Bound South

by Susan Rebecca White

  Below the painting is a bunch of white clay birds perched on a long wooden table. Mrs. Parker bought them at one of those art shows she’s always going to. Mama was at her house cleaning when she came home with them. Mama said that each bird was wrapped first in bubble wrap and then in newspaper. The bubble wrap was taped on so tight it took Mama and Mrs. Parker forever to get it all off.

  Mama told me there must have been a hundred birds, but I counted and there are only forty-two. It took me forever to count them because I kept forgetting which bird I started with, but then I noticed that one of the birds was smaller than all the others, so I started with her.

  I love the birds. They are probably my favorite things in the world. They just look so clean and pure; they look like the birds we’ll see in Heaven. The runt is the sweetest of them all. I pick her up and whisper the name I gave her, Kimberly.

  Kimberly doesn’t have many features, just a round bird body with wings etched into her side, a beaked bird head, and little stones for eyes that are a silvery blue. None of the other birds on the table have eyes. Just this little one, and they seem to be sparkling. When I hold Kimberly I get the feeling that she belongs to me, the way a baby belongs to its mama. I stroke her polished back with my finger. I kiss her little beak.

  I wonder what my daddy would think of this little bird. Mama always said he had a soft spot for creatures. She said it used to drive her crazy how he’d snatch a mouse up by its tail and drop it outside in the grass instead of killing it. She said he turned our house into Mouse Central.

  Daddy would probably love my little Kimberly. Maybe I can show her to him if I find a way to visit him at the car lot. Maybe I’ll give her to him. Then he’ll have something to remember me by in case he goes back to Florida. He’ll have to be careful with Kimberly when he packs her in his suitcase. He’ll have to put her in lots of bubble wrap, build a little nest around her. He’ll have to drive real smooth down the highway, to keep from jostling and breaking her little bird bones.

  I slip Kimberly into the pocket of my shorts and walk to the kitchen where I left my bag with my bathing suit in it. I tuck her inside the bag, but then I get worried that she might break. I take her out and begin wrapping her in a bunch of paper towels I find under Mrs. Parker’s sink. I hear a loud tapping on one of the glass windows by the back door. I look up.

  Mama’s boyfriend RD is looking right at me.

  I jump.

  He taps again.

  I shove Kimberly, half-wrapped, into my bag, then open the door, my heart slamming in my chest.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to sound like I’m the one who’s caught him up to something.

  He just stands in the doorway, looking at me with a half smile on his face, holding up a white bag with red lettering from Chick-fil-A. The front of his shirt is covered with hairs from his mutt, Li’l Dog.

  “Seems I could ask you the same thing,” he says.

  I straighten my back. We stand there looking at each other, neither of us saying a thing, until he reaches out his free hand and tousles my hair, messing up the top part, which I had smoothed back with a barrette.

  “I brought a sandwich for your mama,” he says, walking into the kitchen. “I brought you one too. And a lemonade.” He winks. “Don’t ever underestimate the beauty of the words employee discount.”

  He sets the bag down on the countertop and looks around. He whistles. “Nice place you got here. How much did it set you back?”

  RD smiles at me. There’s always something off about the way he looks because of his nose. His left nostril is half the size of his right.

  “I don’t think Mama’s supposed to have visitors at work,” I say. “Who are you, her shift manager?” RD asks. Opening the refrigerator, he pulls out a Coke, pops the cap, and takes a long sip.

  “Besides,” he says, nodding toward my bag, “looks like you made yourself right at home.”

  “It’s not—”

  RD holds his hands, palms out, in front of his chest, looking for all the world as if he’s about to catch a basketball. “Hey, I’m not interested in poking around, pretending I’m on Cops or something. Just don’t do anything that might get your mama in trouble, and you and me can still be friends. Okay?”

  I don’t say anything, but I’m thinking that if RD thinks he and I are friends he must be even dumber than he looks.

  RD begins to take the sandwiches out of their bags. I swear I can smell the butter on the buns. There is nothing I love to eat more than Chick-fil-A, even though now that Mama and RD are together I eat Chick-fil-A all the time, thanks to RD’s employee discount, something he never shuts up about.

  “I come have lunch with Faye every Monday,” he says. “Got to take advantage of my days off.”

  He smiles at me like he thinks I like him.

  “I’ll get Mama,” I say.

  I climb the stairs and walk down the long hall to Mrs. Parker’s bedroom. Mama is sitting on Mrs. Parker’s white bedspread, reading US Weekly, the vacuum cleaner roaring beside her. I cut it off.

  “Does RD really come eat lunch with you every Monday?” I ask.

  “Lord, is he here already?” She jumps up and goes to the mirror that hangs on the bedroom wall. The mirror is framed with heavy wood and is as big as the wall of my bedroom at home. Mama lets her hair out of its rubber band and combs it with her hand.

  “Do I look all right?” she asks, but she is out the door before I can answer.

  I stand in front of Mrs. Parker’s mirror and stick out my chest. My boobs are almost as big as Mama’s.

  AT HOME I try to hide Kimberly. I don’t have a bed to stash her under like people do on TV, because my mattress lies right on the floor. I don’t have a closet in my room, and my chest of drawers is packed so full I can’t squeeze in an extra pair of underwear, let alone a clay bird that might break. I think about putting her in the closet down the hall, but it makes me nervous to have her out of my sight.

  I decide to put her right on my dresser. I tuck her between the legs of the teddy bear I won at Six Flags when I went there with the Young Warriors group from my church. I put my framed photo of Daddy in front. It’s impossible to see Kimberly behind Daddy, and I am sure Mama won’t be picking up his photo anytime soon considering she always says that looking at Daddy is what got her into trouble in the first place.

  When she was seventeen and pregnant with me, she and Daddy eloped. She didn’t wear a white gown or anything. Mama says the only time she and Daddy had romance in their marriage was before the wedding. Once she found out she was pregnant and they got hitched, they moved in with Daddy’s parents. Granddaddy was a minister and Mama says he was real strict.

  Looking at the photo I have of my daddy back then, I don’t know how she let him get away. When they first met he told her his name was Bone. Least that’s what his friends called him. I figure it was because the bones in his cheeks stuck out so much. I remember once lying in bed between him and Mama on a Saturday morning when Granddaddy and Meemaw were off somewhere. I turned on my side and looked at Daddy, rubbing my finger up and down the side of his cheek.

  “Be careful that don’t poke you,” he said.

  “Your daddy thinks he’s a movie star,” said Mama.

  MAMA MAKES MEATLOAF for dinner and sets the table with the pretty plates Meemaw left her. She has painted two pink stripes across her cheeks. Mama has never been good with blush. It looks like war paint the way she puts it on. Even I know more about blending than Mama does, and I’m not allowed to wear makeup yet.

  But to tell the truth, I don’t care how bad her blush looks, I’m just glad she’s wearing it because I know she must be getting dressed up for Daddy. He must have called to tell her he’s in town and he’d like to come over for dinner. I almost feel sorry for RD. He might have been good at keeping Mama company these last few months, but there’s no way a crooked-nosed runt can compete with my handsome daddy.

  “You want to say the blessing?” asks Mama a
s she sits down at the table.

  “It’s just us tonight?” I ask.

  Mama smiles. “We might have some company later on,” she says.

  Mama and me hold hands. I try to say the blessing the way Pastor Finch would.

  “Thank you, Father,” I say, “for this food, Father, and for Mama, and for Daddy, and for all our relatives, Father. And forgive us for any sins we may have committed today, Father. And thank you for sending Jesus to this earth to die for them in our place. And please help Mama, Father, with the blisters on her feet. Amen.”

  “Amen,” says Mama. “You’re getting real good at that.”

  She scoops mashed potatoes on her plate while I squirt ketchup over my meatloaf.

  “Pastor Finch is going to let me do a reading next Sunday,” I say. “I know,” she says. “My girl is making me proud.”

  I take a bite of meatloaf. I love soft meat. Daddy does too. Mama says he used to drive all the way to Atlanta just to get a Varsity hamburger.

  “Mama?” I say.

  She looks tired underneath her makeup.

  “What’d it feel like to have sex with Daddy?”

  Mama frowns at her plate, thinking.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but Mama has always told me that since God knows all our thoughts and actions anyway, there’s no use the two of us trying to hide anything from each other.

  I was thinking about that this afternoon, about how God must have witnessed me taking the bird. I decided that God probably sees it as a toss-up between two of the Ten Commandments. On the one hand, I stole. On the other hand, I did it to honor my father.

  After a minute Mama sighs and says, “It felt good. Of course it was a sin before we got married.”

  “Were you scared?” I ask.

  “I was nervous the first time,” she says, cutting a bite of meatloaf with her fork. “Mainly because it hurt. But then after a while it started to feel nice.”

  “Did you bleed the first time?” I ask.

  “Pretty soon I stopped bleeding. It’s easy to get pregnant, Missy.”

  She pops the piece of meatloaf into her mouth.

  “I know. I know. I’m going to take the virginity pledge next year in Sunday school, so don’t worry.”

  She waits to swallow before saying, “When you’re with your husband, it will feel good. It might take a few times, but it will.”

  “Do you miss Daddy?” I ask.

  Mama frowns. “I miss him being around for you,” she says.

  I AM ALMOST through washing the dishes when the doorbell rings. Daddy. Oh my Lord. I knew when I saw him on that used car commercial I’d be seeing him soon. I bet he even knows I have a present for him waiting in my room. I bet he read my mind all the way over there off I-285.

  It’s weird though. I’ve spent so much time just itching to see him, and now that he’s actually here, I’m nervous. I keep the water running and scrub another plate. What am I going to say to him? What’s he going to think about how I look? Last time he saw me I was just a little girl crying at Meemaw’s funeral, and now I’m twelve years old, I have pierced ears, and I wear a bra.

  I hear Mama laughing in the living room, and then it gets real quiet. Then I hear her laughing so hard it sounds as if she’s crying. I walk to the living room and see that she is crying, and it’s not Daddy who is in the living room but RD. RD again. RD twice on the same day.

  “Sugar,” says Mama, wiping her eyes and turning toward me, her face flushed. “Guess who just asked me to marry him!”

  They are both grinning like fools. My hands are still wet from the dishes and Mama doesn’t even tell me not to drip on the floor.

  “Daddy?” I ask, even though I know that’s not the answer.

  “No, sugar,” she says. “RD.”

  RD and Mama look at each other. He steps toward me, pulling a rectangular green box out of his pocket.

  The phone rings. I run to Mama’s bedroom to answer it, thinking it might be Daddy calling to say that he is on his way over, that he is ready to start fresh.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Is this Missy?” I recognize Mrs. Parker’s voice, and I almost hang up on her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Missy, hi. This is Louise Parker. Is your mother around?”

  “Um, no. No, ma’am. She’s at Bible study.”

  “Well, you might be able to help. When I came home from my manicure appointment this afternoon, I noticed that one of the little white birds from my collection is missing. Do you know anything about it?”

  My mouth gets so dry it feels like the spit has been sucked right out.

  “Those birds are very important to me. I bought them to mark the one-year anniversary of my mother’s death. The littlest one—the one that’s missing—has tiny moonstones for eyes. Every day when I walk by that bird I think about my mother.”

  I don’t say anything. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t, my mouth is so dry.

  “Believe me,” says Mrs. Parker, “I understand what a special little bird she is. I understand how by mistake someone might want to borrow her.”

  She stops talking but her breathing gets louder. In and out. In and out. Yoga breathing, she calls it.

  “Missy, do you think you might have borrowed the bird by mistake?”

  “No, ma’am,” I stammer, and then I force myself to keep talking. “I didn’t take anything of yours besides some of those brownies you made.”

  Mrs. Parker sucks in her breath. “Oh,” she says. “I see.”

  RD is laughing so loud in the other room I am sure Mrs. Parker will be able to hear him.

  “I bet RD took it,” I say, surprising myself at how easy the lie comes out.

  “Your mother’s boyfriend?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He came over for lunch today and he was asking all about those birds.”

  “Did you actually see him take one?” asks Mrs. Parker.

  “He didn’t do it right in front of me, no. But he was all by himself when I went upstairs to tell Mama he’d brought Chick-fil-A.”

  “RD? That’s hard for me to believe,” Mrs. Parker says. “He’s always seemed so steady, so salt-of-the-earth, certainly not a thief. Nor a connoisseur of the arts, for that matter. You see I have a good instinct about people—”

  I want to tell her what Meemaw used to say: that just because your end stinks doesn’t mean you should follow it. But I know better than to make a joke. What I don’t know is why everyone thinks RD is such a great guy.

  “…he seems to be such a devout man.”

  “He hasn’t been to church much lately,” I say, which is the truth. Last week he insisted Mama and me stay home so he could make us pancakes. Thinking about RD wearing only his undershirt and shorts while standing at Mama’s stove pouring batter into the skillet, I start to believe that he really did steal the bird. I can just see it, RD looking all over Mrs. Parker’s house, finding the prettiest thing she owns and putting it in his pocket, figuring he’ll surprise Mama with it, or give it to me to try and make me like him.

  “Missy, are you sure you didn’t borrow it?”

  My heart races like it does when Mrs. Crawford calls on me in class and I haven’t done the homework.

  “I didn’t take anything of yours but two brownies. And we drank three of your Cokes at lunch.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter.”

  Mama calls me from the other room.

  Mrs. Parker breathes in and out real loud again. She once told Mama yoga breathing was a good thing to do anytime you feel frustrated.

  “Have your mom give me a ring when she gets in, okay?” she says.

  “I will,” I say.

  She takes one more deep breath and then says, “Maybe you should stay home next time your mother comes, just until we get this cleared up. You’re old enough for that, aren’t you?”

  Tears push against my eyes.

  Mama sticks her head in the room.

  “Who is it?” she asks.
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br />   I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. “Pastor Finch,” I say. “About next Sunday.”

  Mama strides over to the phone. “Give it here,” she says. “I want to tell him the good news.”

  I hold the receiver toward me so Mama can’t see me punch the button to hang up on Mrs. Parker before I hand the phone to her.

  “It’s dead,” she says.

  “He must have already hung up,” I say.

  RD stands in the doorway. He’s still holding the green box, which I figure must have a ring for Mama inside it. I’m trapped in the room with the two of them.

  “I bought you a little present,” he says to me.

  He hands me the green box. I open it. Resting on yellow tissue paper are two silver barrettes with tiny crosses etched into them. They are beautiful.

  “I’ve noticed you’ve started wearing your hair pinned back in a way that looks real pretty,” he says.

  The phone rings.

  “Don’t get it,” I say.

  Mama shakes her head.

  “What has gotten into you?” she asks before picking up the phone.

  I tear out of the room before she can say hello, sliding the box with the barrettes into my pocket. I grab Kimberly off my dresser and run out to the front lawn, banging the screen door behind me.

  The sun has set but the moon is bright and big. I stand still, just taking in the night. It feels so different out here than it did inside. It’s as if RD asking Mama to marry him didn’t really happen.

  It’s cooled down since the afternoon and the air against my bare arms feels as comfortable as the water in Mrs. Parker’s heated pool. Someone must have barbecued for dinner; the smell of smoke and meat is strong, but not so strong that I don’t smell the sweetness of the honeysuckle growing on the chain-link fence that divides our house from RD’s. The fireflies are out, the glow of their rears flicking on and off. Looking down the street I spot Bo and Hunter Starr riding in circles on their bikes. They don’t see me, or at least they don’t act like they do. I hear the screen door open behind me, its hinges begging for oil.