Forty-two Minutes Page 6

  The Pottery Palace was Mom’s favorite place when she was home. When she got out of the hospital the first few times, they told her she needed a hobby. One day she came home with a mound of hardened red clay, and soon she began taking me to the studio where I watched her make art. Sometimes Sidney even came too if she wasn’t with her dad. Mom, with her hair tied in a black jersey knot bun and silver stud earrings, sat with her legs slightly opened—making room for the sculpting wheel perched in front of her. Her arms were bent at the elbow and red clay splattered over her hands and wrists. Sidney and I parked atop the counters and watched Mom sing Nina Simone and throw clay pots. Ms. Montague screamed, “no eating in the studio!” but she gave Sid and me potato chips. She handed them to us on the sly and eyed the room in case someone saw, but no one ever did. Days in the studio with Mom and Sid felt normal. Those days felt real. Later, Ms. Montague let me pick up a few hours here and there and she hired me for events or parties. She didn’t call often, and I realized right away she saw me as a ticket girl and nothing more. But my Mom loved her, so I went. I could learn to love her too.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and went to Ms. Montague’s social media page, and sure enough, I saw a flyer with an upcoming date. I sent her a message and told her I would be there in my mom’s place.

  Bursting into the room, Sidney plopped on the bed. “What does yours say?” She grabbed the letter from my hands.

  “Give it back!” I shouted.

  Before Sidney could roll off the bed, I pushed her down to the ground and tickled her.

  “Stoppp! she screamed, dropping the letter.

  “Give me my shit!” I snatched Mom’s heavy thoughts displayed on dingy notebook paper. “What did yours say?”

  “She said she wants me to go to the pottery studio. And then I have to tell Daddy I’m going to live with him when Mommy comes home.”

  When she comes home. Mom gets Sidney’s hopes up and tells her stories about when she was coming home and the fun things they would do together. Once, Mom wrote Sidney a letter and told her not to celebrate Thanksgiving because it was a Capitalist holiday. It had Sidney in a frenzy, trying to justify not eating fried Turkey with us on the big day. Her ten-year-old mind didn’t get it. Dad shut down communication between Mom and Sidney after that. Her letter today was the first one in a few months.

  “Siddd. You are not going to live with your dad. You’re staying here. With us.”

  “But Mom said —”

  “I know what Mom said, but it’s not happening. Mom is sick.”

  Sidney sank into my bed and laid her head on my pillow. Lying beside her, our heads touched, and we were quiet.

  A knock tapped at the door.

  “Come in,” I yelled.

  Dad walked in and smiled at Sid and I lying down. “What’s my girls doing today?”

  “Dad, I feel like I haven’t seen you in days—let me look you over,” I glanced at him up and down.

  “Work calls, I have to keep all of this going,” he waved his hands and looked around. Dad joked it off, but I didn’t think it was funny. I thought back to the last time I saw him. Numbers and dates flashed through my mind and I realized it had been three days. I last saw my Dad three days ago. He was working all that time? He made jokes about paying for senior year and Sidney’s field hockey, but now I was concerned. Was he really working that much to support us?

  “That’s too much, Mr. Ben. Even I know that,” Sidney crinkled her eyebrows.

  Stunned, I glanced at Sidney. Her saying his schedule was too much was big, even for her. She would put herself on grueling schedules for field hockey, waking up at 6 a.m. breakfast, school, practice, more practice, game. It was never-ending for her and what I considered fun for a ten-year-old, but she managed it all.

  Dad’s face softened.

  “Prom season, graduation. These things cost money.”

  “I’m helping Ms. Montague at the pottery studio. I can see if she’ll give me more hours. I can get a better job,” I assured. That wasn’t true. Ms. Montague could be a pain in my ass, and I preferred not to deal with her. She only wanted the “right” girls upfront. She never said it but whenever we had an event, she made the lighter skinned girls work the front room. Ms. Montague put me in the back, taking bids. I never told Mom that part. Ms. Montague was a high yellow woman. Small moles peppered her face, and her hair was pulled back in a tight, low bun. She was always nice to me, but I had a feeling she helped me because of Mom and nothing else.

  Dad’s cell phone rang, and he held one ear so he could hear better. I’m not sure why he did that. I guess habit; he could hear perfectly fine. “Yes Sir, I can be there. No, Sir. Uh… about an hour? Okay, Sir. No, thank you.” Dad fumbled over his words. He didn’t look towards us as he yessed through the phone. He hung up and scratched his head, then he peered around the room like we weren’t there. “Girls,” he began. “I have to go into the center. A pipe burst in the basement. Will you guys be okay for the day?”

  I thought about everything I had to do today. Christmas Break from school came to a close tonight, and tomorrow, we would return for the second half of my senior year of high school. I had my college applications saved online; I only had to hit send. I wasn’t sure how I would pay for my entrance fees, let alone Mila’s. The money I saved from Ms. Montague’s came and went, and the pennies that Tunica Rivers Times paid me was just as meager.

  Dad was absentminded and didn’t keep up with the bills. Sometimes he had the money, and he forgot to pay. Sometimes, he didn’t have the money to pay. Sometimes, I used my money for the electric bill. When Mom lived with us, it was the same way. She never held a job down long enough to help with anything in the house. She mainly stuck to what she knew, and that was performing and music. Mom, King, and Dad went back and forth many times with Mom torn between her want for King, creativity, and passion—and her need for Dad, stability, and us.

  We always had what we needed; we never went without food or clothing or anything like that. I wasn’t greedy, and I tried to keep that in perspective. But the things that I wanted, damn, I really wanted. I don’t know whether these college applications fees were a want or a need. I wondered if they would stay saved somewhere in internet land, unsent because of money. I hoped not.

  Sidney and I took Ez’s car to visit him. I got my license a few months ago when I turned seventeen, but getting a car was the last thing I could afford right now. Besides, I was only applying to colleges with decent campus transportation. The good thing about being an editor was the access I had to information. I researched everything after Mom went away. I always thought there was something I could learn or do to help her. For now, these letters would have to be enough.

  On the more remote end of Tunica River where Ez lived felt heavy. The woods here were thicker, and the sun wasn’t always visible. Deer ran throughout the dense forest marking their territory and with so many creatures and things that made you go bump in the night, Ez’s house fit right in. He lived in a small two-bedroom bungalow. The tall trees crouched overtop and the back of the house opened to his side of Tunica River. He didn’t have a driveway, only a small boat ramp.

  Ez got hurt in one of those old wars where they promised you the world if you fought for them, and became a patriot for their country, but reminded you constantly that they didn’t respect you. That didn’t last long because Ez hurt his back and was soon discharged from the Army. Mama Jackie got this house and our house with his benefits. She was the brains behind the operation. If it wasn’t for her, Ez and our family wouldn’t have anywhere to live.

  Ez doesn’t always shower, and he doesn’t eat every day. Sometimes he eats too much. He burns great enormous bonfires in his yard, and he had a large shotgun laying in the attic that he says he used to shoot deer, but I’ve never seen him shoot not one deer. I asked Sidney, and she said she’s never seen it either. He did everything every day at t
he same time. He woke up at the same time without an alarm. He ate breakfast and milled around the house at the same time. Minutes, sometimes even seconds—if out of place—seemed to throw off his schedule.

  Grandpa Ez was a hoarder, and he was straight off the show. Piles of newspapers were shoved to the ceilings and stacked. Mama Jackie had two cats before she passed away. Ez kept the cats around and they got fatter and fatter. They trotted the land with glee. Soon, more and more cats came, and it seemed like they went and told their friends there was a new spot to post up with a crazy old man. Grandpa Ez welcomed them as he stood outside throwing crumpled Ritz crackers and chunks of ham he ate for dinner the night before. In the summer he left the windows ajar, and the back door cracked to “let the air flow come and go,” as he said it. The cats had free range, coming and going as they pleased. Not long after, Animal Control came to the house. And then once more, and then once more, threatening to condemn the home if things didn’t improve. Dad, Sidney, and I suited up once a month and visited Ez to clean the house. Dad had to work again, so Sidney and I went at it alone today.

  “You driving my car again, girl?” Ez pointed a chicken bone at me. “Hey Sidrock!” He sneered at Sidney. “Want some chicken?”

  “No thank you, Ez,” Sidney giggled.

  Ez gnawed at his hunk of meat. His overalls were black at the knees and his white undershirt was torn at the neck. Sweat peppered his forehead.

  “Ya’ll ain’t coming in here.” Ez barricaded himself in the doorway and shook his head when he saw us walking up.

  “This is my stuff, SidRock. Tell her,” he pointed to me. My giant of a grandfather stomped his foot to his youngest granddaughter in frustration.

  “Come on, Ez, you know we have to do this now and then. Dad couldn’t come, but we’re here.”

  “I said no.” His voice was snappy. “Your Dad said he would not throw out my bikes, and he did. He lied. I had brand new Huffy bikes, and he tossed them away. I was going to use them.”

  “You were not!” I screeched. The anger flowed through me and within seconds I felt hot. “I don’t have time for this today, I have to go to the gallery, and I have a project!” My voice was gruff too.

  Sidney and Ez shot wide eyes in my direction. Sidney got up and stood next to Ez, and together they glared at me.

  “Ez,” I tried again. I eyed the time on my phone. I was meeting Jaxon later to go over the details for his “Day in the Life” bullshit. “Is there anything you don’t want us to touch?” I lowered my voice above a whisper. The plastic gloves on my hands started to sweat, and they felt clammy inside.

  Ez lowered his arms, and tears formed in his eyes. “Just don’t be moving my pictures of Jackie,” he whispered.

  “I won’t. I promise I won’t,”

  Sidney looked up at Ez and held his hand tighter.

  “Indy never moves the pictures of Mama Jackie; I think that’s Mr. Ben. But we’ll talk to him,” Sidney promised. She nodded her head at me. She looked so small standing next to Ez, like David and Goliath.

  Ez hesitated in the doorway before dropping his arm and letting me through. Entering the kitchen, a stench hit my nostrils and my eyes watered. Ez was collecting bottles of old oil he used to fry food. Pots and kitty litter cluttered the room. I couldn’t see through to the living room. Peeking around, I noticed Ez nailed white sheets to the ceiling and used them as dividers.

  “Ez… what are the sheets for?”

  “I reckon I make me some rooms,” he answered.

  “You have rooms. What’s wrong with your bedroom?”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with it nosy girl, I got everything I need right here.”

  Sidney stood in the corner of the living room, dry heaving and covering her mouth. Dead flies covered the fly traps above her head and new flies whizzed by mine.

  “You sick or something, girl? I got some Ginger Ale,” Ez boomed.

  Cats were purring throughout the house, jumping in and out of the windows. The noise from dozens of felines sounding at the same time was deafening, and I found myself yelling to Ez and Sidney and they were right across the room.

  Sidney and I grabbed trash bags, glancing at each other. I paused and checked the time on my phone. I would be cutting it close, cleaning Ez’s house, meeting up with Jaxon, and then going to the gallery. Sidney and I moved around the room as quickly as we could, trying not to pause too long. If we paused too long, the smell would hit our nostrils again and we didn’t want that. We moved in sync around each other, and I was glad Dad didn’t come today; he would have just slowed us down. Once a month was too much for us and we hated doing it, but clearly not enough for what he needed.

  Grandpa Ez was not okay.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jaxon Green was late. This was his project, and he was late to our meeting. Glancing at my watch, I sighed. People have been playing with my time lately, and I didn’t like it. My phone buzzed, and it was Dad.

  “Hello?”

  “Indy, where are you?”

  “I’m waiting at the park for a friend.”

  “Waiting at the park for a friend—now that doesn’t sound suspicious.”

  I giggled. “Remember I told you I was hired to create a video blog for Tunica Rivers Times? For Jaxon Green? You know the Greens’ dad! The rich ones.”

  “Him?”

  “Yes. Him, Dad,” I chuckled.

  “I remember you mentioning something or the other. They used to buy your Mom’s pottery if I remember correctly. They have a few of her larger pieces. Do you need me to come down there?”

  “What, Dad? I didn’t know that.” I wonder if Jaxon knew he possibly had my Mom’s art in his house. Maybe I could get some shots of it on filming day! My mind was moving fast now.

  “What time will you be home? I’m done with work for the day, and I thought the three of us could do something together. They got that new skating rink down on Lexington, and I thought we could bust some moves.” Dad steamrolled my question about Mom’s art, and picturing my Dad, “busting moves,” made me chortle out loud, and soon, he was laughing too.

  “I still got it!” Dad yelled into the phone.

  “What’s Sid doing?”

  “She’s napping. Said something about Ez’s house being worse than ever.” He huffed in exasperation.

  I nodded into the phone, agreeing with Sidney’s assessment. “Go wake her up, Dad, you guys have to spend time together.”

  When Sidney, Dad, and I were together, things were fine. We became our own little family and meshed well together. I was nervous when she first came to live with us. It had become me and Dad; and Mom, occasionally—when she decided she wanted to be with us over King.

  “I’m going to college next year and won’t be here every day… ” my voice trailed off. “Not to bridge the gap.”

  Dad was quiet, then said, “I know, Indy, I know.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. “Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you too, Indy,” he replied and hung up.

  I held my phone to my lips. I wanted so badly to call Dad back and say, “Hold tight, I’ll be home soon. It’ll be the three of us.” But I couldn’t today—I was waiting for Jaxon. With Mom, we had no stability. We didn’t know which house she would choose or if she chose us at all. Sometimes she chose the things her mind chose, and we had to battle that for time too. When Sidney was a baby, Mom tried taking her to Mexico because she believed something possessed Sidney when she wouldn’t stop crying. On the way there, Mom turned around in Texas because Sidney had settled down. When she got home with Sidney she said, “It’s the house—the baby doesn’t like the house.” She slapped her hands against the hood of the car like she had figured it out. “We can’t live here anymore, Ben.”

  And then she was off again. Dad stepped in, took the car keys, and told her she couldn’t take Sidney anywhere else.
He called King but couldn’t get ahold of him. Dad faced off with Mom that day about me and Sidney. A child who was more his than King’s, but she wouldn’t call him Dad.

  Dad put his foot down and made Mom leave the house. I was in my room listening with my ear to the door. I didn’t want to come out and see them like that. Mom marched back to her room and grabbed a bunch of clothes and left that night. She didn’t even say bye to me—she just left, and she took Ez’s car.

  That was the last night she stepped foot in our house—her house. The family home. We were a family no more.

  After that, she raced down Lenape Avenue, the main street in Tunica Rivers. Our city was an average one; I didn’t think there was much to write home about. Mom and Dad went to high school together. Tunica Rivers was the type of small town that had one main road which housed all of the arts, shops, and restaurants. Wealth was proudly on display with American flags lining the flagpoles and a thin blue line was painted down the middle of the traffic lines, letting us know which line they preferred. If someone moved one street over on the outlier blocks, they would find the real city and us; the everyday prison guard, schoolteacher, construction worker. I was thankful to attend the school near the big houses where they had way more clubs and activities. I could write at this school. The other school didn’t have a newspaper club or even writing club.

  Mom felt like Tunica Rivers held her back. She set her sights on the big cities of New York and Chicago—places I only read about in my books I loved so much. So, when she came barreling down Lenape Avenue, with an old man in her sightlines, he reminded her of what she didn’t want. A slow, mundane life in Tunica Rivers. The old man paused in front of the pedestrian walkway, his head and neck hunched outwards, his shoulders slumped. If he were a tree, the man had many rings around his trunk. Mom came flying towards him and when she laid eyes on him, she picked up steam and pressed her foot to the gas. The car roared louder down the road and Mom narrowed her eyes at him and the car speedometer, which jumped higher and higher. She struck him hard, and the man flew in the air.