Family Thang Page 19

  He heard footsteps padding to the bathroom… running water. Perhaps she’ll slip and fall.

  If she were a man he would have… He picked up the phone and called Robert Earl’s number.

  “Hel…lo,” Robert Earl said, food in his mouth.

  “Robert Earl, how do you get in touch with Shirley?”

  When Ruth Ann, freshly showered, wearing a T-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of faded pink tennis shoes, stepped into the living room, Leonard had managed two pages of the book.

  “A good read?” Ruth Ann asked.

  “Nope,” not looking up.

  “Momma still asleep?”

  “Yup.”

  “You want something to eat?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Maybe later you and I could go catch a movie or something. A Madea movie is playing at the Dollar Cinema. I heard it’s good. You wanna go?”

  “Nope.” He could feel her eyes burning holes in the side of his head. She walked into the kitchen and he heard the refrigerator door open and close.

  “Leonard, we could ride over to the mall in Greeneville. I’ll drive.”

  “Nope.”

  She came back into the living room. Leonard shot her a glance and saw she was eating ice cream from the carton. Germy. She plopped down beside him on the couch.

  “If you don’t want to talk to me, Leonard, no problem.” She stuck a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth and slurped loudly. To Leonard the noise had the same effect as a dentist’s drill. He rolled his eyes at her and scooted to the far end of the couch.

  Ruth Ann slurped again. “Put the book down, Leonard, and let’s talk.”

  He put the book closer to his face.

  “Pleasure,” she said, reading the title. “I read it. Had me wondering if he had a yoni. You don’t talk to me, I’ll keep irritating you.”

  He snapped the book closed. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Anything. It doesn’t matter to me. Your job in Chicago, your friends. Whatever, I’m all ears.”

  “Let’s see…” He pinched his chin as if deep in thought. “What shall we talk about? Oh, I almost forgot. Shirley is on her way here.”

  “What?”

  “Shirley is on her way here.”

  “You’re lying!” She moved the curtains and peered out the window. “I know you’re lying!”

  “Afraid not.”

  “The phone didn’t ring, not once! Unless it rang when I was in the shower.” She turned and gave him the coldest look he’d seen in a long time. “You called her, didn’t you?”

  Leonard couldn’t help it, he smiled.

  “Why, Leonard? Why? You wanna see Shirley hurt me?”

  “Leonard?” Ida called from the bedroom.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Leonard said, “I need to check on my mother.”

  “Go right ahead, I’m on my way out. If it’s not a problem, would you bring my stuff inside the house.” She opened the front door and then closed it.

  “One thing before I go,” and reached behind her head and lifted her T-shirt. “See this,” pinching the tag. “A label. Hanes, I believe. A label, all it is. No more, no less. Yes, it can rub, annoy, aggravate—but what hurts more than overreacting to it? Leonard, I made a stupid remark and I’m sorry I did. Was it so painful, so debilitating, you want to see me get hurt?”

  Leonard didn’t answer, a smug smile on his lips.

  “A label, Leonard. If it ain’t you don’t even think about wearing it.”

  She made her way into the kitchen, and then Leonard heard the back door open and slam shut.

  Chapter 28

  “My momma and daddy told me not to see you no more,” Linda Riley said, opening the door just enough to reveal her head. “My daddy said he’s gonna do something to you when he finds out who you are.”

  Man, she’s hard to look at, Eric thought. Cockeyed, the left pupil way over yonder, as though she was trying to see behind her. Above her small, egg-shaped head sat an uneven afro, patches of scalp showing, as if she’d tried to cut her own hair but couldn’t quite figure where to start or stop.

  Long hairs sprouted from her nose. Her bottom lip puffed out and over, revealing black gums and yellow teeth, rental space between each.

  Eric said, “I thought you was a big girl. You always do what your momma and daddy tell you?”

  “I am a big girl! Twenty-two December thirteenth,” and stuck her thumb into her mouth.

  “Open the door if you a big girl,” staring at a patch of acne dotting her narrow forehead.

  “Mumma staid I crant hab eenie crumprinee!”

  “What? Take your thumb out your mouth when you talk.”

  Linda plucked it out. “Momma said I can’t have any company.” She returned the thumb to her mouth, sucked on it contentedly, and took it out again. “My momma beat me with a broom when your wife walked me home and told her about us.”

  “She ain’t my wife.”

  Pointing her wet thumb at him: “The hell you say! Why you run off when she came in?”

  Why am I talking to her? She didn’t have a lick of sense. What in the hell did he see in her in the first place? I had to have been drunk, had to have been.

  He turned to leave. “Gotta go. Tell your daddy I said hi.”

  Walking down the steps, he heard the door close and then open. “Come on!” she said. “Come on ’fore somebody sees you and calls my momma!”

  He turned and saw what had attracted him to her. She had the most voluptuous body he’d ever seen outside of a Playboy magazine.

  Underneath a hot-pink halter-top were two perfectly shaped, mouth-watering knockers, the tips pointed up without any means of support. The skin on her hourglass midriff was a shade lighter than her facial complexion.

  He stared at her belly button, distended, like the beginning of a balloon. Had to be another flaw somewhere, Eric thought before staring at her long legs wrapped tightly in a pair of white Capri pants. No shoes.

  Barbie with a gargoyle’s head. Man, God sure works in mysterious ways.

  “Are you coming in, or what?” she asked.

  He bolted up the stairs and into the house. The Riley’s living room was furnished with a black three-piece sectional couch and matching loveseat and ottoman, all covered in plastic. On a flat-screen television Chris Hansen stepped out from behind a curtain and startled a man removing liquor and condoms from a paper sack.

  Cigar smoke and raspberry air freshener lingered in the air. On the wall behind the couch was a huge velvet picture of a black panther emerging out of tall grass.

  “What does your daddy do?” Eric asked. “Work at the zoo?”

  “No. He’s the assistant warden over at Tucker.”

  “Really? I wish you’d told me before.” He sat down in the loveseat.

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  Eric smiled at her. “No, it wouldna’ve. Remember what I told you?”

  “Heavy on the slob?”

  “Yes, and what else?” She shrugged. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

  She started toward him, stopped suddenly, her eyes going everywhere except in the same direction, and they both listened intently to a car pulling into the driveway. Seconds later a car door slammed.

  “Daddy!” she whispered, looking terrified. “Run!”

  Eric jumped up, head jerking right to left. “I’m going out the back door!”

  “Uh-uh! Malcolm is back there.” She pointed toward the couch. “Hide behind there.”

  “Who is Malcolm?”

  “Daddy’s pit bull. Hurry!”

  The front door opened just as Eric was ducking into the small space where the couch catty-cornered against the wall.

  “Hi, Daddy,” he heard Linda say. “What you doing home this ear
ly?”

  “I live here,” a man said. “You forgot? I live here, pay the bills here. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing, Daddy.”

  “You acting strange. When the last time you talked to the bolus?”

  “You told me not to talk to him anymore, Daddy. You want me to fix you something to eat? I’ll make you a sandwich and bring it to your room.”

  Eric didn’t hear the man respond. What the hell is a bolus?

  “Daddy, don’t you want to go lie down, get off your feet. I know you’re tired.”

  “You go lie down!” the man said. Eric heard and felt someone sitting on the couch. “I’m fine right here.”

  The man was close, an arm’s length away. Eric started sweating, profusely.

  The man started sniffing. “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell? I don’t smell nothing.”

  “Smells like Brute. Who’s been here?”

  “Nobody, Daddy. Nobody’s been here.”

  Sweat dripped into Eric’s eyes, but he didn’t dare move a muscle.

  “I’m going to say this one last time,” the man said. “You go near that man again, I’ll beat the black off you, you hear me? I wish he would come here. I wish he would! It’ll be the last place he go.”

  “I know, Daddy, I know.”

  “I might as well be a damn garbage man! Work with trash all day, then come home and deal with it.” He mumbled expletives. “What you say his name was?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “You a damn lie! You said his name was Eric. You hop in bed with a man and you don’t know his name?”

  “I just know him as Eric, Daddy.” She sounded on the verge of crying.

  “Yeah, I bet.” Silence, then vehemently: “Get outta my face! Get outta my damn face! You make me sick!”

  I’m dead, Eric thought. D-E-A-D! Why the hell did he come here? He should have taken his lumps with Shirley, who would have roughed him up, but not killed him.

  Coming here had seemed a good idea, initially. After a night of sleeping inside the Laundromat, he figured he could get a hot shower and a hot meal while the troll’s parents were at work. He also figured he could punish a poonanny.

  But now in this man’s house, crouched behind his couch, all he stood to get was a well-whooped ass.

  A cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” the man said. “I was just thinking about you… Yeah, we still have a deal… No, not yet… No… She claims she doesn’t know his full name. When I get it, I’ll get his address… Not a problem… I have the money now… Yes, half upfront, half later. Yes… Yes… Yes, most definitely… I don’t want to flush the wrong bolus, know what I mean?” The man laughed and said good-bye. “Linda!” he shouted.

  A moment later: “Yes, Daddy?”

  “Are you sure you told me all you know about whatsmajigga? I drive you around you should remember where his house is.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy, I don’t know.”

  Eric heard a grunt and what sounded like a shoe striking a wall.

  “Get your lying ass outta here!” the man shouted.

  He’s seriously planning to hurt me.

  All the man needed was his last name… and then what? Busted kneecaps? A contract killing? Probably the latter, considering a kneecap busting didn’t usually require upfront money.

  If he survived this he would change: stop chasing women, stop looking at pornography. All those magazines under the mattress would have to go.

  Shirley, he vowed, would be the recipient of his first act of atonement. He would beg her forgiveness. No matter if she kicked his ass; he deserved it. The man interrupted his thoughts by throwing an arm on the headrest.

  Eric stared at the large, stubby, dark-skinned fingers grasping the remote control. Those were the fingers of a very strong man. Shit, those fingers could crush a man’s windpipe.

  Eric couldn’t take his eyes off those fingers, and then, to his horror, the remote control slipped from those large, stubby, dark-skinned, life-threatening fingers and landed on his shoulder. The man cursed and then Eric saw ten large, dark-skinned, stubby, life-threatening, windpipe-crushing fingers grab hold of the headrest.

  In seconds, the man’s face would appear… and I’ll be dead!

  Chapter 29

  Ruth Ann is a slut.

  A convoy of log trucks was parked along the street, diesel engines running, several drivers asleep on their steering wheel. Ruth Ann walked along the sidewalk, a chain-link fence to her right, beyond it the SuperWood paper mill. Dirt-gray smoke plumed from two concrete stacks, dispersing an odor of Pine-Sol and manure.

  Ruth Ann is a slut.

  At a distance inside the plant, a Tigercat track loader grabbed logs on a truck and placed them on a conveyor belt that ran up and disappeared into a large white building. An aluminum chute stretched out the opposite side of the building and spewed a mountain of sawdust.

  Ruth Ann is a slut.

  The blisters on her feet hurt like hell and the sun, though starting its descent, braised her exposed skin. T-shirt and jeans felt hot and sticky. Sawdust irritated her eyes. Yet the most uncomfortable thing at the moment was those five words Shirley had told Lester.

  Ruth Ann is a slut.

  She hadn’t considered what Shirley had said until she’d started walking, and now couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why not whore? Ruth Ann wondered. Whore would have inflicted the same slap to the face, delivered the same blow to the gut.

  The other word sounded so mean… so nasty… so… so slutty. I’m not a slut!

  She slowed her pace, ugly words floating in her head, sapping her energy.

  Think of something else! Think of something else!

  The paper mill behind her now, she wondered where she was headed. She lifted her T-shirt, exposing her midriff, and wiped the sweat off her face and neck.

  A white man driving an old red-and-white truck stopped ahead of her and she waved him off. She wasn’t a slut; she didn’t just jump in a truck with any-old-body. The truck was the exact model, color and make Lester had owned a long time ago.

  Back then, the truck was Lester’s and her only vehicle. Whenever she needed to drive it, Lester would sneak out and jot down the mileage. Three miles away from the house she would stop, reach under and up the dash and unplug the odometer. She’d had big-time countrified fun in Lester’s old truck… chasing bucks in a truck… until the accident.

  Which changed everything!

  She remembered the night she stepped into the juke joint on the outskirts of Greenville, Mississippi. Marijuana and cigarette smoke hovered in a cloud below the ceiling, an antique jukebox blasted Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing, the sound of men and women laughing and talking louder than the music. Far more men than women. She could feel their eyes on her, prying for insight into her yellow, short, skin-tight leather skirt, desiring her.

  She sat in a booth in back and watched. Simply watched, declining three invites to dance. Someone sent a rum and Coke to her table… and then another… and another.

  Computer Love played on the jukebox… and she lost it, utterly lost it, hypnotized by Roger Troutman’s seductive lyrics and the synchronized beat, and found herself on the dance floor, eyes closed, limbs in-synch with the music, her mind in a faraway place, a sensuous place, absent a facially scarred husband whose idea of a great Friday night was a rented movie and microwave popcorn.

  She sensed someone dancing before her and opened her eyes… A tall, light-skinned, freckle-faced man in blue jeans and a green hospital shirt stood before her, nodding his head to the beat. Handsome, with the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. Computer Love faded and was followed by If Loving You Is Wrong.

  He pulled her to him, and she buried her head in his chest. He smelled of Vicks Vapor Rub, though she didn’t think it odd. They danced again and again, slow songs, fast songs, rap songs, until they were exhauste
d.

  After two more rum and Cokes, he and she were on the bed of Lester’s red-and-white truck parked in back of the juke joint, dogs barking, the December air cool though bearable, under a sea of stars, her yellow skirt bunched up around her waist, her knees against her shoulders, panties hanging on one ankle, with him bouncing on top of her.

  Ten weeks later she returned to the juke joint, this time with something more important on her mind than having a good time. She was pregnant. The tall, light-skinned man with freckles needed to help cover prenatal expenses. He wasn’t there.

  She described him to a group of gray-haired men playing dominoes. Two of them laughed. Yes, they knew him, Drew Tubbs. He’d gone home, they told her. Where’s home? Little Rock, the oldest-looking man said. Roger’s Hall, the state hospital, he added. He wouldn’t be coming back. He’d escaped, and a doctor and the police had come and taken him back.

  Drew Tubbs, they told her, had snipped off his own tongue with wire cutters after smoking marijuana and watching Benny Hinn, which partly explained why she couldn’t remember what he’d said to get her to the truck.

  She threw up on the juke joint floor and needed assistance to Lester’s truck; then drove home in a fugue and threw up again after calling the state hospital and looking up schizoaffective disorder in the medical dictionary.

  A loud moo startled her into the present; she was walking along the fence to the sale barn, filled with cows and bulls. The stench smelled similar to the paper mill. Where the hell am I going? A mile or so she’d be on the outskirts of town. The only stop before here and Hamburg was the park. Aunt Jean lived in Hamburg, but she didn’t take kindly to company, family or no.

  Lester had known all along Shane wasn’t his.

  All those years he hadn’t said a word. The day she came out of the hospital she took four-day-old Shane to her mother’s house and left him.

  Every day, for three long weeks, Ida would bring Shane back to her, railing she needed to take care of her own child, and then, before Ida could drive back home, Ruth Ann would take him right back and leave him with her father. Shane got colicky from all the back-and-forth so Ida stopped dropping him off. And not once did Lester utter a peep.