Hick - Andrea Portes [63]
“That’s right, Luli, he’s gonna buy the rest and you’ll see now, we’re gonna have all those things you been circling in the JC Penney catalog . . . you didn’t think I noticed, did ya? Well, I did and now I got em for you, fair and square. Store’s open. Listen, I know it’s scary but you’re gonna make new friends now, all new friends, city friends, and we’ll just write your dad a note, see. it’s okay. He’ll understand. it’s best, Luli. it’s best.”
And I packed up my little blue suitcase and she packed up her big one and we took the 6:15 bus to Lincoln and stood proud as punch on that train platform cause he was picking us up at seven on the dot, don’t dawdle. She stands there, my mama, like a version of me projected, with her big blue suitcase and blond hair and big blue eyes made of ice. And we waited till seven, then seven-fifteen, then getting restless, but he’ll be here. Then seven-thirty . . . probably traffic . . . then seven forty-five, then eight. Eight? Then she starts to shuffle and she starts to pace and then eight-fifteen. Eight-thirty.
“Eight-thirty? Well, he musta overslept.” Make a laugh. Make it nervous.
Then, nine.
“Is it nine o-’clock, really?” Take the laugh away. Take it back.
Then ten.
Ten o-’clock.
And I just kept my mouth shut when she marched into the station, picked up the payphone and made a call, real quiet. And I just kept my mouth shut when she set down the receiver, still. And I kept my mouth shut all the way home and didn’t try to make a fuss or chitchat or make it better cause if you’d seen her face you’d know why. Maybe you’d think it’d be scrunched up or mad or mean, but it was none of those things . . . It was like she was gone.
It was like somewhere between that platform and the front stoop steps she’d just flown out of her body and off with Mr. Sharp Chin to that imaginary world with those three angel underlings on the payroll and special knives and forks for supper. It was like she just imaginary ran off with him and left behind a carcass you had to call Tammy that ran on vodka and could only laugh on barstools.
And she never came back.
THIRTY–THREE
When I wake again, Glenda is staring down at me from the green plaid chair, contemplating the ropes and what they mean. She squints out the window and starts talking in a new way. She starts talking in a way you’re supposed to say things in church or to yourself or only to God.
“This is how he made me.”
And now I notice her hands are shaking and she just fixes them tight on her lap and keeps still.
“Right here. This is how I got made. I was your age still . . . spitting image.”
Her hands clasp to her lap for dear life. Don’t shake. Stop shaking.
“And he took me here and he kept me here until . . . I couldn’t live without him. it’s weird. The longer I was here I just, I just. I used to tell time by him. Used to tell time by when he was gone. It was like I couldn’t breathe without him. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want nothing to do without him.”
And now she’s got her hands on her eyes and she’s just telling it to her palms. Don’t count me anymore. she’s just telling it to her palms.
“And then, well, he just started doing things you just don’t do. He just started taking it out. I mean, you can’t just sit there and . . . you can’t just sit there.”
She remembers I’m there now and she comes back.
“So I left. I left and I knew he’d come after me and I was right. Boy, was I right. He just follows me around now, tracks me down from Memphis to Jackson to Hope. How do you think he got that job there from Lloyd? I walked in and there he was. As fucking usual.”
It clicks in my head now, that rubber-band moment, with the beer signs all around and explosives buried somewhere deep under the tree lawn frogs and fishponds back at that front lawn in Jackson.
“And here’s the kicker . . .”
She laughs now but this is not how you’re supposed