“Yeah, Pop.” He throws his arms out, motioning toward all of the supplies. “Why else would you be building on to allow her room to stay and feel comfortable,” the rhetorical question rolls off of his tongue.
“What I’m tryin’ ta get at, Lon,” Alonzo pauses, the use of his son’s name rather than the usual affectionate ‘son’ cues Lon into the seriousness of his father’s discourse, “she welcome ta stay. Mama an me wan’ her ta stay. But, we won’ tol’rate any funny bidness.” He counsels that Lon and Brianna are not to disrespect their household (Winona’s household) by engaging in any form of sexual activity.
“Pop,” he groans, growing embarrassed. “Don’t tell me we have to have another
birds and bees
talk. As if the first one wasn’t excruciating enough.”
Alonzo continues pulling lumber from the airboat, his laid-back nature a bonus in moments like these. “I’m jus’ makin’ shore da point is heard loud an clear. Mama said she saw you in bed wid Jolie Blonde da night fore last.”
Lon’s ears perk, his head turning away from his father, much the same a dog would avoid eye contact with his owner after being found out for chewing on furniture. His tongue is vacant of a rebuttal as humiliation sets in with the image of his mother catching him in bed with Brianna, even if they were simply laying together.
Alonzo, fully in sync with his son, holds off momentarily, allowing Lon to digest the distressing information before continuing. “She wen’ ta da kitchen fer a midnight snack. ’Magine her su’prise when she didn’ fine you on da couch. She checked yer room. Said you were curled up wid da blonde one.” Alonzo spits his chaw juice into the marsh, his fists coming to rest on his hips. “Ya didn’ defile da girl, did ya?”
“Pop,” Lon groans again, his hands slapping over his forehead. “No, I didn’t
defile
Brianna.” He chokes on his father’s choice of old-fashioned verbiage.
“Tank Gawd!” Alonzo relaxes his stiff posture. “Maybe Mama will let me outta da doghouse now.” He winks at his son.
“Is that why she’s been so short?” Lon inquires of his mother’s unusually cranky disposition.
“Yes, son. Why do ya tink we buildin’ on?” Alonzo returns to gathering supplies from the airboat. “Mama made it clear ta me. We build dat room, pronto, er you an me would be takin’ up res’dence in da doghouse, lit’rally.” He chuckles.
“Pop, the only reason I was in bed with Brianna was to hold her until she fell asleep,” Lon explains. Catching his father’s eyes as they bend to pick up more lumber, he continues. “You believe me, don’t you, Pop? I swear there wasn’t any
funny business,”
he uses his father’s term.
“I believe ya, son.” Alonzo steadily works away amidst their conversation. “Nothin’ wrong wid holdin’ a lass. But soon er later, holdin’ don’ cut it no more. How do ya tink you came ta be?” Alonzo grins. “I liked
holdin’
yer mama, too.”
“Ah, Pop,” Lon gruffs. “I don’t need to know any of that stuff about you and Mama.” He shakes his head as if attempting to release from it the mental image.
“Dat’s why we buildin’ on a bedroom,” Alonzo speaks encouragingly. “You stay in yer room. Jolie Blonde stay in her room. Mama happy. Ev’rybody happy.”
Lon chuckles at his father’s unrelenting level-headed perspective, always the optimist. “Thanks, Pop. And I’m sorry I got you demoted to the doghouse.”
Alonzo shrugs. “I don’ mind bein’ in da doghouse ever once in a while. Adds ta da spice. Mama an me got some makin’ up ta do now.” He smiles.
“I didn’t hear that.” Lon slaps his hands over his ears. “T-M-I, Pop. Too much information.” He fully elaborates, knowing his father is not hip to such urbanization of grammar.
Alonzo lets loose a jovial laugh. Pointing toward the house, he notices Brianna coming out onto the front porch. “I guess Jolie Blonde finely caught up on her sleep,” he says. “I leave ya ta tell her what we doin’ here. An I go fine Mama. Give her da good news. Maybe she be inclined ta make me some a dat sweet tea she been widholdin’ fer da past two days.” Alonzo shuffles on toward the house, cheerfully greeting Brianna in passing.
“Hello, sleepy head,” Lon addresses her, his voice happy with her presence.
“Why did you let me sleep so long this morning?” She asks through a yawn, her green eyes shielded from the sun with the palm of her hand.
“Apparently you needed it.” He eyes his wristwatch, calculating the time. “You slept for thirty-six hours. Mama kept checking on you. To make sure you were still breathing.”
“Thirty-six hours!” Her sleepy disposition suddenly snaps with activity. She spins nearly a full circle as if she doesn’t know which way to go. “What day is it?”
“It’s Wednesday, Brie.” Lon straps on a tool belt.
Brianna scratches her head, still trying to fathom her sleeping an entire day away. “What are you doing? What’s all of this for?” She studies the lumber and supplies.
“We’re building on a bedroom for you,” he says proudly.
“You don’t have to do that.” She wishes he wouldn’t have. “My grandparents are coming to town this week to settle Mama and Daddy’s estate. I can live with them. That’s probably what they’ll want me to do anyway.”
“What do you want to do?” He asks, growing self-conscious of the modest living conditions he and his family can provide, wondering if she requires more.
“I like it here. I really do, Lon,” Brianna adds his name causing him to make eye contact with her, her expression now apologetic, recognizing the offense in his. “But, my grandparents will likely insist I move in with them. They won’t understand my living here. With you.”
“Pop has the floor plans,” he encourages. “They’re real nice, Brie. You’ll have your own space. Everything you’ll need.”
“That’s the sweetest thing I think anybody’s ever done for me,” she prefaces, “but I know things are tight for your folks.” She says
things
dodging the mention of money, knowing Lon is sensitive about his socioeconomic status. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
He looks at her, swallowing his opposition, aware that the decision is hers to make.
“Lon,” she whispers, the sweet, handsome face staring back at her completely disappointed. “I like your home. I really do. It’s great. Your parents are great. It just doesn’t look very good, you know. We’re seventeen and in high school. You know what people will think.”
“I know,” he quickly agrees. “That’s why Pop thought it would be a good idea to build on a room for you. All of your own.”
“This was your father’s idea?” Her heart warms with the kindness his family has shown her, while her mind sprints to the financial strain the gracious gesture must have caused for Alonzo and Winona. “My grandparents will pay him back. For the supplies.”
“No. They won’t,” he says adamantly.
“Things,”
he emphasizes her term of choice, “may be a little tight for my folks. But one thing they’re not short on is pride. You’ll offend them if you offer them any money, Brie. Besides, he was really looking forward to it.” Lon shrugs. “He loves to show me how to do stuff like this. Pop says the most important things a father can give his son are his time and his know-how.”
“He’s such a good man,” Brianna offers up. “Must be where you get it from,” she adds, smiling at him.
He does not bite at the sentiment, maintaining his straight disappointed face.
Brianna eyes the pirogue sitting next to the airboat, suddenly reminded of how it got there and how Johnny’s motorcycle still sits on the other side of the marsh. “Oh crap!” She runs for the house to change out of her pajamas. “I need to get Johnny’s bike back to him.”
Lon quells the urge to stop her, loading several two-by-fours upon his shoulders, intent on hammering out his frustration while pleasing his father in constructing the add-on bedroom, even though its intended occupant seems to have found alternate shelter.
A few hours later, Brianna decelerates the powder black Triumph Bonneville motorcycle, nearing Johnny Vito’s residence. Feeling particularly unsafe in this unfamiliar part of town, south of the tracks, Brianna raced through the neighborhood, forfeiting stop signs and red lights. The coarse looks from strangers and a multitude of barred doors and windows provided all the incentive required.
Pulling up to the address, a rundown, single-wide trailer, surrounded by others of the same make and appearance, Brianna powers down the bike before jumping off.
“Johnny. Johnny!” she calls, praying she finds him home. Her heart beats heavily as her fear begins to override her confidence, never before experiencing such dilapidated scenery.
The screen door to the trailer flies open as Johnny rushes toward her with the sound of her frantic voice. She meets him halfway at a near run, flinging her arms around him, thankful for his familiar presence.
Caught off-guard at her dramatic greeting, Johnny awkwardly embraces her shaky frame. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” She clutches him. “Just got a little scared, that’s all.” Pushing away from him, her eyes dart back and forth between his. “This is where you live?” She disbelieves that anyone would choose to live in such conditions. Noticing a bruise at the corner of his eye, she further interrogates, “What happened?”
Johnny intercepts her advancing hand, redirecting its humane nature away from examining his flesh. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” He pulls her toward his motorcycle, his head swiveling back and forth from the trailer. “You shouldn’t be here. How the hell did you find out where I live?”
“Your registration. It’s in the saddlebag,” she explains, confused at his rushing her off. “I went by the jail. They told me you were released yesterday. I’m so sorry, Johnny. I’m sorry I didn’t have your bike there for you.”
“Quit apologizing,” he bites.
The screen door slams open against the side of the wooden front porch of the trailer. “Where you going, boy?” Johnny’s father’s voice sounds, causing Brianna’s head to pivot in his direction. He holds a beer can in his hand, the look on his face menacing.
“You get on that bike, and go,” Johnny directs, a repeat of the night they broke into ETNA’s field laboratory.
“That’s what happened to your eye.” Brianna looks back at his father, recalling his intrusive physicality with Johnny the day she visited him in jail.
“Go!” Johnny orders, walking away from her back toward the trailer.
“Is she that damn brat I saw you with at the jail?” his father spews, coming down off of the porch. Finishing the remainder of his beer, he heaves the can into the yard amongst a slew of other trash. “What’s she doing with your bike? You messing around with that little rich bitch, boy?”
“Go!” Johnny orders Brianna once again as she stands there stunned.
“You gonna be like your mama and leave me for the money train? You ungrateful little bastard!” His father yells, stumbling toward him, slapping him across the face.
“Johnny!” Brianna cries his name with the sound of his father’s skin mercilessly slapping against his cheekbone.
Johnny does not retaliate. He simply stands in front of his father as if he has suffered such treatment before. His father continues to punch and kick at him. Johnny deflects what he can. Brianna watches in horror, her eyes settling on the crowbar attached to the side of Johnny’s bike. Each strike his father delivers to his body causes her to flinch as she wriggles the bar free. She notices a few neighbors gathering outside to see what all the fuss is about.
“Do something!” she yells at the people standing around, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. “Stop it!” she screams at Johnny’s father, walking toward him with the crowbar in her hand, having no idea if she will find the nerve to use the thing.
“Brianna, go,” she hears Johnny’s voice escape, muffled by his physical exertion in attempting to keep his father off of him. The elder’s punches and kicks are sloppy and ill-timed due to his inebriation.
“Stop it!” Brianna seethes this time, her mouth clenched, the crowbar now engaged in her hand.
“You use that on me, and I’ll slap you around, too,” Johnny’s father threatens, breaking his assault on Johnny and stumbling in her direction.
Brianna backs up, the crowbar perched over her shoulder, hoping she will know at the right moment when to release it.
“Ahh!” Johnny growls the sound of distress, unable to refrain from harming his father now that he has become a threat to Brianna. Diving a full body length, Johnny connects with his shoulder around his father’s waist, pummeling him onto his back and into the ground below.
“Ugh,” the wind from his father’s lungs escapes, the intoxicated man struggling for air.
With his father debilitated, Johnny jumps up and grabs Brianna by her trembling hand, hustling her to his motorcycle. He avoids eye contact, shame all too evident in his expression. “Will you please, just go.”
“Not without you,” she bargains with intent, her eyes shifting back and forth between him and his father who still dwells on the ground, gasping for air.
“I’ll be fine. Trust me, this is a day at the park around here,” he talks short of breath, equipping her head with a helmet.
Brianna pushes herself onto the backseat of the bike, impatiently waiting for him to take the front, steadfast in her refusal to leave without him. Johnny shakes his head in discontent, piling on the motorcycle and peeling out of the drive.
At her parents’ home, Brianna tends to Johnny’s wounds, although seriously concerned that no one may ever be able to mend his emotional scars. Watching her, Johnny is outwardly perturbed by her incessant nurturing; his insides most definitely conflicting as he secretly relishes it, feeling completely unworthy of such affection. He replays the tumultuous events from his father’s house in his mind, unsuccessful in abandoning his embarrassment.
At a loss for words, Brianna remains quiet, respectfully giving him the choice of conversation. Johnny winces with the contact of the cool, damp cloth wiping away traces of blood at the corner of his eye.
I’m sorry,
Brianna keeps her apology internalized, knowing her pity will only garner a reprimand.