Breathing (5 page)

“When it was discovered that a woman had written the novel, critics thought it immoral that she could express such passion,” the teacher says.

Well, I never! I say good for her and good riddance!

I’m itching to stay and hear more about what it was like back then, but I really ought to get to work.

When I arrive at the library, I head straight into the stacks to find a copy of
Jane Eyre
. I skip around in it, going back over the parts I liked best. I’m rereading the one where Jane finds out that her true love’s crazy wife, who was locked up in the attic, set the house on fire, killing herself and blinding the dude Jane loves, when Miss Patsy clears her throat rather loudly, her eyebrows raised.

“Sorry,” I murmur, setting the book aside for later and getting to work. It’s near to closing time, and I’ve got loads of books to put up. I’m rushing around when Dog and Dave stroll in.

“Vannah,” my brother calls out loud, as if he were on the playground.

“Shh!” I warn.

He rolls his eyes. “Ain’t nobody in here,” he says, as Dave giggles.

“Shh!” Miss Patsy holds her finger up over her lips.

“Oh, fine,” Dog says. They come over to me. “Tell Mama I’ll be in late tonight. Me and Dave are eating over with some friends.”

“Hey, Dave,” I say. “What friends, Dog?” Mama’s words come out of my mouth.

“Just some kids from school,” he replies. “Quit giving me the third degree.”

“Come on, Dave,” I say, knowing he’s the weaker link. “Whose house you gonn’ be at, in case Mama or Gina want to call?”

“Y’all don’t know him,” Dave says quietly.

“Just tell her I’ll be back late,” Dog insists.

“Be home by dark!” I call after them as they bolt.

“Shh!” Miss Patsy hisses.

 

 

After work, Mama comes into my room, where I’m writing in my journal, and starts in to yelling at me for not knowing whose house Dog and Dave are at. How am I supposed to keep track of every one of their friends, I ask you? Oh well, I reckon she’s just tired and not in the mood to worry over them. I suppose it’s easier to take it out on me.

I
’m laying up in the hammock a couple days later, listening to music and daydreaming about Jackson, when I suddenly get a creeping feeling I done forgot something important. It’s that sense that overtakes you right quick and you know it ain’t like you forgot your flip-flops at the beach, more like you’re about to meet up with some serious trouble. I sit up and try to figure out what day we’re on when it suddenly hits me—today’s Sunday. Holy you-know-what, Mama’s going to be home from work in fifteen minutes, and I haven’t even started to boil the potatoes for the salad.

Damn! Where is my brain lately? I better shape up or Mama is sure to notice that my thoughts are elsewhere. Lord, there ain’t no way I can get this salad fixed before she gets home. She’s going to be sopping mad.

I’m boiling the water and scrubbing the potatoes when Dog wanders in and says, “Vannah, fix me a sandwich. I’m damn near starved.”

Bless his heart but he pushed me at the wrong time. “Fix your own damn food, you heifer! The church cookout ain’t but a half hour from now.” I am running around the kitchen gathering the ingredients for the salad, but let’s face it, ain’t nothing going to make those potatoes boil any faster.

“Who peed in your cornflakes this morning?” he asks.

“I’ma tan your hide if you don’t get outta here!” Course it’s me I’m mad at, but I’m so riled up now, knowing how p.o.’d Mama’s going to be, I can’t seem to stop myself. “Either start chopping or get out, one,” I say.

“You on the rag or something?” he says as he struts out of the room and flicks on the TV.

That boy is so crass. Course it ain’t never him that’s expected to fix the damn salad or help with supper or anything else. Mama always used to say it was ’cause he was too little. But the boy is twelve years old! I’ve been helping since I was near about six. What, does she reckon he’ll run off like our daddy if she puts him to work around the house?

I’m just hoping Mama doesn’t restrict me from the picnic as my punishment. I believe Jackson may show up, and I’m just itching to see him. I looked for him at the beach the last few days, but he hasn’t been there, and he hasn’t called either. I already picked out a real cute sundress to wear that looks right pretty on me.

I’ve got everything all mixed up in the bowl, just waiting on the potatoes to get tender, when the phone rings. “You got the salad ready to go?” Mama asks.

I ponder on that one a half second. If she’s calling me, she’s likely still at the store, seeing as she still has not given in to getting us a cell phone. And if she hasn’t left yet, I can surely get it ready by the time she gets home. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good girl. I know I can always count on you, baby.”

Is she testing me?

“I’m afraid I’ma have to be late to the supper. Jolene ain’t here yet, and Sonny won’t let me go till she gets here. Y’all go on down to the picnic, and I’ll meet you there directly.”

My mind goes straight to how awful I’m going to look after walking two miles in the humidity. As if it ain’t cruel enough that Dog got Mama’s thick, bouncy hair and I got stuck with the thin, limp kind, when it’s humid out, my dirty-blond locks sag like a wet mutt. “Dog ain’t gonn’ like having to walk,” I say.

“Y’all can ride bikes if you’d ruther.”

“How’m I gonn’ tote the salad?” I ask.

“Ride my bike,” she offers. “I got the basket on the front.”

Great. Now I get to arrive looking like that old witch in
The Wizard of Oz.

 

 

Once we get there, I try to fluff up my hair, but the humidity is thick and my hair is plastered right to my head. Dog runs off to find Dave without so much as a “see ya later” to me. I set the potato salad down on one of the long tables next to a whole mess of macaroni salads, slaw, cooked greens, and fried okra. The next table over makes my mouth water with its hush puppies and corn sticks, double-crisp battered fries and biscuits. I ain’t as fired up about the next one with the Brunswick stew (looks like somebody’s been sick in the pot) and beef tips on rice (otherwise known as shit on a shingle, pardon my French) and fried catfish (them things got whiskers, for heavens sakes!). But I must admit the barbecue looks and smells mighty good. Our preacher is hands down the best barbecuer in the county. The dessert table is full to the brim with brownies, cookies, banana pudding with vanilla wafers, red velvet cake, key lime pie, strawberry shortcake, watermelon slices (with a salt shaker on hand for those who like it that way), peach cobbler with a big ol’ tub of Cool Whip, and three whole trays of Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Is that Savannah Brown?” ol’ Miss Caroline Watson asks. She’s older than dirt and just as much in everybody’s business as the day she was born. I try not to look at the long white hairs hanging off her chin. Mama says if you focus on that type of thing you’ll be sure to get it yourself someday. “Where’s your mama at, honeychile? I ain’t seen her at church for nary a—”

“I hear you got another birthday coming up, Miss Caroline,” I say, just to get her off the topic of Mama not being much of a churchgoer.

“The good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise,” she says.

Good night
, I’m thinking, rolling my eyes in my mind. “I believe I see some of my friends over yonder. I’ll speak with you later on, ma’am,” I say, trying my best to be polite. I go over and chat with some kids from bible group. Truth be told I ain’t been in a couple years. But I still see them at school and so forth.

Now here’s something I hadn’t figured on. Mama’s headed straight for me from one direction. And here comes Jackson smiling at me from the other. All I want is to go sit together on a blanket under a tree and just stare back into his eyes. But Mama’s nearly here, and I ain’t ready for them to meet up.

The Lord must be on my side suddenly, because Miss Caroline and her troop of in-everybody’s-business do-gooders waylay Mama, giving me just enough time to greet Jackson and disappear with him before she even knows I’m gone.

“I was hoping I’d see you here tonight,” I say once we’ve found a quiet spot behind a tree.

“You look right beautiful, Savannah,” he says, causing me to blush something fierce.
Beautiful!

“Where you been lately?” I ask, hoping I don’t seem too pushy.

“Just dealing with some problems back home,” he says. “But I’ve been thinking about you.”

My cheeks burn. “Anybody sees us behind this tree, the whole church’ll be talking.”

“Let ’em talk.” His smile is so big I feel like I could just crawl right on up inside it. “What you worried about?” he asks all tender, brushing the back of his finger along my face. Whoo boy, I set to quivering, fearing my knees may buckle.

“If Mama finds out—” I say, but then I stop, ’cause I ain’t sure what it is exactly we’ve got going here, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself by presuming.

He steps closer to me. And next thing I know, his warm, soft lips are touching mine. He pulls away and smiles down at me, and honest to God I am swooning. “Now that’s sump’n to talk about,” he whispers.

Much as I wish we could just stay here kissing all evening, I keep thinking about Dog or Mama coming around the side of the tree. And if she finds out I’m kissing a grown boy she ain’t never met at the church picnic, she’s gonn’ pitch a hissy fit with a tail on it. “Maybe we should get some supper,” I suggest.

“Mm,” he says, staring at me all dreamy-eyed.

“Jackson, you gotta quit looking at me like that,” I say, even though I’m squealing with joy inside.

“Like what?” he asks.

“You know.” Now I’m blushing but good. “Don’t get me wrong. It ain’t that I don’t like it, but Mama’s out there. She’ll bust a gut, and it won’t be from laughing.”

“Your mama got sump’n against the Channings?” he asks.

“No. My mama’s got something against her fifteen-year-old daughter kissing a guy she don’t know, with the preacher barbecuing not ten yards away.”

“You only fifteen?” he asks, looking all shocked.

Shoot. I stepped right into that one. “I’ll be fifteen and a half next month.”

Well something about that just tickles him, and he starts to laughing and won’t stop.

“How old are
you
?” I ask, knowing by his muscular build there ain’t no way he’s even close to fifteen.

“Eighteen,” he says.

“She sure ain’t gonn’ like that,” I reply. “We just won’t tell her nothing for now.”

“Can I at least hold your hand?” he asks, looking like a puppy.

Damn, do I want to say yes, but I set him straight anyhow. “Hell no. Soon as she knows about you, she’ll be monitoring my every move. You can say good-bye to me having any free time. She’ll have enough chores to keep me busy the rest of the summer.”

Now he looks all pouty. “I thought you were looking forward to seeing me tonight.”

“I was and I am. We just got to play it cool, that’s all.”

We head back to the tables and start to fill our plates.

“There you are, baby,” Mama says, as she and Gina walk up to us.

“I been looking all over for you.”

“I’ve been right here,” I say too quickly.

The two of them are chowing down on barbecue. Gina’s drab-colored hair is all frizzy; I reckon the humidity ain’t helping her out none, either.

“Who’s your friend?” Mama asks.

Gina elbows her and giggles. She’s got on a low-cut coral top and takes a second to adjust it. “Yes, I’d like to meet him,” she says, wiping her hand on her pants.

My heart’s thundering like a serious storm. “Who?” I say, looking about like I don’t know who’s standing right beside me. Mama gives me the hairy eyeball. “Oh, him. His name’s uh, uh Jackson, I believe. He’s kin to the Channings.”

“That right?” Mama asks, holding out her hand to Jackson.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “Which one of these delicious dishes did you make, ma’am?”

Eyeing him but good, Mama says, “Savannah made the potata salad.”

“Well, I’ll have to try me some of that,” he says, spooning an obscene amount of it onto his plate. Damn, I must have laid it on too thick—he’s nervous.

“Where’d y’all meet?” Mama asks, trying to sound casual, but looking suspicious.

“At the beach,” I say.

Except at the very same second, Jackson says, “At the library.”

Of course both statements are true, but it don’t look good. I slap my forehead. “How could I forget, first at the library—just for a minute or two, then at the beach, with his cousins,” I add.

“You live around here, or you just visiting?” Gina asks, mashing down her hair.

“It ain’t clear yet,” Jackson says. “I’ll be here through the summer for sure, then we’ll see.” And damn but he looks right at me! Smiling!

The jig is up. If Mama hadn’t figured it out before, she most certainly has got it now. Gina’s elbowing her in the gut. Mama’s slapping away Gina’s arm and glaring at me like she wants to know what all is going on.

And then, as if the devil was orchestrating the whole night, Miss Nosy-Face Caroline Watson waddles over and says, “Porsha,”—there was a Porsche commercial on the radio when Mama was born, but my grandma didn’t know how to spell—“was that your young’un I saw over behind the trees earlier?” She’s raising up her nasty, whiskery eyebrows at me. “I didn’t realize she’d grown big enough for courtin’.”

Gina gasps and starts laughing. Mama looks none too happy.

My face is burning red. Old gossip. I’ve got half a mind to tell that ol’ biddy what I think of her. But suddenly I’m gasping for air.

“Thank you, Miss Caroline. I can take it from here.” Mama turns her back on the woman, which I’m glad to see. “Savannah, where is your inhaler at?”

But everything’s closing up inside and I can’t focus on remembering what I did with my inhaler. I can’t remember if I brung it along or not or where I last saw it or nothing. Before Mama can say a word against it, Jackson picks me up and carries me to the parking lot, with Mama tagging along behind.