"People change, especially when they get older. Yes, they do! Mr. Marvin was such a sweet man to me. Very sweet!"
"How so?"
Sharice shifted uncomfortably in her driver seat, setting the tumbler into a cup holder in the middle console that separated our two seats. She looked off into the distance like a weary sailor watching the dark, misty walls of a hurricane fast approaching an unprepared boat. She licked her lips then said, "Now, I'll tell you how I know your father, how I met him and all that, but... you have to promise not to judge me."
"Judge you?" I said, confused. I wasn't the type to judge anyone, not to their face anyway. I left all my judging in my mind, where it was safe and sound. "I won't judge you. I promise."
"That's good because people like to judge me whenever they find out about my real life. And I'm done with being judged, if you know what I mean? Yes, I am."
"Sure," I said. But I lied. I didn't know what the hell she was talking about but I went along with it anyway. Real life? What did that even mean anyway?
"Good. 'Cause you see, I ain't really a nurse. I work at da club. That's where I met your father."
The second those words came out of her mouth--da club--I remembered what Ms. Robyn told me about my dad's weekly requests: the scotch, the race track, and the strip club. I immediately knew da club was meant to be The Gentlemen's Club, the place where my father insisted on going on a weekly basis in the Autumn Grove limousine. I thought about his feeble body hunched over in the wheel chair, the limo driver then pushing him inside, but now I knew Sharice was waiting for him inside da club.
"Yeah, I know about that."
"You do?!" she said, shocked. "How did you know about that?"
"Ms. Robyn told me the other day. She told me everything."
"Ms. Robyn told you, huh? That bee-yotch!" she said, snickering, her lips releasing a snick-snick-snick as she shook her head. "She never could keep a secret."
"Was it supposed to be a secret?"
"Well, people be judging. Your dad didn't like people judging him and neither did I. That's all."
"So, you were a stripper at the club? That's how you met my dad?"
"Oh, hell no! I wasn't trying to be no stripper. I was just a waitress. Served drinks and all. But that's how I met your father. When he first came in, da club was pretty empty. There weren't very many customers or dancers during the day. The doorman pushed him to one of my tables. And when I asked him what he wanted to drink, then we got to talkin'."
As I listened to her tell her story, I watched the traffic dissipate as we left the city limits of San Antonio, Texas. I looked back at my son who was in a deep, artistic trance; he wasn't paying attention to us at all, drawing what looked like a bird flying through the sky with a star above it, his tongue wagging as he interpreted his imagination through his pencil to the page. Nat and Jessie, meanwhile, were playing a new game that involved tickling.
"What did he talk about?" I said, turning back to Sharice.
"Mostly, he just talked about being in the military, his work, the men he commanded, and stuff. He loved to talk about being in the military. Yes, he did!"
"Did he ever tell you about my mother? Or me?"
"Of course, he did," she said, reaching for her coffee tumbler. But there was desperation on her face, I could see that. It was there behind the thick mascara and bright red lipstick. She was keeping something from me, I could tell, by the way she fumbled for her words. "But mostly, he talked about the military."
"I see," I said, disappointed. She was just validating what I already knew without saying a word; he didn't talk about me or my mother. I wondered what my mother would have thought about all of this: The Gentleman's Club, Sharice and her Caddy Tank, the life my father led after she passed away, his downward spiral into the clutches of Alzheimer's Disease, and his final resting place in an urn with a dragon on it. How strange.
"That first day, he left me $100 for a tip. One hundred bucks! I felt like I didn't deserve $100 for doing nothin' but listen to an old man talk about the military. But then, he kept coming back. And when he came back he asked for me. Can you believe it?"
I couldn't believe it, actually. I couldn't believe any of it, to tell you the truth. It was almost too much for me to take, really. Here I was, in a humongous, gaudy, sports utility vehicle bought by my dead father for a cocktail waitress in a strip club. How did this happen? What cosmic circumstance allowed this to be? Was my father messing with me? Did he even worry about what I would think when I found out? Did he even think about me at all? Didn't seem so, did it?
"No, I can't," I said.
"And each time he asked for me, he would tell me these long stories, then he would leave bigger tips. $100 turned to $200 and to $300. It got to be pretty crazy. Cray-cray, yes it was!"
"Did you ever question why?"
"I did. I did! I would say, 'Mr. Marvin, why you so crazy?' And he would just smile. He wouldn't say nothin'."
"And that's it? He never told you?"
"Well, he eventually did. He told me one day that I was the only person who really listened to him. He said nobody did. Nobody! It was just so sad. I felt so bad for him. He was so nice to me, tipping me so much and all."
"I see," I said, perturbed. Nobody listened to him, huh? What a crock of shit. Really. Crock. Of. Shit. Who did he think he was fooling? Nobody, that's who. But I have to admit, it was strange listening to Sharice retell my father's confession to her, his feelings that no one listened to him, whatever that meant. Was she saying that my father had feelings? How weird.
"One day, he came in da club with another man. A dude he called Mark, his lawyer. He had a briefcase with him. And when they sat down at the table, this dude Mark sat his briefcase on a chair next to him. So, when I went to get their order and all, they asked me to sit down. And that's when your father asked me to be his executor."
"What?" I said, astounded. It just couldn't get any weirder. It's true.
"And I said, 'Executor? I ain't trying to be no executor!' I didn't even know what an executor of an estate was. But he insisted that I do it. He said there wasn't nobody else to do it. He said you were gone and your momz was dead. And I believed him, you know? And he said he wanted me to take care of him at the rest home and that he would buy me whatever I wanted so I would do it. And I said, "Whateva?' And he said, 'Whatever you desire.' So, I said OK. And you sitting in it. What I wanted. Yes, it is!"
The Caddy Tank was the price to pay to take care of an old man in a rest home. What a bargain. My dad would have had to pay me a LOT more than that, which was probably why he said I was gone. Go figure. Maybe it was the Alzheimer's Disease that convinced him I was gone even though I wasn't. How did he think he got into Autumn Grove in the first place? I guess he forgot about that, too. Alzheimer's disease is a real son of a bitch. It's true.
"And the rest of his estate?" I said, curious. "Did he leave me anything? Was there anything for my children?"
"I don't know for sure. We'll know once his estate goes to probate," she said, matter-of-factly. "Could be somethin'. Could be nothin'. Could be somethin' for nothing," she said in a sing-songy voice.
"I see," I said, looking to the horizon, thinking of being home with my kids in our own world, away from selfish grandparents or witless 'nurses' or obscenely expensive vehicles and all.
"I'm sorry," she said, gulping more coffee. "I don't know what else to tell ya at the moment. But I do have something for you from your father."
"Really? For me?"
And just then, Sammie started screaming and hooting and hollering all over the place. He was pointing and shouting and pointing some more like the world was about to end.
"Daddy?! Daddy?!!" he said, bouncing up and down in his leather captain's chair. Most of his art supplies fell to the floor as he flung to and fro in his seat. "Look!"
"What is it?" I said, looking in the direction he was pointing.
"Over there! The pet store! Look!!"
Sure enough,
there was the pet store from the other day, the one next to the Snake Farm. I wasn't as excited this time to see the Snake Farm like I was before, mainly because we already paid a visit to that dump and it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. But I could see why Sammie was excited. He did make a promise to the little bird to go back and here we were, as close as can be.
"Can we go? Please?!" he said, begging, his hands together in a desperate prayer, squeezing so tightly that his hands shook.
Sharice was confused, not understanding what all the ruckus was about, not knowing about our previous trip to the pet store, and Sammie's painful separation from the cute, little bird in the store. But when I asked her to pull off the highway and go to the pet store, she didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, she seemed happy to do it, not complaining one bit.
"My pleasure," she said. "Let's see what this baby can do!" And with that, she immediately jerked the steering wheel and the Caddy Tank careened off the highway, onto the shoulder, the gravel on the side of the road pelting the underside of the Escalade like hail pummeling a hot tin roof. The rest of us screamed like little girls, even my tough tomboy little girl screamed like a little girl. Then without hesitation, Sharice steered the Caddy Tank to the grassy embankment on the side of the highway, the shiny, black behemoth barreling down the incline of grass and weeds and bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes to the access road below. We held onto whatever we could with all our dear lives--me holding the armrest of my door while everyone's belongings flew around the cabin--except for Sharice, who was cackling like a goddamn hyena. At first, I thought she was absolutely insane (who wouldn't think that?) then realized she was just an adrenaline junkie. It took a simple request like exiting the highway for us all to find that out. Lucky us. "Hold on, little homies!"
The Caddy Tank approached the access road like an avalanche, hitting the road's gravelly shoulder with the full force of its four, metallic tons. When it bounced from the shoulder onto the asphalt road, many of its interior decorations and modifications and accessories popped out of their places--moldings and trimmings and chrome things and leathery touches and knobs and the like. It was as if an aging socialite fell down the stairs and unhinged her beautiful artifice: fake eyelashes, fake nails, tooth veneers, hair extensions, high heels, and a lacy push-up bra flying everywhere. Sensing that we weren't having as much fun as she was--mostly because we were all screaming our brains out--Sharice stopped the Escalade, dust and dirt billowing around her expensive gift from my father, sitting still in the road.
"That was so fun!" little Jessie said from the back. I turned around to find her propped up on her knees in her seat, some of her hair standing on end from the electric charge in the air. "Let's do it again!"
"Your father doesn't seem too happy about it," Sharice said, a tinge of guilt on her face. "Girls just want to have fun like my home girl Cyndi Lauper say. Am I right?"
"Are you insane?" I said, irritated.
"Not the last I heard but it's always a possibility. Life is crazy. Yes, it is!"
"Do you think you could get us to that pet store without killing us all?"
"Of course. I'm sorry. Just thought it would be fun," she said, pulling the shifter into drive, then slowly driving up the access road to the bridge which would take us over I-35 and back down the southbound access road. As we moved down the road, the detached accessories and modifications in the Caddy Tank flopped around like the long ears of a blood hound, all dopey and droopy and shit. It seemed to irritate Sharice to no end knowing that her impetuous decision to have a little fun caused her precious vehicle to hemorrhage internally but she remained a trooper, driving us to save the parakeet.
I peeked back at Sammie as we approached the pet store and his eyes gleamed at the prospects of rescuing the budgerigar from the clutches of the evil pet store owner, I could see it on his cute, little face. And Jessie sat up behind him, her arms draped across the top of his chair and wrapped around his upper torso, a sweet smile on her face as she supported her big brother. It was moments like this that caused my heart to flutter with the love and joy only parents understand, the warmth that emanates from the spaces between the atoms that make up my body.
"Daddy, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, son. You can ask me a question."
"Do you think he'll still be there?"
"The parakeet?"
"Yeah, the parakeet. But he's really a budgerigar. You know how to tell the difference, right?"
"I trust you."
"Are we buying a bird?" Sharice said, worried. "Because birds kinda freak me out."
"Yes, if he's still there. Is that going to be a problem?"
"As long as it don't fly around in my ride, I'll be fine. I don't like birds. No, I don't! They nasty."
Good ol' Sammie Boy giggled when Sharice said that, as if what she said was completely ridiculous and acceptable at the same time. Kids are like that, though. So naïve, so innocent.
"I'll make sure he stays in his cage," Sammie said. "It'll be OK."
Sharice pulled the Caddy Tank into the gravel parking lot we parked in a few days before, stopping in front of the three stucco buildings: the Snake Farm, the taxidermist, and the pet store. And like the last time we visited, our vehicle was the only one in the parking lot, sitting alone in the lot of gravel and rocks and dust. Olaf's all-terrain vehicle was parked next to the pet store, though--the screeching two-stroke vehicle resting serenely like a wolverine taking a nap--and I remembered what it was like watching him barrel toward this complex of stucco and lost dreams, like a grifter riding across a post-apocalyptic dreamscape looking for his next con. Were we his next con? Probably.
"Looks like nobody home," Sharice said, an observation that, most of the time, would have been astute but I knew someone was home.
"The pet store clerk is here. That's his ride," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "Let's go, kids."
"Yeah!" they said, unbuckling their seatbelts and fumbling from their seats to open their doors. The kids and Nat spilled out of the Escalade. Sammie and Jessie ran to the pet store entrance, holding hands, then went inside. Nat quickly followed. Sharice and I weren't in quite the same hurry, maybe because we were older, our hips and joints less agile. We eventually made our way into the pet store.
Inside, behind the glass counter like before, sat Olaf, gnawing on a power bar of some sort, looking relaxed and quite possibly stoned. A cacophony of pet sounds filled the air. And once my eyes adjusted to the darker interior of the cave-like pet store, I noticed that Olaf recognized us from our previous visit, a slight smirk appearing on his face.
"I knew you'd be back. I just knew it!" he said, sitting up and adjusting his pants, bent out of shape from sitting down for too long. I smiled then tilted my head toward the back of the store, as if asking, 'Are the kids back there?'
"Yeah," Olaf said. "They went straight for their bird."
Sharice and I navigated through the maze of pet food and supplies, finding the kids and Nat in the back of the store, sitting on the floor in front of the cage we had labeled with a sign during our last visit. Perched on Sammie's index finger was a parakeet that was mostly light blue with some grey and yellow feathers on his head, speckles of black dots scattered across his body, just like I remembered. Sammie had the little bird close to his face, inviting the bird to get friendly, which it did, gently nibbling the end of Sammie's nose with its dull beak and rubbery bird tongue. Jessie got a kick out of watching the parakeet nibble Sammie's nose and leaned in for a closer look. Sammie scolded her for getting too close while Nat did her best to keep the peace between my two kids.
"Daddy, can we take him home?"
"I don't know. We need to ask Sharice. It is her car."
Sammie slowly stood up, the little bird gripping his index finger with its little bird feet and flapping its wings, and looked up to Sharice.
"Can we take this budgerigar home with us in your car? I promise to keep him in his cage and not let him out and fly around."
"Yeah!" Sammie and Jessie said, jumping up and down, Sammie almost letting the parakeet lose. But it held onto his finger, flapping its wings as to not lose its balance and grip, keeping his place.
"You should put him back in the cage if we're going to take him home with us,' I said.
"You really don't mind, Daddy?"
"No. I don't mind at all."
Sammie gently placed the parakeet in the cage then latched the cage door shut. I picked up the cage and walked with it to the counter, the bird looking confused and restless. His whole world was about to change in an instant, and ours too. I paid Olaf a small sum for Sammie's happiness, something like $40 for a parakeet, a cage, and all the accessories and a small bag of bird seed. Olaf thanked us then we were all out the door, on our way back home with a new family member: Budgie the parakeet.
Outside, the sunlight was bright and blinding. The parakeet flapped incessantly, trying to stay on his perch, trying to stay upright instead of at the bottom of the moving cage. Sammie, seeing the bird's frustration, quickly opened the door of the Caddy Tank opposite where he was sitting, the door next to the chair with the urn of PeePaw strapped in it. Sammie looked at me, confused and frustrated.
"Oh no, Daddy! Where are we going to put the cage?"
"That's a big chair, son. We can make this work. Hold the cage for a minute," I said, handing it to him. He and the parakeet commiserated while I unbuckled the seatbelt holding PeePaw's urn in place. I positioned the urn to one side then took the cage from good ol' Sammie Boy and placed it next to the urn in the massive, leather captain's chair. The seatbelt securely snugged both the urn and the cage in place. "See! No problem."
"Thanks Daddy!" Sammie said, hugging my neck then climbing in the Caddy Tank. Jessie and Nat followed soon after, climbing into their seats in the back.
Sammie & Budgie Page 30