Creola's Moonbeam (10 page)

“Where’s the kid, Mom?” asked Butlar.

The boy was relieving himself on an outdoor bench. As he zipped his fly, he challenged, “Over here, but what’s it to you, asswipe?”

The two boys bristled. Mary Catherine looked at me and rolled her eyes.

Somehow — it’s a blur — I got everyone loaded into the station wagon and headed out to the children’s favorite playground-restaurant. I repeated to myself, “This will be fine, it’s a kind thing to do. This will be fine; it’s a kind thing to do. This will be fine, it’s a kind thing to do.” All the while, I kept my eyes fixed on the rearview mirror and focused firmly on our guest. Like a mother lion, I knew instinctively, to fear for my own.

My second mistake was in going to an establishment with a playground. We ordered our breakfast and sat down at a picnic table to eat. The meal lasted maybe four minutes. On an up note, the boy’s table manners made the Newberry offspring appear almost Victorian in demeanor.

I gathered the trash and mopped up the spilled orange juice.

“You’re messy,” Butlar told our guest.

“Eat my dust, butthead,” replied the urchin.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warned Butlar, who looked at the boy with lethal intent. ”Go play.”

The two boys leapt over tables and chairs en route to the play area. “Last one there’s a fart face,” said a young male voice sounding oddly like my darling son.

Another mother glared at me. I blanched. “Sorry, we’re just real excited.”

Mary Catherine rolled her eyes and followed the boys at a discreet distance. Sitting back down, I sipped my coffee.
Okay, I can see them. Besides, what can happen? It’s a fenced-in area with safe equipment and several of us adults are watching
.

For the moment, the boys seemed to be playing together in a civilized manner. Mary Catherine was swinging quietly. The coffee was pretty good for fast food.
      

Not twenty seconds passed. “
Maamaa,
” shouted an unfamiliar voice.

I, along with all the other grownups, made a mad dash toward the sounds of distress. I found Butlar pulling
our guest
off of a pleading child.

“Good for you, Butlar,” I said with sincere gratitude and pride. I took the arm of the roofer’s child and commanded him to apologize to his hysterical victim.

“Hell no, ma’am,” he snarled.

In a voice that came from the deep dark depths of my anger, I gritted my teeth and strengthened my hold on his arm. “Oh, yes, little boy, yes, you will.”

His red hair on end, he steadied his feet. “I ain’t gonna.”

“You are, too, gonna.” I held him in a death grip in front of the sniffling child.

“Ain’t.”

Mary Catherine tugged on my sweatshirt. “Mom, our kid spit on that little boy.”

“Any clue why?”

“Our kid said ‘the jerk is talking weird.’”

“Weird?”

“I think he could be talking French or something.”

Our guest snorted. “Yeah, it was foreign talk, all right!” The boy tried to break free of my grasp. “Let me at him! He’s a weirdo!”

I pointed to our car. Emphasizing each word and all but spitting out my teeth, I commanded, “
Go
! All three of you, get in the
car
! And do it now!”

They obeyed.

I couldn’t drive home fast enough. Not a single word was spoken. Once there, my two children scattered to far reaches of our neighborhood, where they remained for the duration of the day’s roofing job. I watched as the small sociopath bragged about “taking care of the foreign dude” to his grown cousin, the skinny man, who puffed up proudly.

There must have been something harmful in the family’s water supply.

Later that night, Mary Catherine slyly asked if any more roofer kids were coming to play the next day.

“No, absolutely not!” Then I prayed I was right.

Sure enough, the roofers returned the next morning, short one boy. He must have had an appointment with his parole officer.

Two days — that’s two
long
days later — the job was completed. The crew took cash, cash only, and left in a hurry. Most of them were sprawled in the bed of the truck. All of them whooped and hollered as they screeched off down the driveway headed for where, only the Lord knows. Empty beer cans tumbled from the back of the truck. Three houses later, we could hear new cans popping open as the pack roared out of our subdivision.

Delighted to be done with the Roofers from
Deliverance
, I vowed to avoid doing any further business with that particular company. I always keep records in my special office drawer about any workmen or companies we have used. Lest I could possibly forget those people, on my list of references, next to their name, in bright red magic marker, I drew a skull and crossbones.

To my horror, there is a
P.S
. to the story. It came last month, when our roof had to be completely replaced, not just the shingles, but the whole blasted roof, right down to the house’s original studs.

In other words, this was going to be a big mess, which would cost lots of money. I didn’t know the technical names for all that had to be done, but it was crystal clear that a $1,300 gutter job — which was to be completed in one day’s work — quickly morphed into a $13,000 gutter-and-roof job with a still-escalating estimate. Along with that, the one-day plan was scratched with a completion date yet to be determined. We were looking at a month-or-longer project.

I inquired as to what might have caused the expensive problem. The roof man explained, “Well, Mrs. Newberry, I hate to tell you this, but whoever put on that last roof did a really bad job. You folks have probably had some leaking ever since.” With that, he walked the entire perimeter of our home poking a long stick at any given overhang I pointed out. Black rot belched to the ground, forming little piles of proof for his diagnosis.

I immediately began to plan a trip to the beach. Beau would be most adept at handling
this
construction job.

At least he wouldn’t have to deal with junior roofers from hell.

by Honey Newberry

Not always, but on occasion, the crazy things that happen to us at home pursue us beyond the city limits. Most dramatically, this phenomenon occurred during a trip to Memphis where we planned, that’s
planned,
to attend a family wedding.

Pleased that Beau and I had kept well to our schedule, we decided there was ample time for us to visit my family’s gravesite in Memphis’s historic Calvary Cemetery. Going to a cemetery may not be a festive idea for some people, granted, but for me it was something I felt compelled to do. My husband humored me.

It was 3:30 on Saturday afternoon. In just three-and-one-half hours, we would be sitting happily with my parents in St. Ann’s Catholic Church, enjoying our cousin Kathleen’s wedding to Jonathan. We’d looked forward to the event for months.

We had flown in to town the day before. Just barely. I’d managed to leave our tickets at the baggage check-in desk. The desk was located on the sidewalk outside Hartsfield International Airport, some thirty minutes of walking and train-riding away from where we stood, trembling and, as it were, short two tickets.

Our flight was preparing to board as the authority figure, the airline’s crack representative, steadfastly refused to let us check in simply because we were without the tickets. It needs to be said that the woman had confirmed the fact that the tickets had been recovered and were in the hands of the airline’s staff. We were told that a “runner” was en route. I prayed he was a man with Olympian speed.

“Rules are rules, ma’am,” she kept repeating over and over again. We’d heard her the first time.
And
, this was well before September 11, 2001, and the strict regulations that followed. The woman’s smug smile became more resolute with every minute that ticked by.

“Those tickets will probably not get here,” she sneered in Beau’s face.

“Please, just let us board.”

“Take a seat in the waiting area, sir,” she ordered as she gripped the microphone. She announced, “Attention please, ladies and gentlemen. We will begin boarding in one minute.”

“Look, ma’am, you
know
we have tickets!”

“Siiirrrr, do make some attempt to calm yourself.”

Nose to nose, Beau glared at the woman but masterfully managed to restrain himself from cramming the microphone down her throat.

My blood pressure was skyrocketing because I knew full well that my family, specifically my parents, was eagerly waiting for us to arrive. Just when it was apparent that we would be flying on the only other flight, some six hours later, a young man raced up, huffing and puffing. He couldn’t speak, but handed us our tickets.

We took our seats mere seconds before the plane took off. In flight, I gave my peanuts to Beau. I couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t either, but crunching those nuts soothed his disposition. He washed them down with a good, cold beer which also served to temper his state of mind.

To clarify things just a bit, we did have a pleasant Friday, post flight. We’d enjoyed visiting with family, had a wonderful time at the rehearsal dinner party, and the weather was perfection. It was the kind of weather the city fathers pray for when they set a date for the official celebrations of the autumn season. The temperature was warm, with a cooling breeze. The leaves, which barely clung to their home trees, presented a Crayola box full of brilliant hues. The air was crisp and fresh. A sapphire sky was dotted randomly with puffs of cotton white. In fact, at the rehearsal dinner the night before, several people remarked that Kathleen’s late grandmother, Ann, had surely ordered the picture-perfect weekend for her beloved granddaughter’s special day.

Certainly with Ann in mind—as well as my grandparents and a dozen other relatives—Beau and I began to make our way toward the family plot. The grounds of Calvary cover acres and acres, and finding one’s way can be most confounding with the cemetery’s twists and narrow, turning roads. So to be absolutely certain we were headed in the right direction, we stopped the security guard and asked him to confirm my foggy directions. He was all too glad to help.

“Yes, in fact, I do remember your people,” he assured us. “I knew your grandfather, the old gentleman, a fine man he was. I used to wait on him at the Summit Club.” He pointed in a general direction. As he wandered off, the guard again commented to himself, “One fine man, a fine, fine man. Yes, siree.”

As I reflected on my childhood visits to my grandparent’s home in Memphis, Beau scoured the monument-covered landscape for “my people.” In the great forest of angels, tombs, Madonnas, crosses and crucifixes along with every conceivable shape and size of marble marker, Beau finally spotted the site we sought. I placed flowers on the graves and took a few precious moments speaking with those resting beneath my feet. There is a closeness I feel when in the presence of a loved one’s burial spot.

All too quickly the serenity of the scene was shattered when my thankfully always time-conscious husband announced, “It’s getting late, Honey. Say good-bye, or we’ll have to hurry.”

Reluctantly, I rose, and we walked to the car. He faster than me.

We again rode past all the familiar family names. The sun streaked across the rolling green landscape. Its shadows seemed to knit the stone monuments one to another. I sighed quietly as I drank in the peacefulness of the setting.

“Shit!” barked Beau as he stomped the brake pedal of our rental car.

“What in the world?”

Not only was Calvary Cemetery’s heavy black iron entry gate closed, but also it was tightly secured with a big, heavy chain and a padlock!