Forty-two Minutes Page 7

  Bystanders say he hit the ground with a loud thud, and then there was silence. He didn’t say a word.

  There was no blood—there was no anything.

  It was silent.

  Mom collapsed from the car, laughing. “Punch buggy! He was worth fifty points—easy” she giggled. “Where can I find some ice cream guys? Anyone?” Mom sealed her fate, and she didn’t even know it. We didn’t know it. When it happened, Dad told Sidney and I that she accidentally ran into someone. Sidney accepted that story, but I knew better. Mom was off the hook… but she was still my mom, so I guess I accepted it too. After that, Mom was convicted and sent to Trochesse for the rest of her days. She wasn’t found competent to stand trial, and she was so outlandish at times it would’ve been embarrassing to watch.

  My heart beat out my chest sometimes late at night when I couldn’t sleep around 3 a.m. or so. I would still replay that scene in my mind… how does it feel to floor the gas pedal? To lower your eyes at someone and know this was it? Her foot on the gas and picking up speed. I bet her heart was racing. I wonder if it felt the same as being at the top of a roller coaster. The thoughts, especially that late at night scared me, but somewhere else it also excited me. I pushed those thoughts away just as I hung up with Dad and Jaxon whipped around the corner in his blacked-out JEEP. He had the doors off, and I spotted his man flops and blonde hair whipping through the wind. His music was loud, and curse words from NBA YoungBoy drowned out the park.

  I sat at a picnic table by the water and watched Jaxon pull up next to Ez’s car and glance it over.

  I cringed.

  My bag and notepad were on the seat next to me. Jaxon flopped down beside me and moved the bag.

  “I’ll take that,” I grabbed my bag from him.

  The fuck? He just move my shit?

  “Sorry I’m late, got held up.” He looked past me and used his key fob to lock his car.

  I swallowed.

  “I just wanted more information about what you’re looking for. Everything is set. I’ve blocked the entire day to follow and film you. I thought we could title it, ‘Jax Gives High School the Ax.’”

  “‘Jax gives High School the Ax’” he repeats. He scrolls through his phone and pauses for a second. “Yeah, yeah, that could work.”

  “Is there anything you would like me to focus on? Or should I just capture everything as it happens?”

  “Yeah, I guess you can get all of it as it happens.”

  I needed more direction, and he scrolled through his phone. Curiosity got the best of me and I asked, “Tell me again what you want from this? I just want to make sure I’m understanding your expectations. I can write something, but I’m a little unclear about the video portion.”

  Jaxon was silent, his finger still swiping up. An awkward silence fell between us—or maybe it was awkward on my end. Jaxon didn’t seem to notice it.

  He finally looked up as he clicked his phone screen locked. “My mom says she likes your writing, and a lot of her friends read your column in the newspaper. I told her you don’t do videos. She said everyone has to start somewhere and to give you some money. So, I’m here.” I swallowed when he mentioned money. I didn’t tell anyone that part of the agreement; I wasn’t sure exactly how it worked. I had no idea how to talk about money with the likes of the Green family, so I googled what was considered fair payment. I was three pages deep into Google and I never found anything that felt appropriate. All the numbers seemed so high, and I could never ask for those types of large sums. Jaxon’s mom would laugh me out of the building!

  I was grateful she even offered.

  Still, it didn’t make it an easier topic to talk about, and I waited with bated breath for him to bring it up.

  “Since you brought it up… ” I started. I held my breath and studied his face. My hand gripped my ink pen. “What were you guys thinking… for payment?”

  “I don’t know, one hundred? Maybe?”

  I exhaled, and my fingertips were now cold. One hundred?

  Gulps. Dollars?

  I made more than that at the Tunica Rivers Times. I was thinking at least double, according to what Google said and what I thought was fair. I had to rent video equipment from the technology department down at the library, and since I was a teenager, I had to carry something called liability insurance, but because I’m a minor, they made me get it in Dad’s name. I had to watch endless YouTube videos to teach myself to design a video, and I had to be available all day long, and wouldn’t be able to go to work at Ms. Montague’s. It was costing me money and time to create the video, but he offered one hundred dollars? Maybe we could negotiate it later. I didn’t want to lose this opportunity sparring off about money.

  I swallowed. “Sure, that’s fine.”

  And with three words, I gave up my power.

  Jaxon gave a half smile, like he expected nothing less.

  “And this will be in place of your entrance essay for the University of Georgia, is that right?” I copied in my notebook. My voice cracked, and I coughed into my fist.

  Jaxon clicked on his phone again, and he was back to scrolling. He didn’t seem to look for anything in particular, but more so, scrolling out of habit. I was a mindless scroller myself when there was nothing better to do—but not when the topic of conversation was about me. He told me about his mom and what she wanted, with no mention about what he really wanted. And if she was so interested in my reading, why didn’t she reach out? Clearly, they had some pull if they could call the newspaper and request that I do the assignment.

  Weird. The Greens were weird.

  “My family are legacy graduates. They’ve all gone to Georgia and I will too. My grades… they aren’t the best… ” Jaxon looked away again before continuing. “My dad called someone at UGA, and they granted us special permission to create this video instead of a… written essay.”

  “Why did you need that?”

  Jaxon’s cheek turned red, and he leaned away from me. “I hate reading.”

  “Reading, what’s that have to do with the essay?”

  “They go hand in hand, don’t they?”

  Confusion flashed across my face, and I paused. I hated math myself. It sickened my stomach to think about algebra and geometry—literally sickened my stomach. I worked hard and earned my C fair and square. But was that reason to get ‘special permission?’

  Unless…

  Did Jaxon have trouble reading and writing? How did he make it this far in school? Not to mention, at Tunica Rivers High School—at that. It’s a gifted and talented high school. I’m sure he had other talents. But how did he make it this far with no one knowing?

  “Jaxon, is it reading?”

  He peered over my shoulders at nothing. Anything to avoid my eyes. His phone buzzed again, and he glanced at it before responding to me. Jaxon was tethered to his phone.

  “No, I can read,” he stuttered. His eyes were worried. “I can’t write pages and pages like you can, I guess. I never had to.”

  I never had to, he said. He was right. Words became my diary when no one was there and my communication with my mom. Words would take me to college, and later I could make a career out of it. What meant so much to me and my well-being he never had to do.

  “What will you do when you get into UGA?” I leaned in. I was intrigued.

  Jaxon shrugged. “My parents handle that stuff. I just have to make the video. I’ve made it this far,” he smiled.

  He made it this far with no one making a big deal about his inabilities. People that looked like me didn’t have someone to place a phone call to a college. This interview for Jaxon may improve my chances of getting into college, with the help of his mom’s letter of recommendation, of course. I could make it part of my media kit portfolio. It could be life changing for me if I played my cards right. Looking up at Jaxon, I would do just that.

>   People were living vastly different lives in this city, clearly.

  “Are we good here? I have to get back to weightlifting,” Jaxon questioned. He didn’t wait for my response. He stood and pressed his phone to his ear.

  “Yea, we’re good,” I muttered behind him. He waved at me over his shoulder and started his big car and pulled away.

  Gathering my things, I heard another car door close. Over my shoulder, I glimpsed at our track coach Mr. Chestnut. Mr. Chestnut was an older white man, and rumor has it, he was sweet on the younger girls. He was at the school since my mom was a student there. In fact, it was mom who told me about the rumors surrounding Mr. Chestnut. I never ran track and wasn’t interested. If I had to run somewhere to get there, then it just wasn’t meant for me to go. Running seems like a mindless sport to me, and I really had no contact with Mr. Chestnut as a result.

  Mr. Chestnut walked around to the passenger side of the door and opened it. Joya Ranks stepped out of the car, still wearing her book bag over her back. She tilted her head back and laughed at something Mr. Chestnut said, and I could see her perfect white teeth shining from here. Now back inside of Ez’s car, I couldn’t take my eyes away. If they really were paying attention, they could see me beyond the large patch of oak trees that separated us. They were far enough out of sight not to see, and the way Joya was laughing, and the way Mr. Chestnut extended his hand to her, I doubted they were looking for anyone anyway.

  A few minutes later, I arrived at the pottery studio buzzing with activity and a flurry of people milled around the room. I stood a little straighter when I saw Mom’s pieces scattered throughout. She was so talented, and she made bowls, paintings, and even custom planters. These days she was drawing in Trochesse and mailing large portraits back to Ms. Montague. All proceeds and purchases went to Mom and she depended on the money in there. It had been less than two years since she went away, and Mom seemed to make more consistent money in Trochesse than she did while she was home. She had a knack for placing colors together that didn’t seem to match but they somehow always looked beautiful. I didn’t get to look at them long before Ms. Montague asked me to work the coat room in the back.

  Casey and Lauren sauntered throughout the room wearing all black and their hands were behind their back just like Ms. Montague always taught us. “Hands down and out of the way. We want them to come to us and ask about the pieces. Be welcoming.” I knew the script well, although I rarely got to practice it. Ms. Montague had who she wanted up front, the girls she thought had more appeal to the safe, mostly white crowd.

  I watched from the back room leaned up against the doorway. My arms were folded, not open or welcoming.

  Ms. Montague’s heels clacked as she came around the corner. Seeing me in the door frame she rubbed my shoulder and with a concerned eye said, “Don’t worry, the sickness skips a generation. You shouldn’t worry, my dear.”

  What? The sickness? She and Mom were friends but why say that now? Out of all other times? I had more questions than answers. Ms. Montague said that I could work at the studio as long as I wanted. She never seemed to call with work. I always had to ask her for events, just like this one even though it was my Mom’s work being displayed. The last few times I called and she said, “there are no hours this week, Indy,” and I would show up anyway because I can’t help myself, and there would be more of her favorite girls serving and smiling at patrons during exhibitions. I never mentioned it to Ms. Montague directly and neither did she. A job was a job and I tried not to complain.

  Mom loved her and I dare not mention it to her. Besides, we all need something to hold on to and love, right? Mom held on to her and the studio like it was her fountain of youth, and who was I to take that?

  I tried to catch as many glimpses of Mom’s piece as I could. One piece was in the shape of a heart and daggers shot through it from all different angles. The gallery was slammed tonight and before I knew it, a SOLD sign was tagged on Mom’s art.

  “Casey, Casey,” I said, motioning to her from the coat box. Coats were piling all around me, and I had to lean over them to whisper to her.

  “Who bought the big heart?”

  “I’m not sure—that one went fast. It was one of our first sales tonight.”

  “What’s going on?” Lauren walked into the coat box guzzling a bottle of water. “It’s a madhouse out there tonight; be lucky you get to stay back here, Indy.”

  “I want to be out there with you guys. We can switch at any point in time.” The studio was usually filled with lots of middle-aged people looking for something to waste their money on, and tonight was no different. The catering company sauntered around carrying Hors d’oeuvres. The men wore open collared jackets that showed the top of their chest hair.

  “I didn’t think it was break time, ladies,” Ms. Montague interrupted, walking by with large manila envelopes. I wondered if she had any information about Mom’s piece.

  “Ms. Montague, who bought the heart?”

  “I can’t remember her name. Find me tonight, and I’ll let you know,” she winked. “Places everyone! For the second time.”

  I resumed checking coats and Casey and Lauren walked back to the gallery floor. Before long, hours went by and my feet hurt so bad the last thing on my mind was who bought what.

  I hobbled out, walking slow on my throbbing toes.

  All in a day’s work.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dennis and Sons Funeral Home loomed in front of me. It was overcast and had rained all morning as I pressed the wet buzzer. Mr. Dennis said they were looking for a funeral attendant to set up and assist with viewings, funeral services, and transfer remains to the funeral home when I called earlier. We needed money, and the little money Ms. Montague was paying me wasn’t enough to hold me over after high school. The funeral home was right in town and I didn’t need transportation. Mr. Dennis asked how old I was and without thinking I said, “Eighteen.”

  I had to get this job; we needed it.

  I knocked on the door again and checked my location. It said I was at the right spot; I looked around, and a large door opened in front of me. A short Black man poked his head out. “Ms. Lewis?”

  “Yes,” I extended my hand.

  “I am Mr. Dennis, please come inside. The dead alerted me you were here. I didn’t even hear the bell!”

  The dead altered him?

  I gulped.

  “I’d like to walk you around so you can get a tour of the place. Do you have any certifications?”

  “Uh… no.” I admitted. He wore suspenders and creased pants, and his loud dress shoes clicked and clacked everywhere he walked.

  “Okay. We may be able to work around that. If you think this is a good fit for you before you see the end, then we can move forward.”

  “Before I see the end?” I repeated.

  Mr. Dennis chuckled, and his round stomach jiggled. “Sorry, Ms. Lewis. Most people take the tour and before we even make it to the end, sadly they say this isn’t the place for them.”

  I said nothing.

  He gazed at me and extended his hand. “Let’s get started.”

  “When a body comes in, the first thing I do is bathe and disinfect it. Using soap and water, I bathe as you would the living and that includes the legs and trunk. Now, many people don’t like that step because secretions may drain from all orifices. Remember, you will wear a mask and face shield the entire time so as not to expose you to any DNA or splatter.”

  A rock was lodged in my throat..

  “There will be times when you may need help to move the bodies. They get settled into their weight when they transition, and their bodies can be so much heavier. My son, Tyson, works here too. He will assist you with any help you need moving the bodies. He has a license, so we’ll make sure he’s always here to help with these steps.”

  “Tyson? Tyson, boy?” Mr. Dennis yelled down t
he hallway.

  Someone barreled down the steps, and a tall and skinny brown boy peeked his head in the room. His eyes were bloodshot red, and a fog of smoke followed him.

  “Hi,” he waved.

  “This is my Tyson,” Mr. Dennis beamed. Funny, even with the stench of dense Marijuana smoke lingering around us, Mr. Dennis grinned at his son, either none the wiser or picking his battles to leave alone.

  “I’m heading out, Dad, see ya.”

  Tyson didn’t look like a Tyson to me. Mr. Dennis watched his son walk and waved him out.

  “Moving on,” he nodded.

  “When you bathe the body, you add some fragrance or essential oils to the water. This step is not required however; here at Dennis and Sons, it is. It sets us above the other places in the area.”

  Mr. Dennis spoke with a twinkle in his eye. “A clean body to the dead can be the difference between the dead telling their family to use our business again or sending them down the road to them other jacks who don’t take the time to freshen the water.” He stopped walking. “Did you catch all that?”

  “Yes, I did.” I stood next to him. “Will I have to do all of this?”

  “My heavens, no, dear. Tyson and I will always be here to assist you. Very rarely will you be here alone, but things happen, and you should know how each and every part works around here at Dennis and Son’s. Next, inject the arterial system with embalming fluid after you clean the body. Now some people don’t like this step either because you have to get real close up on the body now,” he showed with his hands. “We tend to use the right artery because it’s a major one and easier to spot to the trained eye. You make a small incision with this precision knife. Real careful now,” he whispered. “Then you feel for the vein and once you find it, you inject the fluid.”

  “How do you know you found it?” I asked wide-eyed.

  Mr. Dennis smiled. “It will feel like a fat piece of Ramen noodle. You’ll know it when you see it.”