Part 4 (1/2)

”Memaw!” he squawked happily.

Grandma!

”Oh, my baby's so big!” she said. ”Did you go to Ma.s.s today, sweetie?”

Noah nodded.

”When is your father going to cut this hair?” she demanded. ”You look like a girl.”

”We don't like haircuts,” I said.

”Howdy ho,” my brother Bill said. He was three years older than I. He had a shaved head, wore camo shorts and a camo T-s.h.i.+rt, with a pair of sungla.s.ses perpetually perched on the top of his head. He would much rather be fis.h.i.+ng, the look in his eyes said. The can of Skoal in his back pocket had left a permanent impression in the fabric.

”I brought some of Eli's clothes for him to try on,” Sh.e.l.ly said. ”They're in the guest bedroom.”

”Thanks,” I said.

Sh.e.l.ly was a businesswoman and looked like it. Prim and proper, she was a genuine Southern belle, a good Baptist, a firm believer in hard work and never setting a foot out of line. She ran a tight s.h.i.+p.

”The sleeves on Noah's coat are too short,” Mama complained. ”Why do you let him walk around wearing this thing?”

”I can't buy children's clothes with food stamps, can I?” I asked.

”Sh.e.l.ly, if you'll watch the food, I'm going to take my grandson to the bedroom and we're going to try on some clothes. What's the sign for 'try on clothes'?”

I showed her.

”Oh, I can never remember all these signs,” she complained, leading him away.

”He's getting big,” Sh.e.l.ly observed.

”What happened to Mary?” I asked.

”She went with her church group for some fund-raiser or other. She's too embarra.s.sed to be seen with us these days,” Sh.e.l.ly answered, a trace of bitterness in her voice.

”She'll be embarra.s.sed when she goes to school with two black eyes,” Bill added. ”Can't hardly get her out the d.a.m.ned bathroom anymore. She sits there combing her hair like it was made out of solid gold.”

”She's fifteen,” Sh.e.l.ly pointed out.

”I'll fifteen fifteen her,” Bill promised. her,” Bill promised.

He talked a good game, but he would never lay a hand on any of his kids. Well, not under normal circ.u.mstances.

”I need a beer,” Bill announced.

Mama didn't allow alcohol in the house, but I knew Bill kept beer in the cooler in the back of his truck. I followed him through the house and back outside, where we stood on the porch, drinking ice-cold Coors while listening to KUDZU on his radio. Papaw sat in the rocking chair, rocking back and forth like an old woman.

”Do You Want to Go to Heaven?” floated across the porch. floated across the porch.

”How's FoodWorld treating you?” he asked.

”Not as good as Lane is treating you,” I replied.

He was a s.h.i.+ft supervisor at a furniture company and spent all day watching over people who pounded together furniture for a living. It was a noisy, somewhat brutal existence, and he had the muscles on his arms and chest to show he'd spent many years of his life in the trenches putting together sofas and recliners and coffee tables.

”You still looking?” he asked, referring to my on-again, off-again job search.

”Sometimes,” I said. ”Noah keeps me busy.”

”You ain't gonna get a decent job by wis.h.i.+ng and fis.h.i.+ng,” he observed.

I said nothing to this bit of brotherly wisdom.

Bill is taller than I am, stronger, bigger; always was, always will be. As kids, we fought all the time. As adults, we rarely get into it. He's a good brother, a good man, solid as a rock. A little religious in his old age, though.

”Could have joined the Marines,” Papaw said. Then he cackled at the thought of me being a Marine.

”Thank you, Papaw,” I said.

”Probably get thrown out for wearing pink undies and lipstick,” Papa added.

”It's all good,” Bill observed. That was the Southern way of saying that life is c.r.a.p, so suck it up and deal with it and stop squealing like a stuck pig. He tipped his Coors back, drank it down, and immediately reached for another.

”Probably court-martial you for beating your meat in the mess hall,” Papa said.

”Thank you, Papaw,” I said firmly.

I heard shouts as Bill's boys played some game or other in the backyard. b.u.mblebee padded onto the porch, wanting attention.

”Mama's thinking about selling the house,” Bill said.

”Why?”

”Too big for her. Dad's gone. We're gone. She's here by herself with Papaw. I don't understand why you don't come back and live with her so she can take care of Noah.”

”She's probably just talking,” I said.

”She's been talking to a Realtor. She loves Noah, you know.”

”I hope so.”

”She worries about him.”

I rolled my eyes.

This again.