Chapter 4

Saturday, May 26, 1979

I jolt awake. Sunbeams are peeking into the tent, so I guess we’ve slept late. I look over at Kendall. He’s awake and watching me.

“I just had a very weird dream,” I tell him.

“What was it about?” he asks.

“Well, you and I were licking an ice cream cone — the same one. Then, Paige — I think it was her — and I were licking it. And then, it was you and me again. Then, it was Paige and me again. It kept going back and forth. The ice cream dripped all over my body, making it sticky. Someone — I don’t know who —  was licking it off me, licking it off my body. Then, dark eyes were staring at me. … And I woke up.”

“Wow,” Kendall says. “You were twisting and turning and rolling over.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Well, should we go check in with our moms and meet up later at the swing?”

“Sounds good to me.”

We load up Big Red and head back down the hill.

*  *  *

Mama is in the kitchen. She is gritting her teeth and frowning as she scrubs the sink. Great, she’s in one of her moods.

“Take out this trash,” she says. “And while you’re out there, pick up those beer cans that the neighbors left in our gutter. Then, sweep the sidewalk. And the driveway.”

“Can I have some breakfast first?” I ask.

“Be fast about it,” she says.

“Be fast about breaking my fast?” I snicker.

She pauses to think about what I just said.

“You’re so funny,” she says without even a chuckle.

Well, crap. Doing yard work is throwing a monkey wrench into my plans. I need to get my summer started! I slurp the milk in my cereal bowl and finish up. I take the trash bag outside and toss it into the garbage can. I pick up the cans, and some food wrappers and plastic straws from the gutter and toss them in the bin. Our neighbors are such slobs.

After a while, Kendall comes out of his house, carrying a trash bag.

“Our moms must be on the same schedule, I say.

“Yup. Looks like,” he says.

“Well, my mom has decided to go on a cleaning spree,” I say. “I probably can’t do anything for a while.”

“Damn,” he says. “Hmm, well, I guess I’ll work out for a while and then go get some ice cream.”

“And talk to Melody?” I say, batting my eyelashes at him.

“Maybe so,” he replies. “Maybe so.”

I watch my buddy walk back to his driveway. His broad shoulders swivel as he saunters. He swings around, waves, and gives me a thumbs-up. I smile and wave back. That guy, I say to myself. He’s becoming quite the hunk. He has a good, athletic body. Girls go crazy over him. I wonder if Melody is into him. But she’s older than us, so who knows? 

Mama probably has more stuff for me to do, so I work slowly on cleaning up the yard. I might as well enjoy myself. At least it’s a nice day. I’m not the hunk that my buddy is, but I take my shirt off to work on my tan. Fortunately, Mama didn’t say anything about mowing the yard. Even though I’ll get more in my allowance for doing it, I don’t feel like it today. I start to sweep, and I begin to hum, “Whistle While You Work.”

“Hey, I should be whistling!” I say to no one in particular. So, I do.

After about an hour, I head back inside. I find Mama in my bedroom.

“You need to clean up this messy room,” she says. “Pick up all these clothes. Clear off your desk. Put all of these toys away.”

I look around. My room is not that bad. It’s not a mess. It’s just a bit … untidy. A few things are out of place, but nothing major. And “toys”? I don’t have “toys” — I have games and cards and puzzles and stuff. I even have some of those brand-new Star Wars action figures. Those aren’t “toys.” I’m not some little kid. Sheesh!

“What has gotten into you?” I ask her.

“Just … I just want to get this house clean,” she says. “Get to it.”

I toss the clothes into the hamper. I take the books off my desk and arrange them in alphabetical order by author in my bookcase — just like the library. Good old Dewey decimal system. I stack my comic books in boxes, organizing them by title and number. I spy a copy of Adventure Comics. It’s a Giant-Size issue with stories about Batman, Deadman, and the Justice Society of America. I read it all the way through and then put it in its proper place in my comic book box. I stand up, put my hands on my hips, and look around. My room is “clean” now.

What has gotten into Mama today? Why is she being a clean freak all of a sudden? Is she cleaning up her messes? Is she dusting her vases? Probably not. I go back to the kitchen. 

“Did you straighten your room?” Mama asks.

“Yes, ma’am. Everything is tidy and in tip-top shape,” I reply.

“Good,” she says. “Go pack a bag. We’re going to visit your Aunt Eva.”

And there it is — whenever something is really bothering Mama, she runs to her big sister.

“Why do I have to go?” I ask.

“To ride shotgun, of course, and to keep me company.”

I sigh. For years, even when I was small, and it was probably against the law, I rode in the front seat, and it was my job to hold the map and give directions to the driver. But she doesn’t need directions to get to Aunt Eva’s, so again I wonder why I have to go.

“Is Dad going?” I ask.

“No, he’s working,” she answers.

“Ugh.” 

“Come on, we have fun on these trips,” she says.

I know how “these trips” go. I have better things to do than sit around Aunt Eva’s house.

*  *  *

It’s a six-hour drive to Cherokee City, where Aunt Eva lives. We pass cornfields, cattle pens, and old rickety barns on one side of the road, and old barns, cornfields and cattle pens on the other side. It’s so monotonous. As we approach Smileyville, I keep an eye out for the trip’s highlight — the town’s yellow water tower. It has a smiley face painted on it, of course. Next comes the sign that says, “5 miles to go.” The 5 looks like an S.

“Smiles to go,” I chirp. Mama doesn’t say a word. On every single ding-dang trip, we have always looked at each other and said that as we passed by. But today, she is silent. Something really must be weighing on her mind.

I poke my nose into the book I have brought with me: Mythology, by Edith Hamilton. I have read it before, but I like it. It has tales about Apollo, Aphrodite and all the other gods. There are also stories about Thor and Loki, who are way different from how they are portrayed in the comic books.

When we finally arrive, I step one foot in the door, and I am zapped by one of Zeus’ lightning bolts.

Aunt Eva lets loose with a set of rules.

“Take those filthy shoes off and leave them on the porch,” she commands.

I do that. I walk into her house in my socks. 

“Put your backpack in this closet,” she instructs. 

I stash it there. 

“As usual, Riley, you will be sleeping on the fold-out sofa,” she points. “You will make it every morning and put your dirty sheets in the hamper.”

Great. I have indeed slept on this broken-down sofa in the living room. The mattress is very thin, and every spring digs into my spine as I toss and turn.

She takes us down the hallway to the bathroom.

“You’re old enough now to take some personal responsibility. Scrub the bathtub after every shower — and you will take a shower every morning,” she commands. “Wash the sink after you brush your teeth. Wipe off the mirror if you get any spots on it.”

We head back to the living room. 

“Keep your feet off the coffee table,” she demands. “Use a coaster for any drinks. Anything you put on it must be removed when you’re finished and put back where it belongs.” 

We go into the kitchen. She tells us that we will eat every meal at the kitchen table. No eating or snacking in the living room.

“After you eat, rinse off your dirty dishes until they are spotless,” she stipulates. “Then — and only then — you will put them in the dishwasher.” 

Wow! Rules! Rules! Rules! What’s gotten into her? Mama has been taking after her, I guess. 

Mama and Aunt Eva engage in some chit chat as she cooks supper. We settle in to eat it, saying grace first. It’s roast beef stew — potatoes, carrots, onions, noodles. Not bad, but it could use more broth. It’s kinda dry.

I’ve always thought that Aunt Eva was a mean old lady. Hate to say it, but it’s true. I’ve never heard her say a nice thing about anybody. Tonight, she gossips and tells mean stories about everyone she knows. 

“Gladys Plunkett, bless her heart, had a stroke last week, so we’re praying for her,” she says.

Okay, maybe I’m wrong. That sounds nice and sincere.

“Her husband, Ben, hasn’t even gone to the hospital to see her.”

“Why not?” Mama asks.

“He’s a drunkard,” Aunt Eva says. “They are quite the pair, let me tell you.”

Oh, well.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mama says.

“Yes, and with him being a deacon. He always takes a swig of wine as he prepares the communion cups,” Aunt Eva says. “Polly McBride has caught him at it several times. Pastor Clyde doesn’t do anything about it, though. I’ve had some things to say about him at trustees’ meetings. He doesn’t guide us or lead us in the Lord’s way. Some of his sermons have been … well, he gave the wrong message, if you ask me. And he actually met with some homosexuals who wanted to get married! Can you even believe that?! I think we need a new pastor. One who will tell those queers where to go.”

Mean old lady.

After dinner, she and Mama stay at the kitchen table while I go into the living room to read. I look around. Her house is nothing like our house. At Aunt Eva’s, everything is in its place. At our house, everything is higgledy-piggledy. At Aunt Eva’s, no art hangs on the walls — although every room has a crucifix. She has one bookshelf, and it holds books by some TV preachers and some romance novels — a weird mix of reading material. There’s nothing here that I want to read. Aunt Eva has no plants, no vases, no knick-knacks of any kind. Her house is an empty shell. It sounds empty, too. Echoes bounce off the walls. I wonder if that’s because there’s no love in the house to fill the void.

We all go to bed at 9 o’clock — while the sun is still up! I roll around on the sofa bed, trying to find a comfortable spot. I think about Aunt Eva and Mama. They are as different as they can be. Aunt Eva has wavy gray hair, and Mama has straight red hair. Aunt Eva wears glasses, and Mama doesn’t. Mama is thin, and Aunt Eva is … kinda fat. Aunt Eva is much older than Mama. When their mother died, Mama was still a little girl, so Aunt Eva essentially raised her. Mama talks to her big sister when something is bothering her. I wonder what it is this time.