Golden Like Summer, page 12
Just when I felt my throat starting to close up, my father said, “Well, this is the grown-folk hour. Time to put the kid to bed. Say good night, Addie.”
The next thing I remember is my father walking me to my room. He asked if I needed anything. I didn’t. He asked what I planned to do now. I was going to watch a movie. He suggested Harry Potter and went back to his chattering friends.
So here I am. My door is open and I’m sitting on the end of my bed, trying to catch my breath. I hear the schik and hiss of beer bottles being uncapped. Voices mingle in a happy back-and-forth of words and laughter. Jazzy music begins playing, and my father actually starts singing to it. Amazing. I listen, taking it all in. After only a few seconds of this, it feels as if my lungs relax and uncurl in my chest. I’m breathing again.
I close the door, lie down on my bed, turn on my television, pull up the streaming service, and do a search for Harry Potter. I expect one movie and get a list of nearly a dozen titles. I select the first title on the list, settling my head into my pillow to watch.
And oh my God.
I LOVE Harry Potter!
This is my new favorite movie series. An orphan boy who discovers he’s a famous, powerful wizard with a deadly, even more powerful enemy. A school in a magical castle called Hogwarts filled with ghosts, moving staircases, living wall portraits, and hundreds of kid wizards and witches. Hagrid. A teacher turned werewolf. Goblin bank tellers. Hagrid. Monster snakes. Quidditch.
And Hagrid. Did I mention Hagrid before? He’s huge, literally a giant, strong enough to knock a door off its hinges with one blow, yet he would never hurt anyone except to protect his friends, and he’s funny and kind.
I need a buddy like that.
And I need a Time-Turner. To reset my life in the world.
For a do-over.
A HAND is on my shoulder, shaking me.
“Addie… come on. Time to get up.”
I’m lying on my back, on the edge of my bed, right arm hanging down to the floor where the remote control lies inches from my fingers. And I’m still wearing the clothes from yesterday. Blinking, I push up on my elbows. My body wants to sleep some more. A lot more.
Through half-open eyes, I see my father standing beside me. “Let’s go, son. Breakfast is ready.”
I yawn long and hard. “Can I eat later?”
“No, now. You’re not skipping any meals. I’ll be waiting at the table for you.”
After making a quick use of the bathroom and washing my hands, I walk to the kitchen. My father is sitting at the table where two plates with steaming homemade breakfast burritos are waiting. I yawn again as I take my seat.
“You overslept,” my father points out. “In your clothes.”
“I was trying to finish.”
“Finish what?”
“You know. The Harry Potter movies.”
“You were trying to binge those in one night? How far did you get?”
“The one about the Order of the Phoenix. I fell asleep on that one. I’ll have to start it over again. And when I finish the whole series, I’m gonna rewatch it.”
My father nods. Then he gives me this little smirk.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just nice to have another Potterhead in the house.”
I’m not exactly clear on what a “Potterhead” is. But if my father is one of them, I’m happy to join the club.
AS THE end credits of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix begin to scroll up the screen, I hurry for the kitchen to get some fruit before starting the next movie in the series. Passing through the living room, I stumble to a halt at the sight of my father dressed in a gray suit, standing at the mirror by the door adjusting a red paisley tie.
“Are you going on a catering job, Pa?” It’s the only reason I could figure he’d be wearing a business suit on a Sunday.
“No. I’m going to church.”
“Oh.” In seven years, Raymond and Bro never even mentioned the word church. “Does someone at the church want to hire your company for something?”
“Son, I’m going for the service. I started going after you disappeared. The pastor and the people of this church reached out to me when I wasn’t getting any real help from the police or anywhere else. They were a big comfort and supported me through a very difficult time. I’ve never been a particularly religious person, but some of the church members have become good friends to me, and I enjoy attending service with them from time to time.” He turns to me. “Would you like to go with me?”
I can see immediately that he would like me to. The idea of walking into some big auditorium filled with hundreds of people makes me squirm in place. In the movies I’ve watched, scenes set in churches involved either a wedding or a funeral. Until now I wouldn’t have imagined a person going for any other reason. But my father wants me to go, and I want to do that for him. I want to start getting back into the world.
“I’ll go, Pa. But I don’t have a suit.”
He chuckles, his expression pleased. “A suit isn’t required, Addie. Just take a shower, put on some clean clothes, and grab your jacket. I’ll wait.”
I shower and dress in new jeans, a new shirt, and my favorite of the three new pairs of sneakers, the black ones with the red trim and red laces. I pull on my jacket and hurry back to the living room.
My father is seated on the sofa, watching a video or something on his phone. The sound is turned up, a single voice speaking.
“I’m ready, Pa. We can—” I go still. Something is wrong.
My father is holding his body so rigid it seems to have become stone, except for his free hand. That hand is shaking atop his left thigh like a stranded, dying fish. His wide, pained eyes stare at the screen of his phone.
Finally I tune in to the audio, the voice of a news anchor saying, “…statement Raymond Adler made to the prosecutor regarding the several criminal counts he faces has been leaked online. In his statement, Adler alleges that the older of the two boys he’s charged with abducting wasn’t forced to stay with him. He says they shared an affectionate relationship in which the boy called him Pa and willingly participated in sexual contact….”
I clamp my hands tightly over my ears. I can’t listen to this. I don’t want to hear about Raymond. Don’t want to know anything else about him. Don’t want to think about the time I was with him. But I realize my father is on his feet suddenly, talking, speaking to me. And suddenly my heart is knocking inside my chest like a fist. My father is talking about Raymond. I know he is and I don’t want to listen.
He throws down his phone, crosses the room, grabs my wrists, pulls my hands from my ears. “Answer me,” he says, the words dropping around me like falling rocks. “Tell me it’s all lies.”
“I d-don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Pa.”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t call me what you called him.” His fists tighten around my wrists before he lets go and steps back. His eyes, bright with rage, blistered with disgust, glazed with pain, are locked on me. “Is it true? You had sex with that filthy bastard willingly?”
I could fade into the air, melt through this floor and just become a stain on the carpet.
“Answer me,” he says again, softly, pleading.
“I had to.” The words seem to stick to my tongue; I have to force them out. “It was the only way he would feed me. He starved me for days when I didn’t do what he wanted. He hurt me, hurt me so bad when I told him I didn’t want to. It was the only way to keep him from beating me.”
My father stands there, absorbing my answer. Letting the words sink in. Then the emotions built up in him explode. He whirls away, a tornado of rage, his outstretched arm sweeping a large framed painting off the wall. It hits the floor with a bang, the frame breaking at the corners, glass spraying across the carpet. He kicks the table beside the sofa, smashing it against the wall. He kicks and kicks. The table cracks, splinters, gouging holes in the wall even as it is breaking apart. And the noise! The crashing and banging. More than I can take.
Panic is like floodwater, rising up rapidly to hurl me away. That table… that could be me. I could be next. Just like with Raymond. Just like Raymond.
While my father kicks the table into kindling, I run. Through the kitchen and out the back door. I tear across the backyard, scramble over the fence, hit the ground on the other side running.
Somewhere behind me, my father’s voice rings out. “Adam! Come back here!”
Those cries make me run faster. I disgust him now. He hates what I did with Raymond. He hates me. I can’t take being thrown against walls, beaten, kicked. I can’t live like that anymore.
I’m gone.
Part Three
Chapter 15
SUMMER. MY fave time of year.
Morning. My fave time of day.
Summer morning. There’s nothing better.
The sun is shining through the open window. Birds are making music, chirping like crazy, their happy songs rising and falling to the bluster of warm breezes. The wild honeysuckle growing along the wall outside fills my room with a wonderfully light, sweet scent.
Waking up to all this makes me feel good.
I roll off my bed smiling and humming. First there’s exercise: fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and fifty squats. Then I run in place for fifteen minutes or so. My heart and lungs are pumping hard when I’m done. I love that after-workout burn.
It was pretty warm last night, and it’s still warm this morning. Off come my boxers. I kick them, along with the T-shirt and short pants I wore yesterday, into the bathroom. There I grab my bucket, which I filled with water last night. Half the water goes into the sink along with the undies, short pants, and T-shirt I wore yesterday. I wash the clothes using a bar of soap and drape them over the shower curtain rod to dry. I take a towel and, with the water that’s left, scrub myself from head to toe. Then I throw on clean boxers, tank top, and blue jeans, shove my feet in my sneakers, comb back my bushy Afro, fold up my bed all nice and neat, and I’m out the back door.
The backyard’s a jungle, and that’s actually a good thing. Nobody can see me coming or going. I have a trail cleared all the way to the alley. The alley takes me to Cooper Street, and Cooper takes me to Vander Avenue, where the neighborhood businesses are located. Vander’s crowded with traffic, all four lanes. I don’t think it’s nine o’clock yet. There’re still lots of cars, lots of people driving their way to work.
I love the sun on my face, the warm morning breeze on my skin. I love the feel of my feet pounding the sidewalk. I even love the hissing, honking rush of cars up and down the street, the people strolling along, the old man wearing a straw hat sitting on the bench at the bus stop. Everything is so completely alive. This has been my ’hood for almost a year now, and I know it pretty well. The nail salon at the corner of Vander and Martine is open. Ms. Ae-Cha has three customers inside already. I wave at her as I go by, but she’s working on this lady’s feet and doesn’t see me.
I dash across Martine to Gus’s Tire Shop on the opposite corner. Go around to the back where the bays are that cars go into for servicing. There’s an old white Buick jacked six feet up in the air. Mr. Gus, middle-aged, tall and skinny and dark-skinned in loose gray coveralls, is busy rotating the tires. He spots me ducking into the bay with him.
“Morning, Alan,” he barks. Once a month he closes shop for two hours and orders a big lunch of chopped pork barbecue sandwiches and coleslaw from Destiny BBQ for his workers. He’s that kind of cool.
“Hey, Mr. Gus. Got anything for me to do?”
“Sure thing.” He has three guys—younger than he is, way older than me—who work for him, but none of them are in yet. “Waiting room needs tendin’ to.”
“Okay.” I slip inside. He’s right; his waiting room is a mess from yesterday. I get to it, beatboxing all the way through. I grab the push broom and sweep up scattered popcorn and candy wrappers, gather newspaper sections and plastic cups half-filled with cold, stale coffee, dump the overflowing trash can into the big green metal bin out back. I collect worn-out months-old magazines, placing them neatly on the coffee table like a spread of cards, the way Mr. Gus likes. I line up the armless stack chairs along the wall opposite the television, like sentries. A little kid’s pink Powerpuff Girls sneaker is under one of the chairs. I toss it in the cubby beneath the cash register where Mr. Gus stashes lost-and-found stuff. Last thing I do is take a towel and blue spray cleaner to the big windows looking out on Vander, wiping away the smudges, fingerprints, and smushed dead flies.
Hard work makes me feel good. I like feeling good.
By the time I’m done, Mr. Gus has finished with the Buick and backed it out of the bay. Now he’s jacking up a green Ford Focus with a shredded left rear tire. “All done?” he asks when I walk out.
“All done. What else do you need me to do?”
“Nothing right now.” He stops what he’s doing, wipes his hands on the old red terry-cloth towel he keeps tucked in his pocket, and pulls out his wallet. He hands me two five-dollar bills. “Got a shipment of tires coming in this afternoon. If you stop by around five, you can sort and stash ’em for me.”
I stuff the ten bucks into my pocket. Not bad for an hour’s work. The smile flashes across my face. “Thanks, Mr. Gus. I’ll see you at five.”
I trot on out of there. Feels great to have some cash on me again. Now it’s time for a little shopping and breakfast. Down a block, I hang a left onto Cooper Street, and minutes later I’m inside the Cooper Street Grocery and Deli. It’s not a big store, not like Kroger or some other major supermarket, but you can get just about any of the basics you need in the way of food there.
First things first, though. I go straight to the bathroom. I hate to pee outdoors—people think you’re nasty if they catch you doing it—and I’ve been holding it in since I woke up. Feels like my bladder’s gonna bust any second. When I’m finished, I wash my hands really good.
These ten bucks have got to stretch. From the bathroom, I go straight to the discount bin in the produce department. This is where the manager dumps fruit and vegetables that have reached or gone past their sell-by dates without selling, or that developed squishy spots. Today I’m in luck. Here’s a bag of three apples and three pears with just a few bruises and brown spots, and the whole bag is only seventy-five cents. And here’s a bag of three brown-spotted bananas for fifteen cents. I’m not all that big on vegetables, so I skip over the bags of bell peppers, string beans, and yellow squash. Plus I don’t have any way to cook vegetables even if I did like them. I suppose people could eat vegetables raw but… ick.
I skip the meat department because meat also has to be cooked. I grab a box of granola, a no-brand-name kind that costs $1.99. To be honest, I’d rather have Cap’n Crunch, but the granola has more protein and other nutritional stuff. And it’s a helluva lot cheaper. No milk, though, because I got no way of keeping it cold. The last thing I grab is a ninety-nine-cent bag of potato chips. You know… just because I like potato chips. Who doesn’t? Hey, potatoes are vegetables. Guess I’m not a total veggie-hater after all.
I get in the checkout line. Chrissy is on duty, a very pretty woman who’s already married with a baby on the way at eighteen. Her stomach pokes out like a basketball beneath her red checkered top. I like her.
Only one guy ahead of me in line. You can tell he’s in a hurry and in a bad mood. He slams a carton of orange juice and a pack of bacon on the conveyer and then rolls a hand at Chrissy.
“Come on, gal, get moving,” he snaps.
Chrissy rings him up, tells him the total, and he flings a twenty-dollar bill at her. She pulls change out of her cash drawer, and the guy snatches it from her hand, along with the bag holding his items. Chrissy sighs, shoulders slumping, as he rushes out of the store.
I step up. “Hi, Chrissy.”
“Hi, Alan. Oh, that happy face of yours is just what I need now.” Her lips curve into the barest smile.
I dial my smile up into a grin, hoping it will make her feel a little better. “That guy was just having a bad day. Don’t let it get to you.”
She nods, and her smile widens as she starts ringing me up. “You’re out early. As usual.”
“Hey, I’m a busy guy.”
I leave the store with five bucks and some change, plus enough food for the next two days. That’s pretty good. I still need toilet paper (sometimes the bathroom at the gas station I usually go to doesn’t have any), bottled water, and toothpaste. I’ll get those at the dollar store. Later. Right now, I’m hungry like crazy and ready for breakfast.
I run most of the way home. Heading up Cooper, I slow down. Ahead, very close to the entrance to my alley, I see Mr. Rainey. He’s this homeless white guy, kinda old, really skinny, with this scraggly gray-brown beard. I don’t know if he has any hair on his scalp because he always wears this thick green wool cap, even in summer, along with three shirts and some raggedy blue jeans. He’s too weak or whatever to work. Actually, it’s hard for him to even walk sometimes because he has this broken left ankle that didn’t heal right. He panhandles on Vander during the morning and afternoon commutes, holding up this sign he made out of a piece of cardboard that reads, “Homeless. Anything will help. Bless you.”
People do toss money to him as they drive by. Mr. Rainey told me once that he can pull in twenty bucks in change and crumpled bills on a good morning. He must’ve gotten a good haul today. I figure that because these two husky guys, who are like eighteen or nineteen, have him shoved up against the wall of an abandoned storefront. One guy, wearing a black baseball cap, a white T-shirt, and grungy white baggy shorts, has a hand around Mr. Rainey’s neck. The other guy, dressed only in sneakers and loose black jeans, is yanking bills and coins from Mr. Rainey’s pocket.
I stop about twenty feet away. Unbelievable. I mean, this is absolutely unbelievable. Who’d do a thing like this to anybody, let alone an old man with no place to live who has a hard time walking?
