whispered in my ear, “Tell him you’re trying to get home to your Marmalade.”
“I’m trying to get home to Marmalade,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“Tupelo Honey.”
”Where does your Marmalade live, Tupelo Honey?”
“Well...sorta far away. I was with her here, but then I got lost and.....”
The officer reached over and opened the door of his patrol car. “Why don’t you get in and I’ll help you find her.”
Moochi and I ran around to the passenger’s side and clambered in. The officer smiled at me, put his car in drive and zoomed off. Cruising down the empty streets, he asked, “So, where do you live?”
This might get a little complicated.
“Mississippi.”
His brow furrowed. “How did you get all of the way to California?”
Moochi whispered in my ear, “Tell him you were visiting Disneyland with your Marmalade.”
“I was visiting Disneyland with Marmalade.”
The officer didn’t look so convinced. "What's a 'Marmalade'?"
"It's my grandmother."
He picked up his walkie-talkie thing. Static cracked inside the patrol car. A voice came on, then said, “Go ahead.”
“I’ve got a child in my custody who says she’s lost. Can you check Missing Persons for me?” Then to me, he asked, “What’s your full name?”
Please God, don’t let me be on that list. “Tupelo Honey Royale.”
He repeated my name. I sat for an eternity with my palms sweating. My heart palpitated and my stomach growled. Finally the same voice came back on. “Negative,” it said.
It took a lot of convincing, a big story about how Marmalade was old and forgetful, and a lot of Moochi whispering in my ear to convince the officer to take me to a bus station. Eventually he pulled a U-turn in the middle of the street and we zoomed off in the opposite direction, headed for salvation. On the way over, he picked his walkie-talkie up again. Static crackled. The voice came on.
“I need you to check this out for me,” he said.
Then he asked for my phone number. With my fingers crossed tightly under my hatbox I told him Marmalade’s telephone number. He recited it back to the voice. We waited. Lights flickered and blinked on the console. Special superfly gizmos that only the Federales have filled up the entire dashboard.
Static crackled again. “Affirmative. The grandmother verified her identity and confirmed that is her residence.” The voice stopped, hovering in nowhere land. There were a few more phone calls between Officer Darnell and the voice and then it told him to take me to the bus station. Marmalade told the police she was happy they’d found me and she was waiting for me to come home.
The officer thanked the voice and clipped the walkie-talkie back on the black box.
Hip Hip Hurray.
Just in case you were wondering, if you go to a bus station and tell them you’re lost, they will let you ride for free. Especially if a policeman takes you.
The two hours I waited at the bus station sitting next to Officer Darnell shaved five years off my life. My fingers were crossed so tight and shoved so far under my thighs, they were blue. Please don’t let them find me gone and report it . . . please . . . please . . . Every time his police radio crackled with static I was prepared to run. Fast. I was counting on my mother to drink more alcohol, smoke more marijuana and not notice that I was gone until at least tomorrow.
All and all, Officer Darnell was pretty nice to me. He bought me a hot chocolate and a sticky, gooey thing. As we watched the lines of people file past, he told me a story about how he’d trained his dog, Skippy, to stand on his back legs and dance. Officer Darnell scored big points with Moochi.
My nerves were on high alert. Every ten seconds my eyes checked the front entrance. I repeated in my mind, Please . . . Please, don’t let her show up here dragging that Eskimo and force me back to that pit of sin and despair. The big clock over the concession stand ticked. I’d made it this far. Every new second became a new minute that became a new hour. Finally, I heard my boarding call.
Officer Darnell stood up. “That’s us.”
God, it had never taken people so long to board a bus. Hurry up, people. I am making my getaway. Do you know what kinda trouble I’ll be in if my mother finds me here? A nice man wearing a beanie offered to put my hatbox on the luggage rack, but I was afraid someone might steal it so I shook my head, pretending not to speak English.
Officer Darnell talked to the bus driver, who glanced up in his mirror at me. Then Office Darnell talked with a very old woman, with deep creases in her face who walked down the aisle and sat next to me. She smelled like mothballs and gave me cinnamon candy that stuck to my teeth. Ten minutes after we pulled away from the station all of the adrenaline drained from my bloodstream and I fell asleep.
When I woke up just before Flagstaff I noticed, through squinted eyes, that someone had covered me with a blanket. I was safe. I was warm. I was moving. Outside Tucson the old lady woke me up and we changed buses together. She held my hand. I could feel the fan of bones under her skin. It was nice. She told me her name was Josephine. On the next bus she gave me lemon drops and half of a hot dog. Together we shared a can of ginger ale. With my stomach full of carbonated bliss I dozed off again. The thump thump thump of tires on the highway rumbled me into slumber.
When I drifted back in, who knows where, Moochi was standing in the aisle, ears up, wagging his tail.
The entire trip took three days. During this time, I relied on the generosity of Josephine and twelve bus drivers, all of whom made sure I had popcorn, pie, cookies, and hamburgers, along with someone to help me change buses. We rode through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and Arkansas before we finally got to Mississippi.
The bus driver walked back to my seat so he could officially escort me off the bus. I turned to Josephine, who was staying on until she got to South Carolina, “What day is it?”
“Thursday, sugar. You be good now.” My heart was breaking. God, she had been nice to me.
“Do you want me to get some money from Marmalade to pay you back?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “The Lord always pays back kindness.”
It was 6 AM at the bus terminal. Randall was sporting faded brown pants, a gray flannel jacket and a t-shirt. He looked like a big, rumpled scarecrow, standing perfectly still next to Marmalade, who was wearing a green flowered housedress and hiking boots. Neither had brushed their hair.
I’d never been so happy to see poorly dressed people in all of my life. In my attempt not to appear foolish, but as the savvy world traveler I’d become, I walked calmly down the steps of the bus carrying my hatbox. Randall nodded at me.
“Hey,” I said, casually.
Marmalade looked at me for a long time, then she said, “Are you alright? Nothing bad happened to you, did it?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t want to stay there anymore.”
She was quiet again. Then she reached out, taking my hand, saying, “I understand.”
And that was that.
In the predawn darkness we drove back to the stillness of our house. Randall pulled to a stop at the curb. I looked out at the big, dark windows, unsure as to whether or not I was dreaming.
“Come on,” Marmalade said, opening the car door. “I’ll go make us some grits.”
God, that w
as music to my ears.
We had grits with butter and sugar, sausage, and coffee. No one talked about vegetarian food, wine, or Eskimos. After breakfast, I went to Marmalade’s room to take a nap. Soon after, she joined me, slowly lowering herself to the bed. I lay very still, under a stack of blankets, allowing myself to feel how much I loved her. Next to me, her breath came low and steady and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was finally home. Thursgood was still upstairs, but I didn’t care. I was home.
Hours later, the rotary phone started ringing off the hook. I heard Randall walk into the hall. “Yeah,” he said. There was a pause. Then, “Naw.” His shoes scraped the floor. “Naw,” he said, “she’s sleeping.” Then he hung up. After a second, he yelled down the hall. “Mother . . . Mother?”
She stirred, rolling over, “Ummm-hmmm. Yeah? What is it?”
“Lucy keeps callin’.”
“Well, let her call,” she said, rolling back over. “Maybe she’ll learn to be a nicer person. God knows, I don’t know why she has to be such a bitch all of the time.”
Chapter 16
I spent the rest of my summer digging through closets and making my own chicken pot pies in the late afternoon while Marmalade, Randall and Thursgood slept. I read library books, stretched out on my back in the cool, dim rooms where classical music and Elvis songs drifted in from Randall’s radio.
My mother didn’t come back from California until the end of the summer. She was tanned to a dark golden brown and wearing frosted eye shadow when she picked me up. I didn’t want to go home with her but I hadn’t seen Nash in a long time.
My mother dragged our luggage into the house, heaving and swearing. It was dark and empty. There were dirty dishes crusted with ketchup in the sink, and an old box of graham crackers on the counter. Everything was still and quiet and cold. I went to my room and locked the door. I sat on my bed, staring out the window into the back yard, looking out to a place in the woods where I envisioned some kind of future for myself. Maybe. Nash didn’t come home that night. I waited until my mother smoked a joint and passed out before I unlocked my door, then crept down the hall to pee. There was nothing to eat in the refrigerator. I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
The next morning I woke up with Moochi standing next to my bed.
“Hey,” I said, sleepily.
He pointed to the hall.
I climbed out of bed, half asleep, lumbering for the door. In the hall I stopped and looked around. When my eyes finally focused I saw Nash standing in the living room, flipping through a stack of mail. Inca was behind him.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah,” I said, scratching my arm.
“How was California?”
“It sucked.”
He laughed so loud it startled me.
“I’m serious,” I insisted.
“I know you are.”
I looked around. “What time is it?”
Nash glanced at his watch. “Pancake time.”
It took me a second, and then I understood. Pancakes. Syrup. Creamy, dreamy coffee at the Pancake Hut. “Hold on,” I whispered urgently. “I’ll be right back.”
I dashed into my room, tripping over my own feet, and lunged for my suitcase. I tugged the zipper open and started pulling out clothes. Dirty. Dirty. Kind of clean. Dirty. Finally, I found a pair of jeans that passed. I ran to my drawers. All of my clothes smelled funny because they’d been sitting in the dark confines of my dresser all summer. I pulled out a t-shirt. It smelled like old wood. I pulled out another one. Same thing. Oh, well. It would just have to do.
Nash was standing in the driveway waiting for me. He opened the car door, ushering me inside. It was delightful. Just like old times. I rolled my window down, feeling the warm breeze in my hair.
“So, what have you been doing all summer?”
“Well,” he thought for a minute. “Working, I guess. After that mess with Thursgood, I stayed away from the house for a while. Did you have a good time in California?”
“I stayed at Marmalade’s house for most of the summer.”
Nash stared at me. “I thought you went to California for the summer.”
“I did. But I didn’t like it very much so I left.”
His right eyebrow arched high. “Really. How did you get back?”
“I went to the bus station and had a policeman tell them that I’d lost Marmalade at Disneyland.”
He just stared at me. “Are you serious? Did it work?”
“Yeah. Didn’t my mom tell you?”
He shrugged. “Your mother isn’t exactly talking to me these days.”
Oh.
“Well, it worked.”
He cruised along on the highway, glancing over at me. “Weren’t you scared?”
I stalled a few seconds, debating whether I should tell the truth. Finally, I sighed, “Yeah. It spooked me. I got lost and wondered if maybe I should just turn around and go back.”
“You want some good advice?”
I nodded.
“Don’t ever go back.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. So what happened?”
I had to think a minute. “Oh, Moochi showed up.”
“Good ole Moochi.”
I couldn’t tell if Nash was being sarcastic. “Yeah. He’s a good friend. My best friend, really. And you. You’re my best friend.”
Nash didn’t say anything but pulled his lips tight and sighed. “Well, I had no idea you were here all summer. I would have called. I missed you. What was your mother doing out there?”
The moment of truth. “Hanging out with an Eskimo who doesn’t have an igloo.”
Nash turned to me, his foot letting up on the gas. “Eskimos don’t necessarily live in igloos.”
“You can say that again.”
The exit for the Pancake Hut was coming up on our right. Nash veered into the turn lane. He didn’t say another word until we were in the restaurant. I kept trying to figure out if that was a good thing.
I ordered a pile of food. Blueberry pancakes. French toast. Hash browns.
After I’d poured six packets of sugar and half of the milk in the creamer into my coffee, I sucked in a breath and asked Nash if I could go live with him.
“I don’t think your mom will ever let you do that, Tupelo Honey.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I don’t think she likes me very much anymore.”
“So?”
The waitress brought a basket of biscuits and butter to the table.
“She’s your mother.”
“I don’t care.” I had an incredible urge to tell him about the Eskimo kissy-face spectacle.
He laid his hand gently on mine. Maybe he thought I’d calm down or forget about it, but he was wrong.
“I don’t care,” I said, with more conviction than the first time.
He sighed, sipping his coffee. “I don’t think it’s an issue of caring.”
“You can say that again.”
By this time, I was so disgusted with where this conversation was going that I thought about canceling my French toast.
“Then I want to live on my own.”
Nash couldn’t help but laugh.
“Where did such a little bitsy thing like you get so much gumption?”
“I don’t know,” I said, annoyed with how lightly he seemed to be taking the rest of my life.
“Well, you’ve got guts, kid, and brains,” he said, squeezing my hand, “and that puts you ahead of the game.”
“I’m not talking about a game. I’m talking about living with you.”
“Well, it ain’t over ’til it’s over. At least we’ve got each other for now.”
“But it is over, isn’t it?”
Nash looked out across the rows of booths for a long time, and then lifted his cup. “Between your mom and me?”
I nodded, forcing my tears back to wherever they came from.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, sh
aking his head, “Yeah, it’s over.”
“And you don’t even care,” I sulked.
In the bright light, I watched his expression change. The waitress stopped next to our table, holding an enormous tray. Carefully, she stooped over, setting our plates down in front of us.
“That’s not true, Tupelo Honey,” he whispered across the table. “How can you say that?”
The tears I’d held back for so long now came easy and fast. “Because I love you . . . I don’t want you to go away . . . I don’t . . . ” The sucking, hiccupping sounds coming from somewhere deep inside of me cut the words short.
The waitress cocked her head to the side, looking at me. “You alright, baby?”
I nodded. You could tell she didn’t believe me but she sighed and went to check on another table because some fat guy kept waving his hand in the aisle.
Nash pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed gently at my cheeks.
“Oh, Tupelo Honey . . . ,” he sighed. “This is just such a mess . . . ”
“Can’t you stay?” I pleaded. “Please . . . I mean, just for a while . . . ”
Shaking his head in that apologetic way, he lowered his voice, saying, “Oh, little Tupelo Honey . . . I’d do anything if I could.”
But he couldn’t, and even though I wanted him to stay more than anything, I knew what was done was done. I ate my pancakes and put the rest of my food in a take-out box. I thought I could at least drench my sorrow in maple syrup.
I didn’t say anything on the ride home, figuring it was best to anticipate the end in silence.
The next morning I woke to the sound of screaming.
“Don’t you talk to me like that, you lying asshole . . . ”
“Lucy. Stop,” Nash said firmly.
The sound of slapping echoed down the hall. From where I was eavesdropping, it sounded like she slapped him clear across the room.
My mother screamed at him. “Don’t touch me; I mean it. Don’t you even touch me . . . ”
He must have touched her. Big mistake. I walked across my room and pressed my ear against the door.
“I don’t have to take this,” he said, presumably on his way out of the room.
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