Close to Famous (3 page)

“Not too cheap, though,” Lester said from the truck.

Maybe we should talk more about this prison.

“The motel's on Route One just past the Arby's and Pizza Hut. We never had those places till that spanking new prison came to town.”

“Pizza Hut's got Wednesday specials,” Lester said. “ 'Course, it's Thursday.”

“Hold on a minute.” Kitty walked to Lester and they started talking in a whisper. Then she came back. “Don't mean to pry, but in case you folks are trying to get back on your feet, we've got a—”

Mama held up a proud hand. “We're fine.”

Kitty seemed like she was going to say something else, but she didn't. She just tipped her baseball hat, walked to the tow truck, and jumped in. Lester waved friendly. “Watch out for potholes. They're big and ugly around here.”

“Wait a minute!” I ran to the Chevy, got the Bake and Take, and raced to the tow truck. “I made these myself. They're chocolate chip. Thank you for helping us.”

Kitty grabbed a muffin and took a bite. “Oh, honey. My, oh my, this is good.”

I handed the last muffin to Lester, who gobbled it in two bites. He wiped crumbs from his mouth. “Best thank-you I've had in a long time.”

The big truck roared off down the road. I looked at the green valley below the hills. Yesterday I was making muffins; today I almost drove off a cliff.

Mama walked over and put her hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry we had to leave the way we did, Baby. How are you doing?”

“I'm not sure.”

Mama looked out at the peaceful valley. “All I could think about was getting out of there fast and making sure we were safe. I hope I did the right thing.”

The long, low gray building seemed to go on forever. It had a huge gate and a fence with curling razor wires.

“That's the prison,” Mama explained.

I'd never seen a prison before, unless you count sixth grade. Most of the cars on the road were turning in to the gate.

Mama said, “Those people work there, I imagine.”

“I can't imagine working at a jail.”

“Better than being
in
jail.”

I knew this boy, Tucker, back in Memphis. His daddy was in prison. I went to his house once—it seemed like Tucker and his mama were doing jail time, too. There was a calendar in the kitchen, and they crossed off the days until his daddy got released.

“He didn't do it,” Tucker told me. “He's innocent.”

I was glad when the big fence with the curled wire stopped and I didn't have to look at it anymore. I said a prayer for Tucker's daddy as a dirty truck rumbled past.

“That's a coal truck,” Mama explained. “Lots of coal in West Virginia.”

We drove by Arby's and Pizza Hut, and saw the motel. Mama pulled into the motel parking lot and went inside to check the rates. She came back a minute later shaking her head. “We'll find a better place.”

Driving through Culpepper didn't take long. I think the jail is bigger than the town. There was a broken-down factory that looked deserted, and then a gas station.

“There's Fish Hardware,” Mama said. She drove past what looked like a little restaurant. I couldn't make out the sign, which was typical for me. She pointed. “That's Angry Wayne's Bar and Grill.”

Angry Wayne's?

Two red-headed boys ran around an empty lot chasing something, laughing hard. Another boy, about my age, ran down the street. He was fast. He jumped over a low fence, then another one.

Mama was smiling. “My grandpa lived in a little town like this. It feels kind of sweet.”

“Angry Wayne doesn't sound sweet.”

“It takes all kinds to make a town.”

Down the road was a small church, boarded up. It had a big sign in front of it. I could pick out some of those words.

Church of God FOR SALE

“Church of God for sale.” Mama shook her head. “Well, I never.”

Mama sang at lots of churches in Memphis and Nashville, but none of them were for sale. Precious Lord was my favorite, because they had the best glazed doughnut holes during fellowship hour. Last Days Baptist had the best bathrooms, and I Am the Way Evangelical had the softest seats, but their candles didn't always stay lit. So there Mama would be, singing about the light coming into the world, and the candles would peter out.

Culpepper didn't look like a place that needed a singer or a kid who cooked her heart out and was dying to get discovered.

A woman was planting flowers in front of the church and watering them from a can. She put her hands on her hips, glared at the Church of God FOR SALE sign, and walked away like she was looking for a fight.

Mama pulled into the gas station and went inside. That's when I saw Kitty standing by the Gotcha Towing truck, drinking a supersize bottle of pop.

I ran over. “Hi.”

“Well, hi there. What have you been up to?”

“Driving. We went by the prison.”

“You should see that thing at night. It gives off an unearthly glow.” She made a face. “It's changed our night sky, I'll tell you that.”

“Change is part a life,” Lester said from the truck.

“Where are you and your mama from?”

“Memphis, and before that Nashville.”

“You move around a lot?”

I kicked a stone. “Only since my daddy died.”

“Sorry you've got that load.”

I told how he was in the army and his helicopter got shot down. “I've got a pillowcase from Las Vegas with his things in it.”

“That's good to have. My Lester was in the army.”

Lester got out of the truck. He was bigger standing than he looked behind the wheel. His legs and arms were long; he had a beak nose like a bird. “Where was your daddy stationed?”

“Iraq.”

Lester nodded. “Tough combat.”

“Yessir.”

Mama walked up, and Lester said to her, “Ma'am, we've got a mobile home behind our place. It's got two beds. You and the child here could use it. No charge.”

I wasn't exactly a child, but a bed sounded good and I was sick of being in the car.

Mama looked down. “We couldn't . . .”

“It's got heat, water, and electric. Kitty and I can't bear to part with it. It might be smaller than you're used to, though.”

“We only stay in small places,” I mentioned.

Mama shook her head. “That's awful kind, Lester, but—”

“I'm army, too. Sergeant first class.” He stood a little taller. “So you let us help you now.” Lester walked back to the truck, got in, and added, “We'd better get somebody to look at that eye.”

“WHO DID THIS to you?” The nurse at the health clinic put an ice pack on Mama's black-and-blue eye and gave her some yellow pills.

“Doesn't matter,” Mama said.

“I'd say it matters.”

I figured if I told about Huck, I'd get in trouble. Mama wasn't usually like this. She was a fighter.

The nurse took the ice pack off. “We've got laws about this in West Virginia.”

“Didn't happen in West Virginia,” Mama mumbled.

“I need to take a photograph of your eye, Mrs. McFee.”

“No. I'll just be on my—”

“That's how we do it here.” The nurse got a camera out of her desk.

“You probably don't want me smiling.”

The nurse clicked off a shot and put a bandage on the cut part around Mama's eye. “There's a social worker here if you need to—”

Mama shook her head. “We'll be on our way.”

“If you change your mind . . .”

Mama shook her head again.

“You come back in ten days, Mrs. McFee, and I'll check it.”

Mama put on her mega-star sunglasses and we headed out of the clinic. “All right. That's over.”

It didn't feel over to me. We walked to the Chevy. “Do you think Huck might hurt other women, Mama?”

She stopped.

I looked at her. “I think he might.”

She unlocked the door. “There are things, Foster, you don't understand.”

I understood that the least little thing could set him off.

Once he started screaming at me and calling me a loser because I got a bad report card. I told Mama, and that's when she told him they were through. He tried to sweet-talk his way back into her heart. He wrote her a song and brought chocolate and gave me an Elvis doll that twisted at the hips. But Mama said,
adiós, sayonara, get lost
.

The next day he broke our window. I guess if I'd kept my mouth shut, we'd still be in Memphis. But if I'd done that, I'd be agreeing with Huck. I'm trying hard not to agree with anybody who says I'm a loser.

The trailer was silver, and the top half was round like a bullet with little windows in front and back. It looked like an old-fashioned spaceship had landed in the yard.

“This here's our Airstream,” Kitty said. “Lester's pride and joy. Next to me, of course.” She batted her eyes.

From the porch, Lester shouted, “She's an International twenty-five footer with a new floor, wheel covers, battery, storage tank, hydraulic disk brakes, new fridge, oven cooktop, new converter charger, new window seals, new hot water heater. I did her up myself.”

I'd never seen anything like this. It sat behind their old house right next to a tomato garden.

“Come August,” Kitty said, “we'll be up to our earlobes in tomatoes.”

It was June. I love tomatoes, but no way would we be here in August.

“We call this old girl the Silver Bullet.” Kitty opened the door. “Oh, the memories that bless and burn.”

It was hot inside and a little dusty, but it felt magical. There was a tiny kitchen with dishes in a see-through cupboard. A green couch wrapped around the wall, and there was a low bookcase, a hooked rug, and pictures of a man and woman hiking, fishing, and hugging on a beach.

“That's me and Lester in younger days. We crossed America twice in this beauty.”

The bed was at the end next to a little closet. It had a yellow-and-green striped cover. Kitty opened a door to a small bathroom with a shower. I poked my head in. Every inch of space was used. Back in the main room, Kitty grabbed a handle on the wall. “Watch this.” She pulled, and down came another bed.