Bound South

by Susan Rebecca White

  She glanced at me, mean. “Why?”

  “Life is going to disappoint you, darling, and you will be the main person to blame for the hurt.”

  “Mom, I’m fine.”

  I smiled. “For now. While we pay the bills. I’m just going to feel real sorry for you next year when you don’t get into any colleges you apply to. Tiny’s daughter didn’t get into Georgia. You remember that, don’t you?”

  “Helen Persons is an idiot,” Caroline said. “I mean, she really is. I can’t believe you’d say I won’t get into Georgia just because some idiot didn’t get in.”

  This was supposed to be the start of one of our blowout fights, where half of the time I would pull the car over to the side of the road and tell Caroline to walk home. She’d show up an hour later, smelling a little sweaty but looking satisfied, like somehow she had won the battle because she could make it home on her own.

  I just kept driving, loosening my grip on the wheel. “You know what?” I said. “It’s your life, not mine. And frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck anymore about what you do or don’t do. I’m tired of worrying. I just do not care at all.”

  “God, Mom,” she said, and then she started crying, the panicky kind of little sobs that sound the way Charles does just before he has an asthma attack. I watched my girl cry, watched the tears run down her face, watched her glance at me through her squinted eyes, and I felt as composed as a queen. I wanted to call all my friends who had teenage daughters and tell them, Just stop caring!

  It’s a miracle, I swear to God.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Clay Bird

  (Missy, Summer 2000)

  Mama is usually too tired after work to do anything but lie around and watch TV. Tonight she doesn’t even make dinner, just puts two bowls, the box of Frosted Flakes, and a carton of milk on the table. After we eat she splays on the sofa, trying to cool herself with a paper fan from church. I sit on Daddy’s old La-Z-Boy, the stuffing poking out of the holes in the fabric. Ever since Daddy’s mama, Meemaw, died, Mama’s been saying she’s going to haul that thing to the junkyard. I squirt myself with water from the plastic bottle Mama uses to spritz her tomato plants. Meemaw died six years ago. That La-Z-Boy isn’t going anywhere.

  I go to the kitchen and get my Coke out of the freezer. Mama looks up as I walk back to my seat, holding the cold can against my neck.

  “You going to be up all night if you drink that,” she says.

  “I’m going to be up all night anyway,” I say, “unless you got AC without telling me.”

  Mama purses her lips. It’s the lady minister on TV tonight, Mrs. Lacy Lovehart. Her hair is so blond it looks white. She doesn’t give much of a sermon. Instead she gives the Rapture Update. My favorite is when she reads headlines from newspapers and explains how they prove the Rapture is soon to come. Like the fact that we invented the Internet proves we’ve become a lot smarter. And since man’s intelligence is supposed to increase tenfold in the last one hundred years, that means the end is near.

  “Do you think this heat is a sign?” I ask Mama.

  “In Hell,” she says, “this would feel like an ice storm.”

  She reaches for the spray bottle she uses for ironing and mists herself.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she says. “If that don’t look like your daddy.”

  I look. It is a commercial for a used car lot. All I see are a bunch of pickup trucks. Then the camera swings to the announcer. Even in a white suit and a cowboy hat, I recognize Daddy. He looks so tall and lean. His hair isn’t quite as curly as I remember, but those are his eyes all right: bright blue and framed with lashes so long Mama used to say it was a shame they were wasted on a man. My lashes are just as thick, but I’m not near as pretty as Daddy is handsome. I still have chubby cheeks—baby fat, says Mama—but I figure I ought to be past that by now, considering I am twelve and am going to be in the eighth grade next fall on account of having started first grade when I was five since I could already read full passages from the Bible and spell words like Beelzebub.

  “We’ve rounded up the best deals in town, so bring your posse on down to Duke’s New and Used Cars. Located just off I-Two Eighty-five behind the Big Wiener.”

  Daddy’s name is Luke, which is the same as Duke but with a D. Maybe he put together Daddy and Luke to equal Duke. I didn’t even know he was back in Georgia, let alone that he owns a car lot. The last we heard he was living in Florida. I stand up.

  “Let’s drive over there,” I say.

  Mama looks at me. It’s too dark in here to see the lines that pull down her lips, or the bump on her nose from where Meemaw broke it right before she died when she was too sick to know any better. The TV casts a soft glow on Mama’s face, her yellow hair a halo behind her. She was a princess on the homecoming court the semester before she dropped out of school to have me.

  “Sugar,” she says, “we can’t afford a new car.”

  “Not to buy a car,” I say. “To see Daddy.”

  Mama’s chipped tooth shows when she laughs. “That wasn’t your daddy,” she says. “Your daddy is long gone. That man just looked like him.”

  She lifts herself off the couch with a grunt and walks to her bedroom. She turns at the door.

  “Your daddy don’t have enough money to buy a Happy Meal. How’s he going to buy himself a car dealership?”

  I can’t win an argument with Mama, so I do not even try. But I know that was my daddy I saw. And I know he aired his commercial on the God Is Good network because Jesus told him I would be watching.

  MONDAYS AND THURSDAYS Mama cleans for Mrs. Parker in Atlanta. During the summer I go with her because Mrs. Parker lets me swim in her pool. It takes us more than an hour and a half to get there, because of the traffic. Mrs. Parker is always sighing over the fact that we have to drive so far, as if sitting in the car is the worst part of our day. I tell her that the commute isn’t really that long. I don’t want her feeling sorry for me.

  Mrs. Parker says she likes living in town because it cuts down on the amount of time she has to spend in the car. It’s true. She lives so close to downtown you can practically touch the skyscrapers from her backyard. It’s a real nice neighborhood though, even if it is right smack in the city. None of the houses in it look exactly alike, but they’re all big and tended to: no peeling paint or overgrown yards or nothing.

  On our street in Loganville, some folks keep their front yards nice and neat like me and Mama, while other people, like our neighbor, RD, pile so much junk on their lawns you’d think they were having a garage sale. The only thing in common between the front of our house and the front of RD’s is that the American flag flies from each.

  In Mrs. Parker’s neighborhood a few people hang flags, but not American flags usually. Theirs just show the seasons with fall leaves or spring flowers or rainbow stripes or something nice like that. At the beginning of the summer there was a flag that looked like a slice of watermelon hanging from the front porch of the house next to Mrs. Parker’s. The flag itself was cut into the shape of a watermelon. It was so cute and cheerful! At dinner I asked Mama if we could buy a watermelon flag like the one we saw in Mrs. Parker’s neighborhood. RD, who was eating with us, piped up and said he’d rather spend the money on a real watermelon, one that we could have for dessert. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him I was talking to Mama, not him. Mama would kill me if I was rude to his face. She says I need to treat him with respect.

  She didn’t used to feel that way. Back when RD was just our next-door neighbor, she didn’t mind my teasing him. She used to tease him too. She used to look at his tiny jeans hanging on the clothesline and say she wouldn’t be able to fit her wrist through the waist, let alone her hips. But then he and Mama started seeing each other. It happened fast. The week after she put in a prayer request at church for a good man—Mama started going to a real big church after Daddy left so everyone wouldn’t know her business there like they did at our old church, which my granddaddy started—RD showed
up for the casual worship service, the one Mama and me go to so we don’t have to wear pantyhose. When she saw RD there, she figured her prayers had been answered. I wasn’t so sure, wasn’t sure at all that RD was the person God meant to send. I just think RD got wind of her request and took advantage.

  I’m betting God hasn’t given up yet on Daddy.

  Just because RD is a scrawny thing don’t think he don’t eat. Mama must spend half her pay on food for him, and he doesn’t even come over every night. Last Sunday after church Mama fried a chicken and practically before I had a chance to say “Amen” at the end of grace, RD shot his hand out and grabbed a drumstick, not even caring that it might be Mama’s and my favorite piece too. Not even caring that one of us was going to be left out.

  Mama doesn’t seem to mind that on top of being a puny little thing he has no table manners. Mama says what matters is that RD is a good man, a Christian.

  Sometimes I wonder if he really is one, if he really accepted Jesus into his heart or just wants to work his way into Mama’s. It’s gotten so I’m not even sure about her anymore. I’ve started to think I’m the only one between the three of us who still takes church seriously. Even in God’s house the two of them can’t keep their hands off each other. During the sermon he tickles his finger up and down her arm. There I am, not two feet away from them, trying to pay attention to Pastor Finch, and they are playing X marks the spot like kids at Bible camp. Sometimes it feels like I’m the grown-up.

  Right after they started dating—or courting, as Mama says—RD came over to watch the Super Bowl. When Mama walked in front of the TV during the game, he swatted her bottom. She yelped, then started giggling like a fool. He pulled her into his lap and they watched the rest of the game that way.

  I was going to fix nacho dip for a snack; we had Velveeta and Pace picante sauce just waiting to be zapped in the microwave. But watching the two of them curled up together, I didn’t even bother. There’s no point bringing out food for people who don’t care a lick whether or not you are there. I went to my room before the game was even over.

  MAMA AND I go around to the back of Mrs. Parker’s house. I carry the mop and bucket. She carries the vacuum cleaner. Lord, does Mama love that thing. Last year she won $1,000 being the hundredth caller on Keepin’ It Real Country. She bought herself a vacuum cleaner that cost $200. I am not joking. She said it would make her life two hundred times easier. It is so light it doesn’t even strain her back to lift it, and it sucks up anything that comes near it. I bet it would suck up a dog if it got in the way, especially one of those tiny ones.

  Mama fumbles through her key chain, looking for the right one. Mrs. Parker comes to the door before Mama has a chance to find it. I can’t help but smile when I see her. She just looks so nice and put together, her clothes crisp and clean, her chin-length hair all dark and shiny like she polished it with Pledge.

  “Hello, Faye!” she says. Mrs. Parker always greets us like we just stopped by for an unexpected visit. “And Missy! Your summer break must have finally started. Can you believe Coventry let out Charles and Caroline over three weeks ago?”

  “Friday was our last day,” I say.

  Mrs. Parker grabs my hands and lifts my arms, as if she wants us to play ring around the rosy. She looks me up and down. “Missy, I swear you get prettier every time you come here! My daughter used to have curls like yours when she was little, but they fell right out when she turned five and now they are a tangled mess. But look at yours. Perfect ringlets, like a little doll. And your eyes! So dark and knowing and intelligent! What a wise soul they reveal. And my goodness, you’re so tall for your age. You’re almost as tall as me! Of course I’m only five four, so that doesn’t say that much.”

  I duck my head and smile. I love it when Mrs. Parker fusses over me.

  “You are a flower in bloom, my dear,” she says, letting go of my hands. “Just growing and growing.”

  “Her breasts are sure growing,” Mama says. “They went from bee stings to beehives overnight.”

  I know it’s a sin to have such thoughts, but sometimes I wish Mama would just die. Just keel over real quick and be gone. That way she’d never be able to embarrass me again and Mrs. Parker might let me come live with her.

  I look around, pretending this is my kitchen, pretending that Mama is just a lady who works for me. The room smells like lemon cleaner. The red tile floor shines. Copper pots hang from hooks in the ceiling, glowing in the sunlight. Mama says there are two kinds of people she cleans for: those who need it and those who don’t. As far as I can tell, Mrs. Parker’s house don’t even get dust.

  “I’ve got some appointments I’ve got to run off to, but there’s turkey in the fridge, and please, eat some of these goodies I made.” Mrs. Parker points to a plate on the counter, piled high with brownies. “Lord knows I don’t need them.”

  She laughs in that soft little way she has and runs her fingers along the sides of her pale blue shirt. The shirt is unbuttoned low enough so I can see the tops of her breasts, round and freckled.

  “Missy, are you planning on swimming?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I brought my bathing suit.”

  “Wonderful. I’m glad someone is going to be using the pool. Just make sure you are completely dry before you come in the house. These tile floors are such a hassle. They stain if they get even one drop of water on them.”

  Before I have the chance to say anything, Mama says, “She’ll dry herself off.”

  Mama pulls a paper towel from the roll and squirts 409 on the sparkling black countertop.

  “Faye, that reminds me.” Mrs. Parker walks to the pantry in the back of the kitchen and takes out a pump bottle. “I bought this at the most wonderful new grocery store that’s opened up near Emory. The store is called Whole Foods, and in addition to the most gorgeous produce you have ever seen, they sell all kinds of natural cleaning products. This one uses citric acid from lemons instead of chemicals, and it is supposed to be just as effective as what you’ve been using.”

  She hands the bottle to her with a smile. The price tag is still on it. It cost $7.95.

  Mama says thanks, but if I know her, she’s thinking Mrs. Parker just wasted eight bucks.

  “One more thing,” says Mrs. Parker. “I have shut the door to Charles’s room and you should just pretend it’s not there, same as you do with Caroline’s. I’ve told him for the last time to straighten up before you come. He’s almost thirteen years old, for goodness’ sake, and if he leaves his room a mess he doesn’t deserve to have it cleaned.”

  “I don’t mind doing it,” says Mama.

  “Faye, you are so sweet, but I don’t want Charles to think a woman is always going to clean up after him.”

  Mama laughs. I hate for Mrs. Parker to see her chipped tooth.

  “You mean you don’t want him to be like every other man on earth?” Mama asks.

  “Oh, Faye,” says Mrs. Parker, peering at her own reflection in the oven to fluff her hair. “RD isn’t that way, is he?”

  I glare at Mama. What is she doing telling Mrs. Parker about him?

  LAST SUMMER WHEN Mama was out of the room and I was alone with Mrs. Parker, I asked her if she was a Christian. We’d been given a mission at church to bring five people to Jesus before school started up again. Mrs. Parker said that she was “Episcopalian by birth” but that she was extremely interested in Buddhism. Buddhism!

  I asked her if she had a church home and she said that she was a member of All Saints but that “brunch often called louder than church.”

  I invited Mrs. Parker to come to our church. She said she’d think about it. Our pastor says a lot of people have stopped going to church because churches have stopped preaching the Truth. Pastor Finch says God gave the church the Gospels for a reason—to use them. He does too. Sometimes he gets so worked up about the Lord that he yells and cries and speaks in foreign tongues. It scares me near to death when he does, but I figure if I die from Pastor Finch’s preachi
ng I’ll shoot straight up to Heaven.

  Pastor Finch says this life is about as important as a sneeze. Face it, he says, this life is tedious. This life is boring. This life can be painful, even. And work ain’t called work because it’s fun. But in Heaven, anything can happen. Pastor Finch says if I want birthday cake every day in Heaven, I get it. If I want movie star silky straight hair, fine. The chip in Mama’s front tooth? Fixed. And all that will pale beside the real joy of Heaven, because in Heaven I will meet Jesus, and Jesus will love me like no one has before. It will be like when I was little and Daddy would scratch my back until I fell asleep. Only Jesus won’t leave. Ever.

  Hell is a different story. Mama and me have this idea about how Satan is as tricky in Hell as he is on earth. We think he makes it so that when you first go to Hell it’s really hot, like a heat wave in August, but it’s a heat you can stand. What he’s doing is making you think you can outsmart him by getting used to the heat. But what you won’t know is that he has different rooms. One for people who just died, then a hotter one for people who are getting used to the temperature, then a hotter one and a hotter one still and so on for eternity.

  When I first walk out of church Sunday afternoons, I feel as if I’ve just stepped out of a bubble bath. I feel scrubbed clean on the inside. The feeling fades when I get back in Mama’s Buick. It smells like stale smoke. The front seat is sticky from spilled Cokes and ketchup, and the cleaning bottles rattle around in the back as if they’re just dying to tell us that we ain’t in Heaven yet.

  FOR NOT BEING a real Christian, Mrs. Parker sure likes Jesus. She has an enormous painting of Him, hung smack in the middle of her living room wall. You wouldn’t even know it is Him if His wrists weren’t pierced and He didn’t have long, flowing hair. Instead of wearing a white robe, Jesus is wearing a blue ball gown with rhinestones dotted along the straps. And instead of a crown of thorns or a halo, he wears a diamond tiara on his head. The blue of his ball gown is so rich you just want to stare, but I try not to. I know it is some kind of sinning to picture Jesus looking like a girl.