Color the Sidewalk for Me (44 page)
Suppressing a sob, he banged out the door while Mama's face turned purple. I heard the clank of his bicycle as he jerked it from the lawn.
“You got no cause to talk to your brother like that! He's never treated this family the way you have, never!”
“Leave me alone!”
Her voice seethed. “I will not leave you alone; I will never leave you alone until you make this rightâin heaven and on earth. Get on your knees before God, Celia. Then marry Bobby Delham. And get out of my house.”
“I don't have to marry anybody to get out of your house! There's nothin' here for me anyway; I'll just leaâ”
I imagine that Kevy's eyes had been blurry from crying. I imagine that he had been too upset to look. But then, he'd often been careless with his bike. We heard the soundâa screeching of tires against pavement, a loud, dull thud. A car door slammed. Somebody screamed. Mama and I froze, scathing retorts dying in our throats as comprehension etched our faces. I was the first to move, running across the living room, flying through the door, down the porch steps, over the sidewalk. People yelled at the Main Street intersection, calling for Doc Richardson.
“Kevy!” I screamed, my feet barely hitting pavement, already knowing what I would find, what my selfishness had done. For a moment I was no longer on Minton Street; I was running over rocks and fallen logs at the riverbank, crying my brother's name, watching Danny Cander swim with all his might to save my brother. It all had started there, Danny and me and Kevy, and here it would end. “Kevy!
Kevy!”
I threw myself on the cement, knocking people away, reaching for him, my brother just turned twelve, who'd covered for me and Danny to Mama, who still had girls to love and fish to catch. I wrapped my arms around his bloody shirt, lifting him up, his head falling back. I held his head with the palm of my hand, cradling him to my chest and rocking, repeating his name. People ran from all directions, stopping cars, gawking at us, and still I rocked my little brother, seeing only my own blurred fingers smoothing hair off his forehead.
Mama arrived, keening like a lone wolf.
I raised my eyes to her, sobbing, and she stared at him, face wild, a hand at her throat, staring, staring at her darling Kevy. Then she turned her gaze on me.
Hatred glittered in her eyes.
A
s I tried to paint Mama's house, the movie of Kevy's death and my fleeing Bradleyville played and played in my head. I had not even possessed the decency to attend Kevy's funeral. I had lied to Mama and Daddy that I would walk to the service and instead trudged the hot June streets down to our bank. Most of the town was gathering at our church. One lone teller had been left to mind the bank while the other employees attended the funeral. I ignored her stares as I presented her the official documents that would allow me to withdraw all my inheritance from Granddad's account. With the check in my purse, I returned to our empty house, picked up my packed boxes, and called Albertsville for a cab to take me to the bus station there.
Over and over these scenes kept plaguing my thoughts until nothing about my painting went right. I was halfway done with the bathroom only to back clumsily into the wall, leaving a body print in the stickiness and smearing my hair. I had to scrape the wall before I could redo it. In the midst of that, I managed to drip paint on the tile floor, which I didn't discover until it had almost dried. Cleaning it up, I hit the enamel paint on the baseboard and had to do that section over. The day was warm and with each mishap I grew hotter, sweat trickling, making me itch.
The hallway presented its own difficulties. I painted Mama's bedroom door and mine first, putting off the inevitable, but then had to paint Kevy's and Granddad's. I didn't want to look at those doors after yesterday's kisses with John, for the rooms behind them screamed their disfavor. Granddad would have been so terribly upset. Never would he have expected me to take what wasn't mine. I dwelt on that thought as I worked on his door, and then I remembered the feel of John's arms around me. Soon I became lost in the fascination of the memory until once again I realized whose door I was painting, and when my eyes filled with tears, I couldn't wipe them away because my knuckles were covered with paint.
I told myself there was nothing wrong with what I wanted. But I felt no less guilty.
That night I called Carrie, wanting to see how she and Andy were doing. She chattered about how well things were going, saying they'd made a commitment to date exclusively. The more she talked, the more I imagined her pain if she were to learn that he was secretly seeing someone else. I wanted to tell her about my feelings for John, hear her advice, but the honesty of their relationship made me feel so small. I could not bring myself to mention John. “Carrie,” I told her, “I am so very happy for you.”
Sunday, while Mama took a jubilant Daddy to church, I sat in the empty house, yearning for John to come and scared out of my wits that he would. He could so easily say he had to check on a patient, and yet . . . I pictured his car parked out front, so conspicuous while all Bradleyville knew I was there alone. He dared not be so foolish, I berated myself, listening for his car.
“You should have gone to church with us,” Mama scolded when they returned. Daddy was in the bedroom, resting until lunch was ready. “Everyone was so glad to see your daddy, and they were askin' about you.” “I'm so glad he had a good time,” I managed, stirring soup at the stove. “He's come so far.” Why was I getting teary-eyed? I grasped the spoon harder. “Where's Mrs. B., by the way? She hasn't been here since that first visit.”
“Well, she's just been doin' other things, I guess.”
Mama was suddenly busy setting the table and pouring tea, and I saw myself in her exaggerated actions. “Are you not talking to her these days?” She clinked a fork against a plate. “And would that be any of your business?”
My jaw set. I felt too fragile to ignore her suddenly challenging tone. “Of course not, Mama,” I said in a tight voice, whisking the spoon through our soup none too gently. “Nothing you do is any of my business.”
Her look was withering. “We need to bring your daddy in for lunch now; do you think you can be civil?”
My lips pressed together. “I'll do my best.”
After lunch Mama and I watched Daddy slowly cross the living room with his walker, tension still thick between us. Daddy was definitely improving. His first day on the walker, he had crossed the hallway numerous times, his steps methodical but fairly steady. His left arm was strong enough to help support himself, but his right arm still took most of the weight. Gripping the walker proved good exercise for his left fingers.
“You're doing great, Daddy!” I exclaimed, trying to remain upbeat. “You'll be making drawer baskets before you know it. And in a number of weeks,” I added without thinking, “we'll be driving you off to work!”
The minute the words were out, I could have kicked myself. This was hardly the time to bring up the subject of work in front of Mama. I looked at her, a silent apology on my face, and was stunned by the instant malevolence of her glare. I blinked. And then suddenly something within me snapped. Maybe my slip of the tongue had been Freudian. Maybe deep inside I'd been aching to fight her, once and for all. Whatever the case, once I saw that expression on her faceâa look that rolled seventeen years away in an instantâthere was no turning back.
Straightening my shoulders, I swung my gaze to Daddy with purpose. “You want to get back to work, don't you, Daddy?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah. I do.” He focused on his feet, picking them up, setting them down. The wheels of the walker gently squeaked his progress across the worn carpet.
I pressed on. “I know Mr. Sledge will be glad to have you back. Did I tell you I stopped by to see him?” I didn't need to look at Mama to feel the miasma of her anger. “He's got a temporary; I'm sure Mama's told you that. But he's holding your job open and says if you can't come back three weeks from now, I'm to tell him how much longer you need.”
Daddy halted, gazing at me, a look of yearning on his face. “I caan go back?”
“If you're able. And I certainly think you will be, don't you?”
“Yyoo bet.”
“We just have to keep working hard. I promised him I'd get you back there.”
“Yeah. Good!” He beamed until he glanced at Mama. One sight of her crossed arms, her set mouth, her blanched cheeks, and his joy spilled away like water from a cracked pitcher. He looked back at me and I saw the dismay on his face, silent questions replaced by the realization that Mama neither knew about this nor supported it. No one moved for a moment. The three of us stood there, in the present, yet the room swirled back in time to when I was sixteen, a younger Mama controlling our lives and Daddy passively allowing it.
Come on, Daddy, I urged him silently,
you're different now, you're weaker in body but stronger in spirit; don't let her run your life anymore; this is too important.
Conflicting emotions moved across his face as he lowered his eyes, gazing at his hands, ever so carefully gripping the gray metal of his walker. Nothing he could say would stop my inevitable confrontation with Mama over this issue.
Don't worry about us, Daddy, I wanted to tell him. Do what you want.
This is your work, your life; stand up for it. Stand up!
Slowly he began to move forward again, one careful step at a time, approaching the back wall of the living room. He watched his hands, his feet, concentrating. “You promus me too?” he said, breaking the silence.
“You mean do I promise that I'll see you back to work?” I asked, fully aware this time of what my answer would mean. “Yes. I promise.” “'Kay. Good.” He smiled grimly, shuffled one more step, then began the painstaking process of turning around.
While Daddy took a nap, I wandered into the kitchen under the pretense of getting a drink, welcoming Mama's certain wrath with the bristling indignation of thirty-five years. If she thought she would win this argument, she was mistaken. I'd worked too hard; Daddy had worked too hard. People had to make their own choices, right or wrong. Daddy should not need to be worrying about what Mama thought of his returning to work. Any more than I should be worrying about what she would think about me and John. She simply could not control us anymore.
Mama wasted no time lighting into me.
“How dare you go behind my back! You had no right.”
I faced her head-on, retorts already welling on my tongue. “No right! I have every right; I'm the one handling his therapy! And I know very well, better than you, how important work is. It keeps you going when everything else in life is tough.” I spread my hands. “Knowing he can go back to work will give him the incentive he needs to go the final mile, can't you see that? You expect him to just be happy sitting at home with you the rest of his life?”