Drowning Is Inevitable (5 page)

M
y grandmother's house was built a hundred years ago, and it had a skeleton key that locked all the doors from the outside. Recently she'd started using it to lock me in my room at night. The closer it got to my eighteenth birthday, the stranger she got. She knew something bad had happened to Lillian on her eighteenth birthday, and it was as if she was trying to save her the second time around, as if locking her—or me—in would keep us away from the river. It became a nightly ritual, and I'd hear her leaving her room and padding down the hall to my mom's room.

I heard the knob click.

Through the door she said, “Goodnight, Lillian.”

Later that night I heard her cry out in her sleep, and her bedside lamp crash onto the floor.

“Olivia!”

She only remembered who I was in her nightmares. I ached to go to her, to comfort her, but my door was locked. Instead, I pressed my forehead against the door, palms against the wood, like I expected some magical power to allow me to slip through it. I stayed that way until she quieted down.

The next morning I woke to an empty house. My door was unlocked. I looked through the kitchen window to see my grandmother working in the garden. She was weeding and watering, and her lips were moving. I knew she was singing.

I heard the sound of the screen door bouncing off the jamb, and Jamie walked into the kitchen. He took his usual seat at the table and stared out the window, saying nothing It had gotten pretty loud again at his house the night before and the sounds had carried across the yard. Jamie was beginning to lose his talent at keeping things from registering on his face. Today, he looked tired.

“Hey,” I said.

He didn't look at me, just kept his head down, picking at some invisible thing on the table. Jamie was retreating. I felt him backing away even as he sat there in the room with me. Nobody was quiet like Jamie Benton.

I tried to change the mood by being extra cheery. “What are we doing today?”

No response.

“Do you want to go to Bird Man's? Maggie gets off at noon. I'm sure we could find something to do, go see a movie.”

He looked at me and nodded. “You'll have to drive,” he said. “My mom took my car to work today.”

“What's wrong with her car?”

“Don't ask.”

I had a feeling it had something to do with Mr. Benton going for another DWI to add to his collection.

Maggie was just getting off work by the time we made it to Bird Man's. Jamie and I made a quick loop around the coffeehouse to check out her new collection. Her paintings were angry this time. No one knew for sure what had inspired that emotion, but I had a pretty good idea.

“What's wrong?” Maggie asked Jamie as soon as they made eye contact.

“Same ol' same ol',” he said. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“What's going on with you?” He motioned at the paintings behind us.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Since we're not talking, let's go see a movie,” I said.

We were quiet while we waited in line. But I had to ask, “Are you going to see your mom before you leave?”

She looked up and answered me with a shrug. “I've been thinking about it, but I'm not sure. I don't even know how to get ahold of her. Her cell was disconnected the last time I tried calling. But that was forever ago.”

“Your dad hasn't heard from her?”

“She checks in every so often. He fills her in on what's going on in my life. But she never asks to talk to me. She probably doesn't want to see me.”

“I bet she would. We should go down together. A road trip could be fun.”

She looked at me hard. “And play
Where's Waldo
with my mom in New Orleans? Believe me, anywhere she's staying is nowhere we want to be.” She flicked her cigarette to the ground. Maggie didn't smoke, not really, but she tried every now and then. I didn't mention her mom again.

After the movie we rode around town before dropping Maggie at home and then headed back to Fidelity Street. Jamie sat quietly beside me. The sun was setting. I'd be back in plenty of time before lockdown.

“Do you want to come home with me?” I asked.

His look said
yes.
I smelled supper while were still in the carport. My grandmother might be short on sanity, but she made up for it with her cooking.

Sitting around my grandmother's kitchen table that night, watching her dote on “that boy,” my life seemed almost perfect.

“More peas, baby?” she asked him.

“Yes, please, Ms. Josephine,” he answered.

It was perfect as long as I ignored a few blaring untruths. Like the fact that in my grandmother's house, I pretended to be my mother, and my grandmother pretended she wasn't crazy, and Jamie, sitting across the table from us, pretended everything in his life was normal.

Later that night, after my grandmother had locked me in, I went to the window and saw Jamie sitting in the seat of my tree. He was looking in my direction, but he didn't see me. I climbed out the window and walked over to the tree. Jamie stared straight ahead, giving no sign he was aware of my presence.

“Jamie,” I said.

No response. Sounds of breaking glass and his dad's yelling came flying out of his house. I turned to look at it and saw that the back door was open, like Jamie had walked out and not bothered to shut the door.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “What are you doing? Come down and talk to me.”

Nothing. I turned to look at his house again and saw his dad standing in the door.

Jamie didn't see him, because he was still staring straight ahead. Mr. Benton leveled his gaze at me. Then he stepped back inside the house and slammed the door.

His look was a promise of something terrible, but instead of scared, it made me feel brave.

“Don't worry about him,” I said. “Everything's okay. You can come down now.”

Still no response.

“If you come down, I won't let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

A promise made on Fidelity Street.

“I'll take care of you.”

Jamie tilted his head down and looked at me, then slowly climbed out of the tree. I took his hand and led him back to my window. We climbed into my mom's room. Jamie sat on the end of the bed, his head down.

“I had to get out of there,” he said. “I needed a quieter place.”

“I understand,” I said. “Come to me next time.” I pulled a sleeping bag from under the bed. “You can sleep here when you need a quieter place.”

He nodded. I unrolled the sleeping bag and handed him a pillow.

“Do you think you'll be able to sleep?” I asked.

“Maybe, since you're here,” he said. His voice sounded old.

I turned off the lamp, and he lay down on the floor. I got in the bed and scooted over to the edge.

“I'll let you twirl my hair,” I said.

He laughed quietly. “I'm good.”

Silence followed.

“Marlon Brando,” I said.

“Brad Pitt,” he whispered.

“Paul Simon.”

“Sammy Davis, Jr.”

“David Letterman.”

“Goodnight, Olivia.”

“Goodnight.”

When I woke in the morning, he was gone.

The next night, after my grandmother locked the door, I turned to see Jamie's face in the window, waiting to be let in. He didn't say anything, just pulled out the sleeping bag and lay down. The next night it happened again, and then again. It went on like that for a solid week. Things at his house were going downhill fast. Each day when I woke up, Jamie was gone and the door was unlocked, making me wonder if it was really happening at all.

“Do you think you can come to my house for supper tonight?” Jamie asked.

We were sitting in the middle of my mom's bed. We'd been rereading Beth's letters and guessing which number she'd do next.

“Why?” I asked. “Can't you just eat here, like usual?”

“That's the problem. I'm usually over here, and my mom's feelings are hurt. She wants me home more.”

“But she knows why you stay away,” I said.

Jamie nodded. “My dad's going in early for the night shift. He'll be gone by five-thirty. It'll just be the three of us, if you want to come.”

“I'll come,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Of course. It'll be fun.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Jamie said.

Just in case, I waited until six before getting ready to go to Jamie's. My grandmother was sitting on the back porch looking out at the river.

“I'm going over to Jamie's to eat supper.”

“Alright, baby,” she said. “Tell that boy's mother I say hello.”

“I will.” I leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Be back later.”

Jamie and his mom were in the kitchen when I came in the back door. No one knocked on Fidelity Street.

“You're just in time,” Jamie said. He and his mom were elbow deep in some concoction and there was flour everywhere, on the counters, cabinets, Jamie's forehead.

“In time for what?” I asked.

“To help cook.”

“Wait a second. You invited me to eat. Nobody said anything about cooking.”

“It was implied.”

“I don't think it was.”

“Shut up and get over here,” he said.

“What are we making?”

“My mother's chicken and dumplings,” Mrs. Benton said.

“Nice,” I said. I'd had them before. They were amazing, and apparently very messy to make.

“Olivia, will you light the stove?” Mrs. Benton asked.

“Sure.”

“Thanks, sweetie. We're almost through kneading. Grab that skillet and put it on the fire.” She nodded toward the counter. It was one of those seasoned cast-iron skillets. It took both hands to lift it.

Mrs. Benton rolled out the dough and began cutting it into smaller pieces.

“Olivia, turn some music on.” Jamie gestured with his head to an old radio sitting on the counter.

“What station?” I asked.

“What it's on is fine,” he said.

It was a classic rock station, and the music filled the room.

“Turn it up,” Jamie said.

“When you were little we used to dance around this kitchen all the time,” Mrs. Benton said.

“I remember,” Jamie said.

I did, too.

“It's been a long time. Let's fix that.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and pulled his mom to the middle of the room, twirling and spinning her like he'd done to Maggie so many times. He moved her around the kitchen and she laughed loudly, the kind of laugh where your head falls back.

“Come dance with us,” Jamie said to me.

“No, I'm good here. I'll just watch.”

“Nope, no watching,” he said. He reached for me and pulled me into the fold.

Once I was sandwiched between him and his mom, we swayed and laughed to the Steve Miller Band singing about getting their lovin' on the run. This was a good day. We bumped into the kitchen table and knocked over a chair, but that didn't slow us down.

The music was loud, and we were laughing so hard that we never heard Mr. Benton's truck pull into the carport. We didn't see him until he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his face a mixture of anger and disbelief. He reached and turned the music off. The room plunged into silence, and I couldn't breathe. We stumbled apart as if we'd been caught doing something wrong.

“What the hell's going on here?” he asked. The monster was back.

No one answered.

He threw his hands up. “What in the
hell
is going on here?” He reminded me of a pissed-off bear, like the ones you see on nature shows, standing tall on their back legs, waving their arms in the air, showing all their teeth.

Mrs. Benton scrambled around the kitchen, swiping at the counters with her hands. “I'm sorry. We were getting supper ready. We made a mess. We were just dancing, being silly. What are you doing home?” she asked, breathless.

“They had too many guys working tonight. They cut me loose.” He looked around the room again, taking in the disarray. “Is this what y'all do when I'm not here?”

“Is that why they sent you home?” Jamie asked. “Or was it because they smelled the alcohol on your breath?”

My eyes went round. To my knowledge, Jamie had never poked the bear before.

“What did you say to me?” Mr. Benton asked.

“Did they smell the alcohol? Were you cut loose for the night, or were you fired?”

“You don't get to talk to me that way.” Mr. Benton's voice shook, and he pointed his finger at Jamie. It was shaking, too.

“He didn't mean it,” Mrs. Benton said. She came around the table to stand between Jamie and his dad. She put her hands on Mr. Benton's chest. “He didn't mean it,” she repeated.

“I think he did,” Mr. Benton said.

“Yeah, I think I did,” Jamie agreed.