Gus (25 page)

Ma laughs. "You two will get along great. And she always brings it back after lunch and puts it right where she found it, so it's not really stealing. She's just borrowing it for the morning."

I'm outside smoking a cigarette when Mrs. Randolph comes creeping back over to return our newspaper. Her walker is loud and squeaky as it rolls over the concrete. I call out a greeting, "Hello, Mrs. Randolph."

She starts at my words and the newspaper slips from her grasp. She brings her hand to her chest and eyes me with irritation. "God lord, boy, don't go sneakin' up on me like that."

I could easily argue that I'm standing in my own driveway, not ten feet from her, and she's the sneaky one here, but I don't. Instead I approach her and introduce myself. "I'm Gus Hawthorne." I motion with my thumb over my shoulder. "I live here with my mom, Audrey."

She's eyeballing my cigarette and just when I think she's going to scold me about smoking, she says, "You got another cigarette?" She glances up at me and I notice that her eyes are cloudy. Cataracts I'm guessing. She squints at me. "What did you say your name was, boy?"

"Gus," I answer as I pull out the pack from my pocket and shake one out for her.
 

"I'm not so great with names anymore. You'll have to forgive me." She takes it and puts it to her lips with a shaky hand, and then looks at me and talks, the cigarette dangling from her lips. "Well, are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna light it? I ain't got all day."

She makes me laugh and I retrieve my lighter and light it for her. The first pull is so weak I don't think the flame is going to catch, but it does. She blows the smoke out immediately. There isn't much, and I find myself wondering if any of it actually made it all the way down to her lungs at all. That was the weakest drag I've ever seen, but she continues just the same until she's finished. Satisfied, she drops it on the driveway next to her foot and steps on it to put it out.

I pull the pack out and point the open end toward her. "You want one for the road, Mrs. Randolph?"

She waves me off and turns her walker back toward her house. "Boy, those things'll kill you if you smoke more than one a day." She's not looking at me while she's talking; she's just creeping down the drive behind her walker. "'Sides, my daughter will be here soon and she'll kill me if she finds out I been sneakin' smokes again." She turns her head back to me and a devilish smile spreads across her full, wrinkled cheeks. "That's our secret, boy. She don't let me have no fun," she adds with a wink before turning to finish the journey home.

"Have a good one, Mrs. Randolph," I call after her.

She doesn't answer.

Thursday, November 23

(Gus)

Every day around noon, I grab my smokes and make my way to the driveway to meet Mrs. Randolph. She's incredibly timely. Exactly at noon she returns our newspaper. And every day I see her, just like today, she asks for a cigarette, and I give it to her. She barks at me to light it, and I do. It's a ritual that I've become pretty fond of. For all her bark, she's got no bite. I knew it from the first time I talked to her, but the more conversations we have, the more I get to see what a cool old chick she is. I ask her a lot of questions, and even though she acts put out to answer me, I know she secretly enjoys it because she stays longer every time.
 

I've learned that she's eighty-three years old (she ripped me a new asshole for asking her age, which of course took place immediately after she told me how old she is). She was married for fifty-two years to her high school sweetheart, whose name was Fritz. He had a decorated military past and retired from law enforcement. He died thirteen years ago. She doesn't say it, but I see it in her face when she talks about him that she misses him.

Today, she's talking about her daughter, Francine. Francine is a nurse. She works four days a week at a hospital in San Diego. Her shift is usually three in the morning until three in the afternoon. I've never asked her age, but I'm guessing she's in her late-fifties given what I can put together from Mrs. Randolph's other stories. Mrs. Randolph is proud of Francine, not that she admits it outright, but it peeks through in between the other comments.

"Francine working today?" I ask, knowing she is. It's Thursday; she always works on Thursdays.

"Yes. She's always workin'." She somehow doesn't sound happy about that fact.

"But she loves what she does." I met Francine a few days ago and talked to her about her job. She does love it. And I bet she's great at it, because she's so damn nice.
 

Mrs. Randolph huffs. "I'm glad she loves it, but that don't mean that she should let it kill her. There's no balance. She don't rest like she should. And she damn well don't have fun like she should. She used to take me to bingo every week when she lived in Charlotte, but we ain't done that at all since I been here. I think she done forgot how to have fun."

The mention of bingo has me smiling. I bet this woman is fierce in a bingo hall. Bright Side, Gracie, and I used to go play bingo every once in a while, and the elderly women there were like wolves in sheep's clothing. Dressed in their Sunday best, their hair done up, looking sweet and innocent, they were nothing but sweet old ladies—until the first ball dropped and then they turned into sharks circling in bloodied water. They were rabid. Despite that, I smile at her. "I'll take you to play bingo."

She smiles. It's rare that she smiles and I love seeing it. "Would you, now?"

I nod. "Sure. I'm always down for a little bingo. I know a place. I'll check out the schedule and let you know."

She waves and turns her walker down the drive, smile still in place. "Okay, boy. I'm holdin' you to that."

"Have a good one, Mrs. Randolph." It's become part of our ritual for me to say it when she leaves.

And for her to say nothing in return.

I don't mind. Sometimes you have to listen to the things that people don't say.

Saturday, November 25

(Scout)

I return from my morning run to find Gustov and Paxton sitting on the sofa in front of a blaring TV in the living room. They're watching a soccer game. The commentators have heavy British accents. The whole scene is odd given the volume of the TV and the fact that I don't think either Paxton or Gustov are soccer fans. But the strangest thing is that there's an elderly woman sitting in an armchair that's been moved to a few feet in front of the TV. Her hair is an unnatural shade of pale lavender that shines in the sunlight coming through the window, making it look like it's slightly metallic. She's as absorbed in the game as I've ever seen anyone watching a sporting event. She alternates between a play-by-play of the action in a voice that mimics the British accent on TV, to cursing the players loudly in a gritty southern drawl, to whooping and cheering when something's apparently gone the way she wants it to. I know I'm tired after my run, but this woman is wearing me out just watching her. Still, even though I really need a shower, I walk up to the back of the sofa to get a better look. Paxton catches me out of the corner of his eye. "Morning, Scout," he says as if this is all perfectly normal.

"Morning."

Gustov turns around. Spare Ribs is curled up in his lap sleeping, although I don't know how, considering all the noise.
 

I nod my head toward the old woman, wordlessly asking what's up. Not that it's any of my business, I suppose, but I'm curious.

He smiles. "That's Mrs. Randolph. She's Francine's mom, from next door. She wanted to watch soccer, I mean 'football'," he says quietly, wrapping the word in air quotes when he says it. "Francine doesn't have cable. She's been jonesing for it. I guess Arsenal's her team. She loves some dude named Olivier. He scored a goal earlier and she went apeshit. She's fucking mint."
 

Paxton is nodding in agreement with a huge smile on his face. He's enamored with this woman.

When I look back in her direction she's still living in the game like she's in the stadium. She's wearing a Giroud jersey with the number twelve on the back, and she's leaned forward in her seat slightly.
 

"Sit down, Scout. You've gotta watch this with us. It only started fifteen minutes ago." Paxton is patting the sofa cushion next to him.

I don't normally watch sports, but this is about more than the game. This is a spectacle that I feel like I can't turn down. "I'm going to shower; I'll be back in ten minutes."

Ten minutes later I'm sitting in clean clothes, with wet hair, on the sofa next to Paxton. Spare Ribs woke as I walked in the room and stretched in Gustov's lap before walking over and curling up in mine.

Gustov shakes his head when the cat is comfortable. "I should've named her Benedict Arnold."

At halftime, Mrs. Randolph mutes the volume. "I can't listen to their nonsense. My boys are playin' good. They'll just say they're gonna blow it in the second half." She's talking to herself until she turns around. When her eyes meet mine, she squints. And then she stands and holds onto the back of her chair. Gustov immediately stands and offers his hand. She takes it and walks over until she's standing directly in front of me. She looks sharply at Gustov. "Where's your manners, boy? You gonna introduce me to this lovely young lady?"

My cheeks blush.
 

Gustov grins. "Mrs. Randolph, this is Scout MacKenzie. She's Paxton's cousin. She lives here with us." He's never said my name before. I
love
the way he says my name.

I offer my hand. "Hi, Mrs. Randolph. It's nice to meet you." Her hand is cool, but her grip is firm.
 

"I see you out runnin' every mornin'."

I nod. "I try."

"And I see you leave with Audrey every mornin'."

I nod again. "I work for Audrey. I'm her assistant. We carpool."

"Do you like it? Workin' for her." She's relentless with the questions.

Again I'm nodding. She's grilling me, but she's not overbearing and I find myself oddly wanting her approval. "I do. I love it. I just got my degree this spring; this is my first real job. I'm learning a lot."

She finally stops the questioning when she looks satisfied somehow with my answers. "That's the secret. You find what you love and you go for it. Life ain't about coasting. It's about pushin' the damn gas pedal all the way to the floor. Same goes for fun and love, no coasting. Pedal to the floor." She looks up at Gustov, still holding her left hand to steady her. "I'm ready to sit back down." He walks her back to her chair and helps her get seated. She looks up at him when she's comfortable and smiles. "You're a good boy."

He grins. "Thanks Mrs. R."

"And she's a good girl," she adds with a wink before unmuting the TV and giving her full attention to the booming game in front of her.

Sunday, November 26

(Gus)

"Ma. What're we doing for Thanksgiving? Same old?"

Ma's making a pumpkin pie. It's her pre-game warm up for the big show on Thursday. She does this every year. She bakes pumpkin pies starting the weekend before Thanksgiving and for about two weeks after. I eat it every day, morning, noon, and night. By the end of it, I've got the pumpkin shits and I can't even look at pie. That is, until the weekend before Thanksgiving rolls around again the next year and I'm standing here like a fucking pumpkin addict, going through withdrawal, shakes and everything, waiting for the first one to roll out of the oven so I can take half, put six scoops of whipped cream on it, and dig in. Yeah, I'm a glutton for pumpkin punishment.

"That was the plan.
Same old
," she says teasingly. "Is that okay? Did you want to try something new this year?" I can almost hear the hope in her voice. She wants me to suggest something different so she doesn't have to think about all the Thanksgivings of old with Bright Side and Gracie.

"I was thinking maybe we could invite Keller and Stella to come out and chill with us?"

She turns toward me. She likes the idea; I can see it in her eyes. "Have you talked to Keller, Gus?"

I shake my head. "Nah, I tried a few months back, but we never connected. You?"

"Well, I think that's a fabulous idea." She just avoided my question, which tells me yes, she has talked to him. Oh course she has, because Ma is a grade A human being.
 

"Awesome. I'll go give him a call."

When I finally get to my room to bring up his name on my phone, it takes me ten minutes to work up the courage to press "call." It's eight-thirty in Minnesota; I hope I don't wake up Stella if she's already in bed.

There's an answer after the third ring. I take a deep breath anticipating his voice and the rush of emotion that's sure to come with it.

Instead, a tiny, sweet, sleepy voice answers. "Hello?" It's his daughter, Stella.

"Well hello, Miss Stella." All the tension drains out of me.

"Who is this?" she asks, like she's screening his calls.

"This is Gus. Do you remember me, Stella?"

She yells, "Daddy, Gus is on the phone!" And then at normal volume, she says, "Daddy's in the bathroom. He's just goin' poop."

I laugh and it feels so damn good. "Ah, well, a man's gotta do that every once in a while. How are you doin' Stella?"

"Good. I go to pre-school, Gus. My teacher's name is Miss Cooper. She's nice, but she smells like apricot jelly. I don't like apricot jelly. My papa in Chicago likes it though. He puts it on toast."

This makes me laugh some more. I love little kids; every damn thing that comes out of their mouths is innocent and unfiltered. "How's your turtle?"

Her voice brightens. "Miss Higgins is good. She
loves
Minnesota." She pauses and I can hear Keller in the background talking to her. "Just a minute, Daddy. I'm not done talking to Gus." And then she's talking to me again. "Are you in California with your mommy, Gus?"

"I am. It's nice and sunny here. You should come out and visit, Stella."

She's talking to Keller now. "Gus says I should come out and visit him in California. Can I go?
Pleeeeeease
."