Look How You Turned Out (4 page)

I already wear knit pants and a t-shirt, so I grab my black sweatshirt with the hood and stick my feet in my tennis shoes.

"Where are you going," Juney says sitting up.

"I'll be right back. Lay down. Artie's right downstairs."

"Can I lay with him if I get scared?" Juney says.

He knows he can. He's done it many a time after Artie falls asleep. Artie always laughs when he finds Juney curled up like a cat in his bed in the morning.

"I'll be right back," I say.

So I hurry downstairs and go right to the garage cause like I thought, Marcus is already running down the street. I go in the side door and nearly kill myself tripping over some stacked flower pots because Artie never cleans this place, so I see the bike, Artie's old police bike, and I get ahold of it and drag and force it out the door. I am running when I hop on and start to pedal, hitting the street and the downward slope of it. I see Marcus ahead, and I make for him faster than a speeding bullet able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, I'm a bird, I'm a plane.

He must hear my approach. He stops and turns. "Bedilia?"

I reach him and slam the brakes, and the tires screech some, but my foot is down. "Parkinsons," I say.

"Who…Artie?"

"Juney. Juney told me. Not my dad and not you today at the river. You told me to act enthused…about Billy's. But you neglected to mention…a disease."

"He said…where's Juney?"

"He went to the bar. Where do you think?"

"It's Artie's to tell. Juney's just a little boy who talks too much."

"Was Dad going to tell me?"

"If he wanted to wait…he didn't ask my opinion."

"You would have let me go back not knowing?"

"I wouldn't have known one way or the other unless you told me."

"What else are you keeping from me?" Sock drawer. Sock drawer.

"You've come home with this attitude…."

"Don't turn this on me. I just found out my dad is sick."

"Doesn't help to blame everyone, especially the people who care the most. About Artie."

"You're going to lecture me on how to stomach this news? Maybe I'm sick of never being told anything."

"Never and anything are very conclusive words, Bedilia."

"Then get this, you never do anything wrong, Mr. Know-it-all. Correcting me…how many times now since I've been home? Today at the river, here in the street. This morning, matter of fact on that other run you took.

Obsessive much? How you like that word for 'conclusive,' Dad?"

I have my foot on the pedal to take off, but where will that get me?

He puts his hand on the handlebars. His hand, his arm, his shoulder….his neck…jaw, lips, eyes. "Get off," he says.

"What?"

"Just listen, for once."

I am straddling the bike, looking at him. I don't want to do a thing he tells me. I don't want to do anything else.

He wiggles the bike some and the muscles in his arm. I get off. A dog howls…somewhere. It's creepy out here…but I'm not scared, not with him.

I'm standing there, and he is graceful, maneuvering himself onto the bike, and I think he's going to make me look like a fool if he takes off leaving me on this haunted road all by my bigshot self, but he straddles the bike now and says, "Get on."

He eyes the handlebars between his strong hands. "Don't argue," he says.

I feel so awkward. "I don't know how."

"Turn around."

I do.

"Jump up and sit between my hands."

I put my hands outside of his, and I sit between and just a little bit on his hands.

"Don't…." I swallow it. I know he won't let me fall. He never has, not for anything.

But I squeal a little as he pushes off, and he's right there, and I'm right there on his hands, and we go forward into the

dark night with the well-spaced patches of yellow staining the dark two-lane we live on, and I don't have anything else to say, just his breath on my neck sometimes, his voice whispering in my ear, "How's it feel to trust someone Bedilia?"

I don't answer. You can't ride like this and not smile. I hear him breathe, and my hair must be whipping against the side of his face, but he doesn't complain.

Jesus won't be no Ma to you when your mother's dead
, I hear Bob Dylan sing in my head. I don't know why. It sucks to have one parent, Juney says. Parkinson's.

I lean back just a little and feel it then, how he looks over my shoulder, and we're moving a little faster now. He moves his face, probably to fight my hair, and I let go and take hold of it on the side where his face isn't and I hold it then. And we ride like that tires smoothing over the grit on the road.

"Better?" he says softly.

I don't answer. It is better. It's one of the best moments…for a long time…first on the floor with Juney…even with knowing about Dad, Juney's comfort…now this…like I've been bookended between them…big and little. But this one…big…I'm not alone. And if I turned my head, just a little…like so, my forehead against his temple…and he slows down…stops holds the frame solid, and I sit here, my face against the side of his, the feel of his damp skin, his rough beard pushing through. My eyes are closed. "Marcus," I whisper.

"It'll be alright," he says low, one hand moving from beneath me to come on my shoulder. "It'll be okay."

I don't know how long we were out there. When I get back inside, I look in Artie's room, and Juney lies across the foot of Artie's bed wrapped in my blanket. And I'm glad they have each other the big burrito and the little one.

I can't see more than the shape of Dad's head on that pillow. Juney's soft, thick hair shows at the top of his blanket.

I'm crushed with love. For them both. Juney hurt when I left, unable to tell me hello at first.

And Dad…he's my dad.

He's always been there for me. All my life, when Mom left, I didn't have to worry. I never did. Artie was there getting me ready for where I had to go, what I had to do, making sure I brushed my teeth, trying to braid my hair and he got really good at it eventually, cleaning the strawberries off my shirt when I threw up on the way to the fishing hole cause the roads were so windy and up and down. Artie putting ointment on my scraped knees. Artie talking to me about Jesus, coming out to Bible camp to see me get dunked. Getting Connie from the station to tell me about the birds and the bees and help me with my first period. Artie at concerts and plays, snapping pictures, making movies, waiting outside the dressing room while I tried on dresses, or had my feet measured for new shoes, Artie at all my games…and graduations, middle school, high school, college…then Chicago, his face so proud, the sacrificial relief that he'd sent me out…and I wasn't stuck in Lowland.

Dad. How could I live if….

I am standing there too long, tears building and sinuses blocked, but I don't make a sound. Finally, I pick my way quietly up the stairs, walking in all the solid spots just like in high school. I enter the front bedroom and take a glance out the window, see the dim light on in the back of Marcus's house.

I can't keep staring at them…the men in my life…or running from them either while I cry these deep quiet sobs.

I kick off my shoes and fall on that bed once more, a wrung out rag. Holy stars above. The night, the wind, the sky, and him…right there. I touch my neck, my ear, my hair. I cross my arms over my chest and hold onto my shoulders, the edges of myself. My eyes are closed, and the feeling is there, so powerful, him near and moving us with his strength.

He said it would be okay. I know he'll be there for Artie. He's leaving the station ahead of Dad. He's making a place for Artie to go. It will be okay because he'll make it okay. I think he cares for Artie almost as much as I do…if it were possible.

Something has opened between us…mutual love…for Dad. We've had it for Juney…though not as strong from me. I've run from that too mostly. I knew what Marcus wanted…my help. But I'm nobody's mother…a kid myself. That's what I used to think.

But I'm not a kid now.

Marcus and I, same boat, his hands on the oars. He's rowing. He's never stopped. Like I said, moving us with his strength.

I've only been home one whole day. The truth is I came home in shame…but I couldn't get here fast enough…soon enough.

I thought I had to make it in Chicago. He wanted me to go out and make it big…Artie did. He always told me I had to get out in the big world and see what it held. It's what Mom wanted…why she left, he said. She got trapped here beneath the wet blanket of Lowland.

He'd been telling me this since I started school. And I excelled at school. He said that was a sign, I was meant for more than Lowland, Pennsylvania. I had that something…like her.

Well I tried, Dad. I tried. And I left Lowland with my heart in my throat, and I came back the same way. I'm not so worldly Dad.

Not like you think. I prefer it small, one on one conversations over crowds. Time to stay quiet and think. Knowing the people I live around, knowing them…and their sons and daughters, even their pets. I like small grocery stores and second-hand shops where we recycle one another's lives and traditions and saying hi to my waitress and leaving her a fiver because we went to school together and I know she's got that kid…by that no-good guy just like you had me with Mom…and Marcus…and Juney.

Dear Dad…maybe I'm more like you.

"This hair has such a mind of its own. It must grow right out of your brain," I say to Juney as I attempt to comb his random style.

"Dad says all I can do is keep it short," Juney says. Cute as his hair is, it's the back of his neck that gets me, the skin so soft…something vulnerable and sweet.

I remember when he was a baby, that soft little neck, kissing him there and he'd laugh.

Juney is looking at me in the mirror. I smile at him, and he's staring at me. "You're too pretty for words," I tell him.

"Pretty?" he says a little too loudly, and he storms out.

"Yeah pretty. Deal with it," I call.

I look myself over, jeans and my black hoodie again cause it's kind of lucky. My heavier jacket is hanging by the door.

Marcus. What does he see…in me?

I feel a little shy seeing Marcus after last night. We're going food shopping, Marcus, Juney and me. Marcus is using up some accumulated vacation days. And Juney's done with school until after the holiday. So we're traveling all the way to the city so we can do some serious shopping. I hope he knows I'm driving. I can't stand his old truck and the way he grinds through the gears like a grampa.

I have typed a list into my phone. It's substantial. Artie left me two hundred and fifty, and I'll probably spend all of it because he doesn't have much of the good stuff on hand with me being gone half the year.

"You're handsome enough," I tell Juney as I meet him downstairs. He looks so cute in his little baggy jeans and his button up shirt, and his Eagles jacket over that. Elaine. She makes sure he's styling. It doesn't matter a crumb to Marcus.

Outside we have a moment of sun, and it hits Juney's hair. He's more red than brown, but Marcus says he was too.

Currently, Marcus's mane is longer than ever, longer than Artie would normally allow one of his guys. But then, what's he going to do, fire Marcus?

Juney has already texted, and Marcus is standing by his truck, keys in his hand. Awkward is covered by me saying, "Oh no. I'm driving."

He's shaking his head. "Like hell." He opens the door and gets behind the wheel, and I see him scrambling to move his paraphernalia off the seat. It's an old argument.

"Just let him," Juney tells me. "He likes to be in control."

"Where'd you get that?" I say, amazed that Juney's like Dr. Phil.

"Jessica," he says, running ahead.

Oh yeah. I sigh and follow after, about to prove that bitch's point I guess. But he's with me now.

We won't be buying a frozen turkey, that is for sure. Artie orders domestically raised turkeys from a local poultry farmer that frequents Billy's. He does this every year. And every year it goes like this, one in the oven one on the pit cause he invites the force and a few cronies from Billy's who don't have other plans. That's how we picked up newly divorced Marcus and his sidekick. Marcus had bought the house across the street to be near his single parent role model Artie. So yeah, we need a couple of turkeys the size of Big Bird.

That first year Angela split, Artie told me they were coming over, Marcus and the kindergarten baby and I declared, "I ain't babysitting."

Hey, only child here. Unlike so many girls my age I never took to kids. Not the mothering type. Those were my excuses anyway. I considered it might garner me another teaspoon full of Marcus's attention, but more likely I'd end up watching Juney while some other drooling female grabbed his attention.

But at seventeen, I already knew…he was a monk. So life with the adults suited me fine. That's where the good stuff was, the stories, the jokes, football. Marcus the monk. That's where I wanted to be. I didn't mind cooking, I loved that and the immediate gratification it brought, but chase after your own brats people.

But Juney was so adorable…and I had watched him some over those first five years while Marcus and Angela went through 'difficulties.' Well, it didn't change me very much…Juney's off the charts cute factor, but it did a little cause even I couldn't resist him, those missing front teeth and the freckles, the game of Life, his little hand moving the car around the board, a mother and father represented by pegs in the plastic game-piece seats, kids in the back, sweet dreams, dream a little dream, I have a dream, dream on.

Juney and I were the two motherless. We knew that. Angela taught Juney young that she wouldn't be around much. It started after the pregnancy with pain killers. That's what I heard. Marcus drew the line on street heroin.

She went back where she came from, left the big and the little bleeding a little in her rearview mirror.

Now Juney takes his backpack in the house. I am going over my list, not that I need to, but Marcus and I are in the truck waiting and…well, I was thinking of that long ride last night. And right now, we've already done the innocuous stuff like him asking if Juney slept and me saying yes he did. Him asking if I saw Artie before he went to the station, me saying I hadn't. Him asking if I'm going to do all the cooking again or let people bring things, me saying they can bring what they want, doesn't change my full menu in the slightest. Him saying he's going to help me, me blowing through my lips like 'yeah right' when what I really mean is 'I certainly hope so.' Him telling me Jessica won't be home until Sunday. She's doing Black Friday with her group in Florida.

"She wanted to meet you," he says.

"Why?"

"Juney talks about you."

"Oh, Juney."

He clears his throat.

"Don't…be awkward," I say softly.

"It is awkward. I don't know why. I waited long enough. What does everyone want from me?"

"Everyone? Is there a mob calling for your blood or something?"

He pretends to ignore that. "She's used to doing what she wants." Then he laughs. "I am too." He laughs again but keeps looking out the drivers' side window and sighs a big one.

I feel his eyes on me a couple of times, but my hood is up, and my eyes are down, and I can be the mute monk on those two points alone—a mute monk on high alert pretending to read her store list.

"Sorry, I said she was a hundred," I offer, just to keep the old ball rolling.

He laughs a little. "She's only a couple years older than me."

"Okay, half a hundred. Just kidding. Why her, though?"

He pinches the back of my hood and pulls it back so he can see my face. He's exasperated. "If Juney said something about her…I told you. He's giving her a hard time."

"But really…is she your type? She's…not, right? Making real mac and cheese? That's not you."

He looks confused. "If dependable and hard-working are my type then she is my type."

"Are we talking about your girlfriend or a set of tires?"

He's not amused. He wants to give me a ticket or something. "Bedilia…she's nothing like Angela. I know you might think I can't pick a good one…after Angela…but Angela didn't start out that way…awful."

"No offense…but there's a lot of stops in-between new tires (Jessica) and a flat tire (Angela). Don't be like…an extremist."

He almost laughs. "What? I can't…talk to you about this."

"You can. Do you guys have…like chemistry? I…can' see it."

"You don't know her first of all. Second of all…that's pretty personal, right?"

"Riiiiight," I say all Dr. Evil.

He rubs his hand over his mouth. "Answer me first…what happened in Chicago. And don't tell me 'nothing.'."

"Double negative," I sing-song. "I don't have to say now."

"What?" he says…interrogating the perp.

I get a little teary-eyed thinking of all the crying I've done all over him already. "I got fired," I say quickly.

He sits up.

It's always about being a cop with these guys. "I don't want to talk about it," I say quickly. "And don't tell Artie."

"Why'd they fire someone like you?"

I shake my head. He's been listening to Artie's propaganda for too long.

Juney pulls the door. I'm relieved I told him. Relieved, and a little sorry.

"Are you staying?" he continues.

I get out to let Juney in, and I get in again and slam the door.

"Hey," he says eyes intense over Juney's head. I have his attention now. I have it like never before. We have never looked at one another for so long or so unguardedly. I know he wants an answer. He wants something.

Juney looks from Marcus to me. "What?" he asks, open to either of us answering.

"I don't know," I say so he'll start the truck already. I can't go back, but I left it untied. And I'm not ready to say. I have to speak to Dad first. The hits just keep on coming.

He's muttering as he starts his truck. He looks at me again and again, but I ignore him when I'm not staring back, over Juney's spiky little head.

"You guys keep looking at each other," Juney says like a dope.

"I can't believe how ugly your dad is," I say, and Juney laughs, and I do, but Marcus just keeps driving and grinding his teeth and looking at me.

We've sung songs, Juney and me, I've shown him most of the interesting apps on my phone. We've talked about MineCraft and AngryBirds and four-wheelers and how a real zombie plague could start and the new series of books he's reading.

And pretty soon we stop outside of Litchfield, and we go into a diner Marcus likes there and Juney and I sit across from him pouring over the menu.

Marcus has taken black coffee, and he doesn't even look at a menu. "What are you getting?" I ask.

"Eggs Benedict," he says like it's a no-brainer.

"Must be nice to have your mind made up…about everything," I say.

He just looks at me. He has these four well-placed freckles. He takes another sip of coffee and licks his lips. His eyes are so serious.

"What?" I say before biting the slice of lemon that came on the lip of my tea glass.

"That explains it," he says, noting the lemon.

"She's a sour puss," Juney laughs.

I put the rind in front of my lips to make a smile but Marcus doesn't smile, and Juney wishes he could get a slice of lemon.

So we're playing around like that, and I let Juney play with my phone after he and I order. We settle in to wait then. I shove Juney's placemat toward Marcus and with a red crayon I put an 'x' in the graph for tic-tac-toe. He picks up the black crayon, and we play again and again, and I kick his butt some, and he kicks mine, then I play Juney, then Marcus does, and they bring the food.

Everything is good and massive portions, and we are enjoying it, and I ask Marcus if I can taste the sauce pooling around his eggs and he says, "You got your own food," and I offer him some strawberry pancake in exchange for some sauce, so I fill a spoon for him, and he does for me, and we swap the spoons. Then he lets Juney taste too, and we both say we'll get that next time, and Marcus looks at me again.

Will there be a next time? Not like this. Not with her in the picture. I'm not giving him Chicago when he can't offer up hair-witch.

Geez Louise, it's only the second full day. I'm moving fast again. So I don't quite finish my food, and Juney finishes his, Marcus, too. They're both happier now that they've eaten. Marcus insists on paying. I hope it's not because he pities the jobless.

As we leave the restaurant, Juney takes my hand. I look back at Marcus and catch him staring at my ass. He smiles at me. He unlocks my door and pulls it open and Juney hops in. Before I can, he says low, "The thing about you women…can't nail a one of you down to make a plan."

"Can't imagine why a woman wouldn't stand still for the nail," I say, wiggling my eyebrows at him before I get in.

He slams the door, and I take a quick look through the glass. He has intercourse eyes. I mean…they penetrate me to such a degree that I'm hypnotized. I flutter my fingers at him, and he walks around and gets in.

It would be unfortunate if he were to compare me to say…Angela or Jessica, or any other living or dead woman walking planet earth. We're not all Eggs Benedict.

Naturally Marcus pushes the cart at the store. We make a cute little family, I guess. I've gotten a few 'lucky bitch' looks from the females crowding this marketplace.

I've got a list. We get to the bakery and Marcus thinks I should buy the pies and save myself the work. I'm glad he doesn't have an 'old saying' about women and pies. This woman makes hers.

Juney thinks we should have chicken strips instead of turkey.

"You like turkey," I remind him. But he says he likes chicken strips more.

I'm bent over looking at noodles when it happens, the nudge of the cart. No big deal. It's crowded. I figure it has something to do with Juney but he's down the aisle talking to a kid he knows. So I look at Marcus and notice he's done it on purpose. "You got the city out of your craw?" he says.

I'm holding a box of noodles, but I straighten, and I'm looking at him. "What's a craw?"

"I'll show you sometime…on the turkey."

I ignore the question. Like I said, I'm not giving him Chicago. Yet.