Julia Watts - Finding H.F.

by Julia Watts

  When I wake, Laney has already gotten up, so I get dressed and go downstairs. Dave and Bill and Dee and Chantal and Bo are in the kitchen, eating coffee cake and fruit. “Pull up a chair, H.F.,” Dave says.

  “Where’s Laney?” I think I already know the answer—or the only part of the answer that matters: She’s not here.

  “She’s taken off somewhere,” Dave says. “She wasn’t in her room this morning, so heaven knows where she’s gotten herself off to.”

  “Probably down to Little Five to do her special kind of shopping...the kind that don’t take any money,” Dee laughs.

  But I’m not laughing. Tears are burning my eyes. “She...she wasn’t in her room last night either.”

  “Oh, my God!” Dave is up and putting his arm around me. “You adolescents and your raging hormones! If I thought there was any danger of you two getting together, I would’ve warned you—”

  I shrug my shoulders to get loose from his hug. “Danger? Warned me?”

  Dave leads me to a chair. “Oh, what I just said sounded too melodramatic. I’m sorry. Laney’s a good kid at heart—I’m sure you saw that about her too. It’s just that she’s been hurt so many times. If she feels herself getting close to somebody, she runs away. I guess she doesn’t want to put herself in a position where she can be hurt again. Dee and Chantal can back me up on this.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Chantal says. “How many girls has she hooked up with and dumped just since we’ve been hanging with her? There was that girl Megan. Then Stephanie...”

  “Don’t forget Crystal,” Dee says.

  “Stop.” I can’t make my voice any louder than a whisper.

  “It’s OK,” Bill says. “She always turns up again sooner or later. Maybe she’ll be back in a couple of days and you can talk.”

  I’m already out of my chair and, in my mind, out the door. “Well, I really don’t have time to wait on her. See, I’ve got somebody waitin’ on me right now...my momma, in Florida. Bo, are you about ready?”

  “Ready?” I think Bo would just as soon stay with Dave and Bill for the rest of his life.

  “To go?” I say, wiping tears on my sleeve.

  “Don’t you want to wait a while?” Bo tries. “Maybe she just went out for cigarettes or something.” I just look at him until he says, “I’ll get my things.”

  In just a few minutes, we’re hugging Dee and Chantal and Dave and Bill goodbye. Bo presses a scrap of paper into Dave’s hand. “You write me, you hear?”

  “I promise,” Dave says, and gives Bo a quick kiss on the cheek.

  And just like that, we’re in the car and on the road again, even though I feel like I left a big, bleeding hunk of my heart in that white, white bed at Dave and Bill’s house.

  Red dirt and kudzu. It’s all I’ve seen since we left Atlanta. Red dirt and kudzu blurred by the tears welling up in my eyes. “You wanna talk about it?” Bo says.

  “Not really.”

  “You didn’t fall in love with her, did you?”

  “Not exactly. It’s just...Bo, my whole life has been nothin’ but women leavin’ me. First my momma, then Wendy, now Laney...” My throat closes up, and no words will come out for a few minutes. When it opens enough for me to speak again, I say, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I close my eyes and hope that when my momma sees me, she’ll welcome me like she never was gone. Then maybe I’ll be OK.

  “So,” Bo says, “you wanna talk about me instead?”

  I don’t even open my eyes. “Huh?”

  “You wanna talk about me instead? You know how you’re always sayin’ I never open up, never talk about myself. Well, I’m doin’ it right now, right here—right outside of LaGrange, Georgia, I’m openin’ up to you. Ask me anything you want.”

  But my heart still feels like a boulder in my chest, and I can’t think of anything but how sad I am. “I...I can’t think of nothin’ to ask you.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, H.F. I’m gonna do you a favor and talk anyway, because I don’t know...I’m in the mood to talk about myself for a change. Now, you can listen to me or you can set there feelin’ sorry for yourself—it don’t make no difference to me.”

  I sit up, a little rattled. Bo never talks to me straight like this—well, maybe “straight” isn’t the word. “I’m listenin’,” I say.

  “Good.” Bo’s real quiet for a minute. He watches the road a while, then he says, “I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I was layin’ in the softest bed in the prettiest room I’ve ever been in, wide awake. Maybe the room bein’ so pretty was why I couldn’t sleep. My eyes just didn’t want to stay closed for lookin’ at how pretty everything was. Anyway, after a while, I got up and went down to the kitchen. I thought a glass of milk might help put me out, you know.

  “So I go downstairs, and Dave’s sittin’ in the livin’ room, readin’. I tell him I got up for a glass of milk, and he says, ‘I’ll get us both some,’ and he leaves and comes back with this black, lacquered Oriental-lookin’ tray with milk and oatmeal cookies on it. H.F., we stayed up talkin’ till 3 o’clock in the mornin’. He told me about growin’ up in Pine Knob and about his first boyfriend in college and about how he met Bill. They’ve been together 18 years. Can you believe that? Anyway, he just talked and talked, and me, I just sat there and listened, till finally, he says, ‘Bo, you haven’t told me a thing about yourself.’ I say, ‘There ain’t much to tell,’ and he says, ‘Well, I do have you figured right, don’t I? I mean, you do like boys, don’t you?’

  “Well, we set there for a long time—for whole minutes, probably—without me sayin’ anything, until finally I hear myself sayin’, ‘Yeah, you’re right. I like boys. Not all of ‘em, but some of ‘em.’ He kinda laughs and says he’s happy to hear me say that—that he’s proud of who I am, and I should be proud too. And after that, H.F., I told him things I’ve never told another livin’ soul.”

  The question Like what? is in my brain, but I can’t muster the effort to say it. My head is so heavy, it’s all I can do to hold it up.

  “And whether you’re listenin’ or not, I’m fixin’ to tell you one of them things right now.” Bo sucks in his breath, then lets it out. “You know how when you asked me if I’d ever done the kinda things with a boy that you’d done with Wendy, and I said no?”

  I make my heavy head nod up and down.

  “I lied to you, H.F. I’m sorry I did, but I lied.”

  I whip my head around to face him. Suddenly it’s not so heavy.

  Bo doesn’t look away from the road. “One night in the fall, I was settin’ at the kitchen table tryin’ to figure out my geometry homework while Daddy was throwin’ a fit about there not bein’ no cigarettes in the house. He was makin’ such a racket that after a while I said, ‘Fine, I’ll go down the hill and get you some.’ I didn’t want to waste my gas on gettin’ Daddy’s cigarettes, so I thought I’d just walk to Joe’s Little Market—it ain’t but a mile from the house. So I got to the store and got Daddy a pack of cowboy killers, and as I’m walkin’ out in the parkin’ lot, this shiny black pickup pulls up and honks its horn. The window rolls down, and I see it’s Craig Shepherd.”

  “The quarterback?”

  “None other. He says, ‘Hey, Bo, how you doin’?’ and I say, ‘All right.’ I’m not that surprised he’s actin’ friendly, because Craig’s the only member of the football team who’d be worth pissin’ on if he was set afire. And besides, I had sung at the church he goes to a couple of weeks before, and he was real nice to me then...told me he’d just about trade in his football talent for a voice like mine, which I thought was sweet. So he’s settin’ there in his truck outside Joe’s market, and he asks me what I’m up to. I say I just run out to get some coffin nails for my daddy, and he says would I like a ride home. I say sure, figurin’ he can let me out at the foot of the hill, since I don’t much like folks to see where I live.

  “But once we’re in the car, he asks me if I want to ride around a few minutes, and I say
sure. I know Daddy’ll be madder than a wet hen at me for stayin’ out so long, but Craig’s so good lookin’, and I’m flattered he wants me to ride around with him. We end up by the lake, with the truck parked all hid by these trees, and I start gettin’ scared thinkin’ about how alone we are, and what if the other football players put him up to this and he tries to hurt me? When he grabs me I think, Here it comes: He’s gonna kill me.

  “But he kisses me instead. Hard. H.F., the stars are comin’ out, and we’re underneath them, kissin’ and touchin’ each other. It was perfect. I couldn’t have dreamed it better. I don’t know how much time passed before he said, ‘We’d better get you home,’ but when he said it, I knew he was right. So he let me off at the foot of the hill like I asked him to, and he said, ‘You won’t tell nobody about this, right?’ and I said I wouldn’t. Daddy backhanded me as soon as I hit the door for bein’ gone so long. But that was nothin’. Daddy backhands me all the time. At least this time it was over somethin’ that was worth it.”

  Craig Shepherd. I can’t hardly believe it. “Bo, I never—”

  “Hold your horses, H.F. My story’s not done yet. The next day, after band practice, about half the football team was waitin’ for me. They beat the holy hell out of me, and for the first time, Craig was right there with ‘em. He busted the same lip he’d been kissin’ the night before.”

  “Hey,” I say, thinking about our stunt last fall, “that was just before we put the pepper juice on their jockstraps, right?”

  “Damn straight. I’d made Craig Shepherd burn down there one way, so I was gonna make him burn another. And someday I hope he’ll burn in hell too. So when you sit there throwin’ a little pity party for yourself over all the girls that dropped you as soon as you touched them, you better save a seat for me. You’re not the only one that’s been hurt, H.F. And at least your kinda hurt didn’t cost you a trip to the emergency room.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just put my hand over Bo’s on the steering wheel and keep it there a few minutes. If Bo and me have to be on such a difficult road—and I’m not talking about the road to Florida, here—at least we get to go down together.

  “Seein’ Dave and Bill...” Bo says after a while, “I don’t know...I guess it gave me hope. Eighteen years they’ve been together, H.F. They’ve been together longer than either of us has been alive. Dave looked at me last night, and he said, ‘Adolescence sucks, Beauregard. Just wait...life’ll get easier.’ ”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t reckon I’ve got a choice but to believe him. ‘Cause, sugar, if things get harder, I ain’t stickin’ around to see the second act!”

  After we cross the Alabama state line, we stop for gas and drag out the road map again. To get to Tippalula, you’ve got to get off the interstate after the Montgomery exit and drive on the state roads through south Alabama all the way to the Florida line. By the time we make it there, it’ll be past dark.

  Red dirt, kudzu, and pine trees—the pine trees are the only way you can tell you’re in Alabama instead of Georgia. For a while we try the song game again. Bo sings that song about going to Alabama with a banjo on his knee, but my head is too full of people—Momma, Wendy, Laney, and even Bo—for me to remember song lyrics, and so I give up after I can’t remember what comes after the first chorus of “Sweet Home Alabama.”

  We drive down the interstate without saying much of anything. One thing I’ve learned from this trip is that interstate is interstate no matter where you go. The interstate’s kinda like Wal-Mart—it may be designed to make your life easier, but it ain’t got a lick of personality.

  “Bo, I was just thinkin’...” I say. “Most people’s lives is like drivin’ down the interstate. It’s easy, but it’s borin’. People like us, though...our lives is like gettin’ off the interstate and takin’ one of them little windy roads that goes through the country and little towns. Our road may be bumpier, and it may be hard to figure out where you’re goin’ on it sometimes, but at least it’s not boring.”

  Bo grins. “You think too much.” But I can tell he’s thinking about it too.

  After a while we get off the interstate and start down a narrow road lined with tall pine trees. Bo’s little Escort is the only car in sight.

  There’s a few houses here and there—falling-down wooden shacks held together with tar paper and a prayer. At one, an old black woman sits on the porch breaking up beans while a half dozen shirtless children play in the sandy-looking front yard. At a country store with an antique red gas pump out front, two old black men sit on a bench, drinking orange pops and talking.

  “H.F.,” Bo whispers like somebody beside me might hear him, “have you noticed that everybody around here is colored?”

  “Don’t say ‘colored,’ Bo. If Memaw says ‘colored,’ she thinks she’s callin’ black people what they want to be called. But for somebody your age, sayin’ ‘colored’ is backward.”

  “ ‘Colored’ is a lot better than what my daddy says.” Bo shudders. “I hate that word...that and ‘faggot.’ But you’ve noticed there ain’t no white people here, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s kinda weird, ain’t it? Feelin’ like you stand out because of the color of your skin.”

  “Especially out here in the country like this,” Bo says. “I mean...I didn’t mean nothin’ bad by mentionin’ it. I was just...noticin’, you know?”

  “I know. I don’t reckon there’s nothin’ wrong with noticin’ people bein’ different than you, as long as you don’t think less of ‘em for it.”

  We drive past a sign that’s advertising the birthplace of Hank Williams, and Bo says, “That’s the first thing we’ve seen on this trip that my daddy would get excited about.” About a mile later, a green sign points out the directions to Barcelona, Alabama, and Destin, Florida. We follow the arrow that points to Florida. From the best I can judge from the road map, Tippalula is about 12 miles north of Destin.

  “I can’t believe it, Bo. We’re almost there. God, what do you think she’ll look like? What do you think she’ll say when she sees me?”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out, ain’t there?”

  All of a sudden I feel sick, like I used to get in the car when I was a little kid. I take in a big gulp of air, but it’s stale car air. “I’m so excited, I’m about to pee my pants.”

  “Try not to. I don’t think it’d make a very good impression on your momma if she thought you was 16 year old and not potty-trained.”

  The sign says, WELCOME TO FLORIDA, THE SUNSHINE STATE, but the sun ain’t shining because it’s going on 9 o’clock. I expect to see the beach and the ocean and flamingos and seagulls the second we cross the state line, but to tell the truth, it looks just the same as Alabama.

  “Can you believe we’ve been in three states in one day?” Bo says.

  I say I can’t, but what I don’t say is that except for Atlanta, Alabama and Georgia and Florida could all be one state as far as I’m concerned.

  Of course, one thing Florida does have on Alabama is billboards. Bright-colored signs are everywhere, advertising casinos and “resort communities” and restaurants. My favorite, though, is a sign for the Sunshine Show Bar. The gold-colored sign shows a woman’s legs in fishnet stockings and red high-heeled shoes. In big red letters it says, JUST 8 MORE MILES TO THE SUNSHINE SHOW BAR, THE PANHANDLE’S TOP CHOICE IN EXOTIC AND ADULT ENTERTAINMENT, and then in smaller black letters it says, DOZENS OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN PERFORMING NITELY—ALL-YOU CAN EAT PEEL ‘N’ EAT SHRIMP.

  Sure enough, eight miles down the road, we pass the Sunshine Show Bar. It’s a plain white concrete-block building with a few pickup trucks parked outside. A tired-looking bleached-blond woman in cut-offs and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt is going into the building. I wonder if she’s part of the exotic adult entertainment. The flashing portable sign in the parking lot says,

  NUDE NUDE NUDE PEEL ‘N’ EAT SHRIMP.

  “Sure you don’t wanna stop and eat some nekkid shri
mp before we go see your momma?” Bo asks.

  It’s a little after 10 when we hit Tippalula, and everything downtown is just as closed as it would be in Morgan at this time of night. Come to think of it, the downtown don’t look that different from Morgan. There’s a dollar store and a drugstore and a video store and a diner. The only thing that makes it different from Morgan is that the diner is advertising shrimp baskets, and there’s a shop selling T-shirts and Florida souvenirs. Why would my momma want to take the trouble to run away from Morgan if she was gonna move to a town that looks just like it?

  “H.F., I said what do you want to do? You wanna try to find your momma’s house or wait till in the mornin’?”

  I wonder if this is the second or third time Bo has asked me this question. I see the sense in it, though. You don’t just walk into a person’s house unannounced at 10:30 at night, even if that person is your momma. I want to, though. I’m so close to her I can feel her—closer than I’ve been to her in 16 years.

  “H.F., I said—”

  “I know what you said.” I sigh. “Wait till the mornin’, I guess.

  “Well, I reckon we’ll have to find a place to park for the night, then.”

  Just outside of town we find a little park. It hardly has any lights, so we sit in the dark and spread some peanut butter onto two heels of bread, which is all we have left of the bread we bought in Morgan. We drink a little bit of our bottled water, which has gotten so warm you could take a bath in it. But there won’t be any baths tonight. Not even a bathroom to pee in, since the public restrooms have been locked up for the night. I squat behind a pine tree before I come back to the car, lean back in the passenger seat, and try to sleep.