Breathing (12 page)

I’ve lived out here my entire life and never walked all this way. I can do it, just keep my eyes focused on them big jutting-up rocks at the end.

The sound of construction comes on pitiful loud, giving me a big ol’ headache. I’d heard there was hurricane damage out here last summer. But I didn’t realize they were rebuilding already. I feel sorry for the folks still living here, what with all that noise. I sure would like to turn back and get away from it. But them rocks are so close now—spitting distance is all.

Sure wish I’d brought something to drink. I’m panting like a dog. As I reach the rocks, ruther than plopping down in the sand as I’d imagined I would, I decide to climb up to the top, celebrate my victory. And dang is it worth it. Sitting up here, I can look out over the sea like a bird. It’d sure be peaceful if it weren’t for that God-awful racket them construction folk are making.

I look back there to see what all they’re building, and Lord have mercy, there’s my sign—yellow letters, wooden post, just like I saw it up on the ceiling!

I trample down the rocks and run up to the trailer to inquire. “Howdy,” I say to some dude with a caterpillar mustache who’s sitting behind the desk. “Y’all looking for painters?”

“You a bit young to be looking for work, ain’t you?” he says, smoothing down his comb-over. The scent of Aqua Velva is overpowering—just like at school dances.

“It isn’t for me,” I assure him. “It’s for a friend of mine. He’s the best painter around. He paints beautiful pictures. He’s just doing houses till he gets famous.” I’ve got to calm down or he’ll think I’m carrying on like a crazy person. “Have you got an application I can take him?”

He eyes me a minute too long, like he ain’t sure he buys it. But then he searches through a mess of papers on his desk and hands over the form. “I need somebody to start next week. Job should last a good few months. Might be sump’n else down the line if ’n things work out.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, nearly busting out of my boots from excitement.

“Next week would work just fine. Thank you kindly.” And I race my butt down to the beach and jump around like I really am out of my mind. I start running towards home, can’t wait to call Jackson and tell him the good news. My punishment may not end till tomorrow, but Mama will have to cut me a break for something this big. Law, Jackson ain’t going to believe it! Imaginary sign indeed.

I stop to breathe. I’ve got five or six miles ahead of me. I’m going to have to take it slow. But then I look behind me toward that yellow sign and I know it was worth it, every dang step.

B
y the time I get home, dusk is near upon us. To my relief, nobody’s at the house. Mama would have a fit for sure if she knew how far I walked. Now the question is do I call Jackson and hope Mama doesn’t find out, or do I wait and try to get consent? I reckon it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

I take the phone to my room and dial Jackson’s number, which I’ve got good and memorized by now. Only his mama answers and says he’s still at work. Durn!

“Please tell him Savannah called and that it’s very important. I’d appreciate it if he’d call me back ASAP.”

“All right, then. But y’all are running up my phone bill. He’s gonn’ have to pay for that, y’hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “And how are you doing today?” I ask, remembering my manners and hoping to make a good impression.

“I’m just fine,” she says, without any effort to further the conversation.

“And how about Tyler and Carter?” I ask.

“They’re all right. Nice talking to you, but I’ve got to run now,” she says.

“Remember to tell Jackson I called, please,” I add as she rushes off.

I set the phone down and just stare at it, waiting for it to ring. Did you ever notice that when you do that, it’s a pretty sure guarantee it ain’t going to happen? I try sending my brain waves at it, willing it to ring for what seems like forever. Then, when it suddenly does, I about fall off the bed.

“Hello!” I pant, my heart racing.

“Savannah Georgina Brown!” comes Mama’s voice. “You ain’t supposed to be picking up this phone when you know good and well you’re still on punishment, unless you hear my voice come on the machine.”

Shoot! “Sorry,” I stammer, trying to come up with something quick. “Stef said she might have some kids over and you said I could go where I wanted and I thought it might be her.” That seems convincing.

She hesitates, I expect while she turns that one over in her mind.

“All right, I suppose you can go, I’m just calling to say I’ma be late.

Can you fix supper for the both of y’all?”

“Dog ain’t here,” I say. “Ain’t seen him all day.”

“Where’s he at?” she barks.

“I expect he’s with Dave, where he’s always at. How should I know?” I bark back.

“All right,” she sighs. “I’ll be home ’fore long. You have a good day?”

“It was okay,” I say, just as I hear a beep on the phone. “Is that all?” I snap, anxious to click over.

“I was trying . . . ah, hell. I’ll see you later then,” she grumbles, and clicks off.

I mash down the flash button. “Hello, hello!” I yell, praying he hasn’t hung up.

“Savannah?”

Shew! It’s him! “Jackson! You got to come down here! I found the sign! The wooden one with the yella letters, just like I said. It’s all the way out by Morehead. Can you believe I walked all that way? Anyhow, I got you an application. And the man said they need people to start next week. So I’m sure he’ll hire you. You just got to come fill out the application and then you can move back down here.” Okay, I know I rambled on there, but I am positively floating on pride. The sign is real. And I found it for him! I’m near about ready to bust!

But there’s just pure dead silence on the other end.

“Jackson, you there?” I say, thinking maybe we got cut off.

“I’m here,” he says, real quiet.

“Well, damn, boy, what’s wrong? Didn’t you hear what I said? I found the sign. This here’s what you’re meant to be doing.”

“Vannah”—and I can tell by his voice this ain’t going to be good—“I cain’t just up and leave.”

“Why not?” I say, as my big balloon of excitement deflates into a little old useless piece of rubber. “You got things straightened out with your brothers, and you’d be making money to help out. . . .”

“Mama still needs me here. And I’m expected down at the body shop.”

“But don’t you see? That sign has got to be important, don’t it? Jackson?”

Somebody’s beeping through on the other line, but I ain’t answering it. Time seems to have stopped, as I wait for him to speak.

“Sorry,” he says real soft. “Look, I got to go. I’ll call you tomorra.”

“Wait,” I say, trying to keep him on the line till I figure out how to convince him. “You done any painting since you been home?”

He’s real quiet. “I hadn’t had time.”

“You had time here. Don’t you want to get back to it?”

“Look, I really got to go. We’ll talk soon.” And he hangs up, just like that.

I cut off the light and climb under the covers in my clothes.

You know how them mobsters like to tie a person to a big ol’ concrete block and drop them into the water? That’s just how my heart feels—sunk.

 

 

Mama barges in and flicks on the light. “Good Lord, Savannah! What are you doing?”

I look up at her with my tear-blotched face.

“What in the world happened?” she asks.

I just shrug.

“You were fine when I spoke to you not half an hour ago.”

I’d like to answer so she’ll leave me alone. But I’ve got all these desperate feelings inside of me, and I can’t figure how to explain it all. It’s like when my breathing won’t let me get air in. Only now my feelings won’t let me get them out, like they’re all stuck inside my chest.

“Talk to me,” she demands. “Did something happen with Stef? Are you ill? Do I need to call the doctors?”

I shake my head from its perch on the pillow.

“Jackson?” she asks, dang mother’s intuition.

I nod.

“When you were supposed to not be on the phone?”

I nod again and start in to bawling.

“Well,” she sighs, “looks like you already been punished for that one by the looks of you. Come on, now. It ain’t the first time your heart’s been broken.”

Oh, like that helps.

“It wouldn’t hurt so durn bad if you weren’t such a hopeless romantic. You set your expectations too high, shug.” She sighs and pats my back. “You had any supper yet?”

I shake my head.

“The better looking they are, the less you can trust ’em,” she mutters, then heads off to the kitchen to do her motherly duty of feeding me, while I hide under the covers, wishing I’d never been born.

T
he next afternoon I’m sitting on my bed, trying to figure out what else I can possibly do to fix this. I couldn’t stay in the living room with Mama another minute. She’s driving me up a wall, gaping at me like she’s trying to show she knows how I feel. This here is totally different than her broken heart.

After all the trouble I’ve been to, after I went and found that sign, proved it was real. How can he not jump into his daddy’s truck and speed on down here? I understand his mama is having a hard time and all and I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but seems to me she should be able to handle two nearly grown boys on her own. She needs to let Jackson get on with living his own life.

I know he misses me. Maybe he’ll come around. But by then, it’ll be too late for the painting gig. So it’s up to me to fill out this here application for him, get him that job, and convince him he can still help his family from here. Then he can come on down to the coast and get back to his two true passions—painting, and me, of course.

Whew! Am I glad I figured that one out. Now I know just what I’ve got to do.

Name: Jackson Channing. I best try and make the handwriting messy, so it’ll look like an actual guy did it. I’ll put down his kin’s address and my phone number. If they called his house and his mama answered, she might have a conniption. I know his birth date, but I’m going to have to get creative with the work history. It won’t be too tough. I know he currently works at the body shop, that he used to help out his daddy making cabinets, and that he paints pictures. No, he ain’t never been arrested! Good Lord, they ask some strange questions. Available start date? I expect he’ll come around by next week. Yep, that should do just fine. I address the envelope to the P.O. Box listed on the application and go out to the kitchen to get a stamp.

I’m feeling better already. Mama always says action soothes the sore soul. I reckon she’s right.

“Sure is nice to see you looking so chipper.” Mama’s been acting overly nice since my little sobfest last night. It’s worse than when she’s mad at me. She’s treating me like I’m in kindergarten. But now that I’ve got Jackson all sorted out, it doesn’t even matter.

I go stick the application in the mailbox and come back to sit at the table where Mama’s drinking coffee and puzzling over bills on her day off.

“How come you haven’t been spending time with Gina lately?” I ask.

She looks at me like she hadn’t realized I’d come back in. “What now?”

“You mad at Gina or something? How come y’all never go out anymore?”

She peers into my eyes like she’s aiming to figure out if I’m trying to get rid of her or something. Then she shrugs. “I’m tired, Savannah. I ain’t got energy for all that silliness no more. Face it, girl, your mama’s old.”

“Thirty-six is old,” I agree, “but it ain’t like retirement old. Why don’t you get out there and meet some folks?”

Suddenly, she looks irritated. “Why don’t you try finding a new job every few months, working all day, coming home to do the wash and the cooking and cleaning and settling fights between you and your brother, not to mention fretting over all these bills, and then see do you feel like going dancing.” And with that, she storms into her bedroom and slams the door.

Shoot. I was only trying to help.

 

 

Tuesday morning, I’m laying in the bed with hours to go until I need to be at the library. I can hear Mama getting ready for work. Dog’s snoring, as always, when the phone starts in to ringing.

“No, there’s no Jackson Channing here. How did you get this number?” Mama’s saying.

Holy hell! I leap out of bed and tear out of the room. “It’s for me! Give me the phone,” I insist.

But Mama shakes her head. “I just can’t understand why he’d give y’all this number. It don’t make . . . oh, I believe I’m getting it now. Could you hold on just one second?” She gives me a look that says I had better have a damn good explanation.

“Please,” I beg, reaching out my hand for the phone.

She holds my gaze another minute, then relents with a sigh, handing over the telephone.

“I’m sorry about that, sir. It was just a misunderstanding,” I explain. “I can take a message for Jackson.”

“This some kinda prank? Y’all pulling my leg or sump’n?” the man asks, sounding irritated.

“No, sir. I’ve got a pen ready. What was the message?”

He hesitates. I could spin him a yarn, as the old folks at church would say, to try and explain, but I think I’d best keep quiet at this point.

“If ’n he can show up down here at my trailer tomorra, he has himself a job.”

It worked! He actually got it! “I’m afraid tomorrow isn’t a possibility,” I say, stalling for time. I bite my lip to keep myself from screaming my excitement out loud. “He’s got another painting gig is all. How about Friday?” Surely he can get down here by then.

“A’ight, then. We’ll see him on Fri-dee.”

Hot dog!

I set the phone down and look up to see Mama glaring at me, her arms crossed against her chest. She raises her eyebrows as if to say, “Spill it.”