Clay's Quilt (31 page)

It was only ten o'clock, and the street below was strangely quiet. There always seemed to be a truckload of teenagers going by, their music thumping down the street. She had grown used to hearing people laughing and yelling softly to one another as they lay by the pool at night. Airplanes sometimes shook the earth as they flew just above the motel, heading for the air force base up the road. Tonight was silent and calm. The only sound was the incessant drone of the air conditioners that hung out of each front window of the building.

Clay had gone to the store to fetch them a cantaloupe, as she had been craving one all day. Her mouth watered at the prospect of cutting the firm melon apart, dousing the pieces in salt and sucking the meat down to the rind. She looked down the street, waiting to see him come up the sidewalk. She wanted to see if that same old feeling came to her gut when she laid eyes on him. She relied on this feeling to remind her of how much she loved
him; she hated this place so much that she was beginning to blame him for bringing her here.

Alma took her fiddle from its case and began to play the last song she had written. The first bars were so slow that they almost numbed her arm. The slow and forceful notes were meant to stir up the image of a ship pressing through ocean water. The rhythm rose as the people in her song began to trod land, climb mountains, bend to drink from clear streams. The pace sped and curled as they cleared land, raised houses and children.

She closed her eyes and let the music lift her, carrying her out over the street, where she drifted up and down between block-shaped hotels and squat condominiums, rushing out over the surf, out into black air that swirled over black water. Finally, she was in the middle of the ocean, and the sky was so full of stars that it looked completely silver.

When she opened her eyes again, Clay was leaning against their door, holding a brown paper bag heavy with melons. Others had come out onto the balcony, too. There was a tiny old woman sitting in a plastic chair by her door, a leather-faced woman standing in the door of her own room with a child hanging onto her leg. There was a man shaped like a snowman—his body was a stack of round, fat balls. He watched Alma with a wide smile cut into his face. She could see every one of his teeth and his thick gums to match.

She took the bow from the fiddle and looked at the floor, embarrassed.

“Don't stop,” the old woman said. “It's beautiful.”

Alma started to play again, but she couldn't. When she looked at the people, she felt as if they were some sort of enemy. She found herself thinking,
These are not my people.

“Play just a little more of it,” Clay said proudly, but she wouldn't.

“Did you write that song yourself?” the old woman asked.

“Yes, it's about our ancestors.”

The roundheaded man stepped up and leaned one elbow on the railing. “You sure can play that fiddle,” he said. “You mountain people sure can play music, I'll say that much. Lot of musical talent comes out of those mountains. Why is that?”

“Us mountain people can do damn near everthing good,” Alma said, and didn't move.

The man raised his eyebrows and looked at everyone nervously. “I didn't mean anything . . .”

Clay put his hand on Alma's arm, but she pulled away and bent down to lay her fiddle back in its case. The buckles snapped smartly on the humid air. She picked up the case and went inside, leaving the door open behind her.

“What was that all about?” Clay asked, closing the door. “That feller never meant nothing by that.”

“Well, I guess I took him the wrong way, then,” she said sarcastically. “It was insulting, calling us ‘you mountain people.'”

Clay set the bag on the card table and took the melons out as gently as a man handling a newborn. He placed them in the refrigerator to chill and sat down beside Alma on the bed. His hands were big and hot on the small of her back.

“What is it?” he asked.

Alma felt like she was coming out of a trance. She felt as if she were waking up, like a sleepwalker coming to her senses. “Nothing. I feel like I got too much sun today, or something.”

Clay peeled off his shirt and spread himself out across the bed with his head in Alma's lap. She put her hand in Clay's hair and stroked his head gently. He closed his eyes and didn't speak. It was cold in the room after being out in the humid night, and Alma shook with a chill. She reached over to the nightstand and took the Gideons Bible out of the drawer with one hand. She
had always practiced what her daddy called Bible cracking. He had always taken the Bible in hand and let it fall open to whatever page it was willed to.

She held the stiff book in her hand for a moment and then let it fall open on Clay's back. His breathing raised the book up and down as she read, so that the Bible appeared to be a living thing, capable of lifting itself and floating around the room. She leaned over and let her eyes fall on whatever verse they came to first.

Jeremiah 12:7.

“I have forsaken My house, I have left My heritage; I have given the dearly beloved of My soul into the hand of her enemies,” she read silently.

Clay was almost asleep when her hand became still in his hair. “That felt good,” he said. “Why'd you quit?”

“I have forsaken my house,” she said aloud. “I have left my heritage.”

“What?” he asked, but she didn't answer. She interpreted what this verse might mean to her and took her hand out of Clay's hair. She lay it on her belly and grabbed a handful of her own flesh into her palm. She had left her homeland, said good-bye to everything she had known all of her life, and now there was life growing in her belly.

C
AKE DROVE SLOWLY
to Finley's Kwik-Mart, as he wanted to prolong his time with Dreama. She was looking out the window at the darkness and singing along with Martina McBride on the radio, as if he weren't even there, but he liked her riding along with him anyway. He liked looking in his rearview mirror and seeing Tristan falling to sleep in his car seat, his bottle hanging halfway out of his mouth and his little eyes squinting up every time they met a car's headlights. It was raining, a steady, easy rain too cold for spring, and fog swirled down over the road like the mountains were on fire, so this gave him a good excuse to drive slow.

He had started calling down to Dreama's every time he went out for anything, to ask if she needed to go to the store or anywhere. He liked having Dreama with him. The first time she had gone to the store with him, she had jumped in the car and said, “Good Lord, I'm so tired of setting in that old house that I'd
take a ride with Bill Clinton,” but now she seemed pleased to be going not just for the ride but because Cake was taking her.

Cake glanced from the road to her lap, where her hands beat along to the music, slapping softly against each knee. Pentecostal girls were not supposed to listen to anything besides gospel music, but Dreama saw no sense in this. Her hands were small and pale, her fingernails bitten right down into the quick, with no polish, and he could see the tiny wrinkles in her fingers' joints when a car passed and gave light to the interior of his Camaro. He wanted to reach over and grab them, but he was ashamed for her to feel his own hands, which were always so hot and clammy.

“Do your hands sweat when you're in a vehicle?” he asked, turning down the radio a notch.

“What?” she asked, looking at him quizzically. He repeated his question, and she laughed. “Yeah, they do.”

“Mine do, too. Anytime I travel anywhere, they get clammy.”

“I never knowed anybody done that but me,” she said. “I've always been nervous in a car. I didn't figure you was a-tall.”

“I ain't. My hands just get clammy.” He pulled into Finley's parking lot, where a dozen cars were parked every which way. Three teenage boys stood under the overhang of the store, drinking root beers out of brown bottles. They acted cocky, like they were standing there drinking real beer and it made them look big. The windows were crowded with neon cigarette signs and placards advising everyone to buy lottery tickets. The wide plate-glass windows of the store were bright with white light from within and cast an eerie glow on Dreama's face.

“I'll set out here with Tristan,” Cake offered.

“No, I'm getting him out. He needs to wake up,” she said, opening the door. “Too late in the evening for him to be taking a nap. You want anything?”

“I'll just come in.”

Inside Finley's, country music was pouring out of speakers mounted in each corner. The cashier watched them walk in and raised her eyebrows at Cake, wanting to know if he was going with Dreama now. She wore too much eyeliner and her blouse was unbuttoned low enough to expose a dark fold of flesh. A cigarette—its tip ringed by her lipstick—smoldered in the ashtray propped atop the cash register.

Dreama walked heavily in front of him with Tristan on her hip. She tried to get the baby not to lay his head back down on her shoulder and shook him playfully. “Wake up, now, baby. Look, you in a big ole store.” She walked back to the milk cooler, rooting through her jacket pocket.

“Cake, you care to hold him a minute?” she asked, and handed the baby over before Cake even had a chance to respond. The baby put his forehead to Cake's and looked him straight in the eye. Cake spun around, holding the baby out in the air. Tristan giggled loudly, but Dreama didn't notice. She took a little green folder out of her pocket and studied a coupon she took out of it, then grabbed two gallons of milk.

“What is that?” Cake asked.

“My WIC vouchers. You get milk and eggs and things like that free when you have a child and don't have no money. Daddy'd die if he knowed I was on WIC, though. It's not like food stamps, but it's government money, so he'd die. Don't mention it to him.” She bent down and got a carton of eggs, then moved past Cake and Tristan, hunting for the canned juice.

Cake went on up to the front of the store and looked for some candy for the baby. The cashier smiled a toothy grin and said, “Hey there, little man,” to Tristan. She looked at Cake. “That yours?”

“Naw, it's Dreama's.”

“I didn't think you had one.” She sucked on the cigarette from the corner of her mouth. “He seems used to you, though.”

Cake grabbed a handful of Smarties and laid them on the counter before Dreama could come up and make him let her pay for them. “Give me a pack of Marlboro Reds, too. In a box,” he said.

The cashier rung up the candy and the cigarettes. As she handed him his change, she said, “Who you going with now?”

Before he could answer, he felt somebody standing very close to his back, as if they were staring right at the baby, who was looking over Cake's shoulder. He turned around and met Darry's eyes.

“Hey there, Cake,” Darry said, and reached out to take hold of Tristan's little hand. “I seen you and Dreama pull in.”

Dreama came around the corner with two gallons of milk dangling from her fingers and the eggs and juice piled up against her chest. She broke through Cake and Darry without looking up and let the groceries fall onto the counter. One of the juice cans rolled across the counter before the cashier caught it. Dreama slapped down the WIC voucher and turned to face Darry.

“What do you want?”

“I'd like to hold my baby,” Darry said, trying to keep the smile on his face while he spoke. He put his hands out to Tristan. “Come on, buddy. I'm your daddy.”

Tristan clung to Cake and let out a little whine. Darry put his hands on the baby's sides and tried to pry him away, but he wouldn't come.

“He's not much on strangers,” Dreama said, and there was no trace of contempt in her voice. It seemed that she was speaking to a stranger, defending her baby's lack of cooperation. “He don't know you, Darry.”

“Well, I hope to change all that.”

“If you don't start before long, it'll be too late. I've give you ever chance there is. It's bad enough you missed two weeks of sending me child support, but you could at least come see him. You could go to town and buy him a little outfit ever once in a while.”

“I don't want to fight, Dreama. You're the one wanted the divorce.”

Dreama took Tristan from Cake and rubbed the back of the baby's head. “I don't want to fight with you either, Darry. I just want some consistency in this baby's life. Either you come see him on a regular basis, or don't come at all.”

“That's what I plan on doing. I want us to go back to court. I want joint custody.”

“You can forget that,” she said. “There's not a judge in America would give it to you.”

“A man's got rights nowadays, Dreama, and I intend to take advantage of them.”

Dreama picked up the carton of eggs and collected her thoughts. “You're not taking advantage of this baby, though.” She looked into Cake's eyes to let him know she wanted to go. He grabbed the rest of the groceries and followed her toward the door.

Darry sprinted past them and stopped in front of Dreama, blocking the door. He put his hands out as if he were going to receive a laundry basket. “Just let me hold my baby, Dreama.”

“No!” she screamed. “I'm not making him go to you!”

Darry reached again, pulling at Tristan, and Dreama pulled back, her hand on Tristan's head, holding his face into the neck of her jacket. She was about to cry, right along with the baby.

Cake had seen enough. He threw down the groceries and grabbed the back of Darry's collar. “Leave em alone,” he said,
and shoved Darry back by his collar. Darry straightened his shirt and then pulled his arm back. His fist connected with Cake's chin. They crashed into the candy aisle, then knocked over a metal stand that held comic books and paperbacks. Cake threw Darry back against a long shelf, and chips and crackers fell to the floor. They fought all over the store, a blur of fists and wild eyes against a backdrop of cans and boxes that slid from the shelves.