The girl returned with a tray. She had a bubbly smile and bright eyes and I clamped my mouth shut because I had trouble with girls, Miss Cheryl excluded. I didn’t know if it was allergies or what, but whenever a pretty girl came around, I had trouble breathing and talking and figuring out what to do with my hands. Another reason school was such a mess.
Mrs. Magnolia thanked her endlessly, and as she started off, she took the girl’s hand and pressed a bill into her palm. “Have a wonderful day, dear.”
The waitress got about four steps and her face lit up. “Oh, gosh. Thank you, Mrs. Mags,” she said. A real smile now, not the ones they just faked most of the time. Mrs. Magnolia closed her eyes and nodded. Then she turned back to me, stirred her tea and blinked her eyes. “Okay, dear. Where were we? Oh, yes. Clem. Not dead. Not a bit dead if you ask me.” Mrs. Magnolia stopped stirring. She looked to the window, and for the first time since we’d met, she wasn’t smiling. “He’s merely lacking some adventure in his life.”
With the waitress gone, she turned back to me, herself again. I started blabbing again, this time about all my troubles at home. I even went into the whole thing with the dentist, my chore list, how Mom was always on my case about everything. Like it was my fault my dad took off. Then I was laughing because I’d cracked myself up with my own Mom impression, but I stopped because of how Mrs. Magnolia was staring at me.
Her green eyes brightened. “Caleb, has anyone ever told you that you have a remarkable smile?”
I nearly choked. The spoon jiggled in my fingers. My smile? My two front teeth had parted ways a while back and were the cause of many torturous bus rides to school. Mrs. Magnolia kept her eyes on me as she sipped her tea, leaving me to drown in broiling hot, lava-like mortification. When she set her cup down, she leaned over, close enough I could study the cracks in her makeup.
“Don’t ever change it, Caleb. It’s real and it’s perfect and it’s absolutely adorable.”
When I got back to Papa’s room, I found him fast asleep in his recliner. He had on his clean suit and his hat was sitting in his lap, the guitar case within reach against the chair. I closed my eyes and smiled, relief flushing through my chest. The old man had gotten all dressed up with nowhere to go. I left him there, with a small, satisfied smile on his wrinkled face.
I drifted home, in no hurry, only thinking about what Miss Magnolia had said about adventure.
And about my smile. Maybe my teeth weren’t so bad after all; maybe it was mostly in my head. In fact, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself all the way up the road and down the driveway. Right until I saw my mom’s car out parked out front of our house.
She lit into me just as soon as I walked in. Only this time worse than before. “It’s high time you started acting your age, Caleb,” she started, huffing and puffing, romping over to the kitchen where she started tossing dishes around to make a racket. “I don’t work two jobs so that you can fill your summer days with leisure and laziness. What happened to the chore list, Caleb?”
“I did some of them,” I said, backtracking. Must have been a bad day at the restaurant because she was rightly fired up. I figured the best plan of action was to get to my room and practice my chords.
She had other plans.
“Oh, no you don’t, boy. Don’t think you can just come and go when you please. Eat and be gone. You’re twelve now, Caleb. When I was your age, I was working full time.”
Where was this coming from? Just last night she was all jokes. Now her face was red and her hair was fighting loose from her ponytail like it was burning off her hot scalp. She saw how I was looking at her and stopped. “You got something you want to say?”
“Nope.”
That was all I said, but I guess she didn’t like how I said it. It was impossible. She was impossible. All this mess because I’d turned twelve?
I crossed my arms. Mom went on. “You got all this attitude, Caleb. All the attitude in the world and not a lick of respect to go with it.”
Maybe I did have an attitude, but it wasn’t like I was some hoodlum. I spent my summer with my grandfather. Because, unlike her, I liked my family. I wanted to keep them around, not chase them away. Man, the way she was acting? No wonder my old man took off.
Soon as I thought it, I hated myself for it. And even though I didn’t say a word of it out loud, something told me she’d heard me just fine.
“What is it, Caleb? You got something on your mind?”
I shook my head.
“Listen to me. Listen good. You’re going to stay right here the rest of this week until this house is spotless. I want you to clean out the fridge. I want you to sweep and vacuum every last one of your crumbs off this kitchen floor. You’re going to put all these dishes away, including the ones in your room. Then I want you to get reacquainted with the mop. Got it?”
My mouth fell open. I shook my head. “I’ll do my chores, but I still want to go see Papa.”
She came at me like a train, pointing at my face so hard dish soap went flying off her finger. “You will do what I tell you to do. Are you listening to me?”
I brushed past her toward my room. She let me go, but I must have soaked up some of her anger, because I couldn’t let it go. I felt it rising in my chest, rushing to my face. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m trying to teach you responsibility, Caleb.”
At my bedroom, I turned and flung a hand across the hall to the dark hole where she slept. Grandma and Papa’s old room. I pointed to all the clothes lying in crumpled piles. “You can start by cleaning up your room.”
Her face went red with rage. I slammed my door and hadn’t even gotten to my bed when I heard her come stomping. I’m not ashamed to admit a wiggle of fear flushed down my spine and through my arms and legs. If you’d ever seen my mom get raging mad, you’d be trying to shut the door, too.
When she yanked the door open, I’d already dove in my bed and was up against the wall, beside my new guitar. She stopped and stood there, her eyes on my guitar like she’d forgotten she’d given it to me.
Her voice was low and measured, tired but still brimming. “I’m not going to whip or spank you, Caleb. You’re too old for whippings. I know you may have some questions, ones probably better suited for a father, and I’m sorry I can’t help you much there. But you’re walking a fine line, boy, you hear me? A mighty fine line.”
Something had gotten into her, not me. Did she ever bother to think maybe I was tired of her coming home in a bad mood and taking it out on me? Tired of being treated like a little boy? Of her always complaining? Nope.
“Caleb, am I clear?”
So many things rushed through my head, and I surprised myself by how stubborn I was, when I didn’t even lift my eyes from my hands to meet hers. I fiddled with my bedspread, the little fuzzy balls from so many washes. Mom just stood there, heaving like a beast.
I waited her out. After a few minutes of silence, she turned, sighed, and walked out to the kitchen.
She could do her own stupid dishes.
I stayed in my room all night with my Robert Johnson book on my stomach and my guitar by my side. Mom’s occasional cough or sniffles were the only sounds in the house, and every now and again, her steps slid past my door. When they did, I held my breath, almost wishing she’d stop in and tell me good night, but she never did. A little after ten, the light underneath my door went dark and I heard her shuffle to her room.