Sway (15 page)

“D
on't be late for church, Cass!”

It was our first Sunday in The Roast, and it was just as muggy a Sunday as it would have been back home. Dad already had us out of the woods and back on the Mississippi highway when I tried to take my first-ever RV shower. It might have been difficult to stay balanced in the shower while Dad was driving, if my elbows weren't constantly pressed up against the walls.

As I dabbed myself dry, the empty M. B. McClean suit swung back and forth on its ceiling hook, making one sleeve annoyingly
whush
against my nose. The suit had been airing out all night. It had a lot more freshening to do.

My own airbrushed tank top was also getting pretty foul, so I reluctantly replaced it with my longest T-shirt and belted it like a dress. The outfit seemed appropriate enough for church-on-wheels, so I came out to join Dad in the front pew, which of course was the only pew.

“That was the quickest shower ever,” said Dad. He was wearing his least-faded regular dad clothes.

“I ran out of water after like thirty seconds.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “We need to top off our gas anyway, so let's plan on stopping after a while and filling both tanks. In the meantime, why don't you pick us out one of Brother Edge's best?”

I opened the glove compartment and shuffled through the sermon CDs to choose one.

“Have you been thinking uh-gane about which sliver you might be interested in trying out?” he asked, as I tried umpteen times to shut the little door.

“Yeah, I've been thinking some about it,” I said, putting both feet on the door and slamming with all my might. Finally it latched.

“So who tested the Sway before we left? Uncle Clay?” I asked, handing Dad the CD marked “Encouragement—Part One.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Uncle Clay was the guinea pig. He found him a Karl Benz soap last week. Karl Benz invented the gasoline automobile, you know.”

“Did the soap work?”

“He helped me get this thing up and running, didn't he?”

“So did he say what it felt like?” I said. “I mean, to wash with it? Did he feel a zingle?”

“A zingle?”

“Like a zingy tingle in his hands.”

“You know, Cass, now that I think about it, he did describe something like a zingle. And not just in his good hand…but in
both
of them.”

I opened and closed my own hands just thinking of that happening to Uncle Clay. What a great moment that must have been. Dad pressed the eject button and sent the Gordon Lightfoot CD shooting out across the console. He made a
What in the world?
look that turned his whiskery chin all dimply like a golf ball. Then he slid the sermon CD in. While we waited for the lesson to begin, I noticed that a daddy longlegs spider clung to the gap between my side mirror and its casing. It looked like he was hunkered in there pretty tight.

Dad, the spider, and I sat still and quiet as Brother Edge began with a verse, like he always does, this one from the book of Matthew.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Brother Edge sounded much better on CD than he did in person. He told us he would be borrowing a phrase from “our French brethren” for the title of his lesson.
Mercy Bo-koops
, he called it. He said it meant, “Lots of forgiveness,” or at least it did for his purposes that day. Brother Edge preached at great length about what a wonderful, mending thing forgiveness could be, and how it's like a big pink eraser that can erase any mistake. It was a notion I found very comforting—that of mistakes never being permanent.

Memphis, Tennessee, was the backdrop for most of our mobile church time. During the drive through downtown, I saw brick warehouses covered in graffiti, and trolley cars on wires, and a man pushing a grocery cart full of cans down the street. As Brother Edge wrapped things up by singing a verse of “I'll Fly Away,” Dad and I crossed a huge two-humped M bridge over the Mississippi River. It was the first bridge I'd ever been on—the first time I'd ever crossed from here to there over something so big. I decided that I'd forever think of it as the Mercy Bridge.

“Can you see all that?” Dad asked, craning his neck to peer over the side of the bridge to the water below. “There must be a dozen barges down there.”

“Did you
hear
all that?” I said, wondering if he'd been moved by the sermon to aim a little mercy in Florida's direction.

“What?”

“Brother Edge says there's no mistake forgiveness can't erase.”

Dad could have played a whole song on a trumpet with the air he puffed from his cheeks.

“You ever seen what a bunch of forgiving does to an eraser, Cass? It wears it away into nothing but a little pile of pink crumblets,” he said.

Then he bit on his lips for a few seconds.

“What I mean to say is…well, I guess there are circumstances that make forgiving just as hard on a person,” he said. “For instance, when there's a big apology due to you that you don't expect to get anytime soon. You know, Brother Edge speaks of the necessity of repentance, too, as in doing a U-turn and leaving your mistakes behind.”

I imagined Mom and her car both repenting at that very moment and U-turning right back to our empty house. Dad rolled down his window and leaned out for a look at what was below the bridge.

“Check out all those fishing boats way down the river,” he said, changing the subject as smooth as potholes. “They seem so little from here.”

They sure enough did look like you could push one around with your finger. I pictured Syd down there catching catfish with his bare hands.

“So does everybody else know?” I said.

“Does who know what?”

“Syd and Aunt Jo, about the soap stuff.”

“Not unless Uncle Clay told them after we left.”

“So how did you know it would work for other people too, and not just Uncle Clay?”

“I wasn't sure,” he said. “I kind of wanted us to find that out together.”

As we crossed under the welcome to arkansas sign, the downtown Memphis skyline filled up my whole side mirror. It was the first time I'd seen tall buildings in a clump like that in real life, tall ones, short ones, even one shaped like a giant pyramid. The spider on the mirror looked like he was standing at the tip-top of that pyramid. And that was something I bet even Mom had never seen.

“Dad?” I said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Is Sway permanent?”

“You mean will we always have it?”

“Kind of. I mean like when you wash with a sliver, does it help you forever?”

Dad had a look like it was the first time he'd considered that question.

“Sure,” he said. “I don't see why it wouldn't.”

Once the city had faded out behind us and we were well into rice fields on either side, Dad and I set our attention on shoe-searching. I felt like I needed to see Sway in action again just one more time to make sense of the belief I had brewing up inside me. It did me good to see it changing peoples' situations. It did me even better to think about it changing mine.

By midday, after hours of Arkansas's truck-stopspeckled flatness, I got so impatient to see M. B. McClean in action again that I considered throwing one of my own shoes out onto the road when Dad wasn't looking. But then I remembered that Dad would probably recognize my shoe. So instead, I just focused in and looked even harder.

“There's one!” I shouted.

“Nope, just a possum,” said my dad.

“There!”

“Armadillo,” he said.

“Biggest shoe ever!”

“Buzzard eating a possum.” He sighed.

In between false alarms, I counted all the eighteen-wheelers with words scribbled in the dust on the back of them. And then I counted white Volkswagen Rabbits. There were twelve dirty trucks, and zero white Rabbits. Frustrated with my dad for not sharing my sense of urgency about matters of immeasurable power, I resorted to practicing my string Eiffel Tower, repeating the steps out loud every time, just to annoy him into trying harder to find a shoe. I added a big
Voilà!
at the end every time, but there was never anything voilà about the mess I ended up with. Oh, forget it, I thought finally, abandoning the Eiffel Tower and inventing my very own Memphis-inspired finger-string creation…the Spider's Pyramid.

For a while after that, we rode slowly behind a phone company truck that Dad kept almost passing, swerving over and swerving back, until we both noticed the jackpot that sat on the back of the truck. Right there, plain as day, was a pair of work boots, battered brown with red laces, one on either side of a big drink cooler. One of them teetered oh-so-close to the edge, and I wished hard for it to fall right off, concentrating on it like those people who say they can bend forks with their minds. Dad zoomed The Roast up close to the bumper of the truck, like he was going to knock the shoe off or something. Thankfully, the driver didn't notice how close we came. Unfortunately, the boot didn't notice either. It stayed put.

Dad puffed out a frustrated sigh.

“I guess we're just going to have to refuel at the next town and resume our search afterward,” he said.

Which was fine with me. My legs were cramping up anyway.

“And lookie there,” said Dad, pointing to a green road sign. “‘Tinbottom, Arkansas…Rhubarb Capital of the World!' Sounds like the perfect place to gas up, no?”

He geedunked us onto the off-ramp.

“I should probably go ahead and get that suit freshened up while we're here,” he said. “Can't be giving away magical suds in malodorous duds.”

I noticed that Dad's rhymes had grown more effortless as time passed. On our way to the heart of Tinbottom, we passed under the town's water tower, which was painted like a huge jar of jam. Dad stopped to ask one of the locals where we could find the nearest Laundromat; she pointed us right up the very same road.

“Gather up anything you need washed,” Dad said, passing the Done Rite Laundromat twice before finding a parking lot entrance big enough for us to use. On the side of the building, I could tell where someone had painted lanudry on there and repainted the right spelling on top of it.

“So much for all mistakes being erasable, huh?” Dad chuckled as we walked in. “At least they haven't forgotten their E's,” he added, pointing to the Sav-Mor Mart next door. The possibility of finding some phone minutes at that quick mart made our stop suddenly seem promising.

Dad balanced a pile of green and yellow in his arms, and I gently placed my airbrushed tank on top. It sat there neatly folded, considerably less white, but just as gleaming as the moment Mom had first laid it across my lap. That moment seemed like forever ago to me.

“Promise you won't lose the shirt,” I said.

“I promise.”

“Or tear it.”

“Promise.”

“Or shrink it.”

“Good grief, Cass.”

I watched Dad closely as he crammed our load of clothes into a silver washer with a round window in the front. I still wasn't positive I could trust his unmerciful self with the tank top Mom had given me. I sure didn't want it to become the third important thing he'd ruined in a week.

“I
magine, Cassafras,” Dad said as he dropped some quarters into a detergent dispenser. “There could be Sway vending machines in the future, full of all sorts of little soap slivers dangling in there.”

“No way,” I said. “Aren't we going to run out of soaps one of these days?”

“You just let me worry about that,” said Dad. “There's plenty more where ours came from.”

“From the attic?”

“Our inheritance is limitless, Cass. Uh-
gane
, there's no need for you to worry.”

Enough dot com with the “uh-gane,” I thought. Through the little round window of the washing machine, I could see the suit and the tank doing their foamy swish thing.

The walls of the Done Rite Laundromat were decorated with framed sheets of uncut paper doll clothes.

Behind a desk in the corner, a high-school-looking boy read a comic book and chewed his nails. Next to the desk was an entrance cut through to the Sav-Mor Mart.

“Can I go next door and get a snack?” I said.

“Sure.” Dad reached into his pocket. “Here's a couple bucks.”

“You got any more?”

“Like how much?”

“Twenty.”

“What on earth are you planning to get? Sterling silver pork rinds?”

Comic book boy snorted out a laugh.

“Here's ten,” Dad said, handing me a fistful of ones. “And grab me a pack of Powdered Donettes while you're at it.”

At the Sav-Mor, I went straight for the section where the phone cards were. There weren't many choices for a kid with a cheapie dad, but thankfully, my brand was one of them. I found a five-dollar Cellular Now refill card that would give me ten minutes talk time. I knew I had to pick at least a couple more items to go with the phone card, mainly because I felt sort of guilty buying it. Like when Syd once bought a newspaper and jar of peanut butter along with some smoke bombs. I wandered around the store for a while, looking for a combo of things I could afford, finally settling on the Donettes, some pretzels, a yellow plastic visor, and a postcard with a picture of a man wearing a rhubarb costume. The postcard would be perfect for Syd.

Once in a while, Dad would come peek into the store through the wall entrance to check on me, and every time, I'd put all my merchandise down at my side so he couldn't see the phone card. After the third time, my strange behavior brought the little cashier out of hiding. She must have thought I was stealing stuff, because she watched me over the cash register.

“You need some help, hon?”

I had thought the woman was sitting down, but as I approached to lay my things across the counter, I saw that she was actually standing. She must have been a head shorter than me, even. Her gray-blond hair looked like it would clink off onto the floor if you touched it. She wore a red vest with
AMBRETTE
embroidered on it, and peeking from under the vest was a black T-shirt with the white silhouette of a man bowing his head. I felt like, given the time to study them, I could have found a whole alphabet in the wrinkles on Ambrette's face.

“No thanks,” I said. “I found what I needed.”

I couldn't help but stare at the man on her shirt. His silhouette reminded me of a big version of the Cass-head charm on Mom's bracelet.

“Is he praying?” I asked.

“That's what I'd like to think,” said Ambrette.

“You see this here?” she said, opening her vest a bit. It said POW in big white letters across the black.

“That stands for
prisoner of war
.” Ambrette swallowed hard. “My sweet husband went missing forty-one years ago in the Vietnam jungle.”

Hearing those words immediately erased my every notion of what to say or even what kind of face to make, so I just stared at my feet and squeezed out a sad “Sorry.” I wasn't exactly sure where Vietnam was, but I knew it was a lot farther away than Florida.

“It's okay,” said Ambrette. “After all these years apart, I've grown accustomed to the notion that he ain't coming back. The bad thing is that I'm starting to forget the details about our times
together
.”

She beeped my items with her scanner, phone card first.

“So who you planning on calling?” she asked.

“My mom,” I said. “She's sort of missing too, even though we know where she is.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Ambrette said as she bagged up my things. “That postcard for her?”

She had no clue what an awes idea she'd just given me.

“Yes, ma'am, it's for her,” I said.

“Well, here you go, then. This one's on me.” Ambrette slid a postage stamp across the counter. “And hang on, I got something else to show you, too.”

She reached under the counter and handed me what looked like a coffee can with a wire handle on it. The can had a bunch of tiny holes hammered into it, with a little slumped candle and a pack of matches nestled in the bottom.

“It's called a C-ration can, from the war,” she said. “I'm sure it once held baked beans. I turn them into lanterns to light my windows at night, so my sweetie can find his way home.”

“Like a
cantern
,” I said.

“I like that.” She smiled. “You can have a cantern for yourself, if you want.”

I stopped my finger at each metal poked-through spot and felt its sharp edges. On one side of the can, I traced the letters H-O-P-E, and on the opposite side, just P-O-W.

“Thanks very much,” I said, feeling a bit warmer inside, like someone had lit a little slumped candle inside of me. When I crossed back over into the Done Rite, I found Dad standing there looking more than a little sheepish. I quickly stuffed the phone card into my back pocket before he could see it.

“Don't worry. The tank top is fine,” he said. “I just wish I could say the same for the suit.”

He held up the jacket in one hand and the pants in the other. The cuffs on both were all frayed out. I mean big-time scarecrow-style fringed.

“I guess a circa 1973 suit wasn't up for the washer and dryer,” he said on our way out. “If I only had a brain, I'd have known that.”

Inside The Roast, I tossed my bag of things and the cantern onto my bed and handed Dad the stalest Donettes ever.

“I'm going to need some help from you with this suit mess,” he said, twisting some of the long loose threads around his finger. “You think the Sav-Mor's got a cheap pair of scissors?”

“I'll go check,” I said, suddenly feeling excited to get to see Ambrette again.

“But first,” I said, “do you have any soap slivers that belonged to somebody who was good at remembering things?”

“Remembering what kind of things?” he said.

“Like stuff about people.”

Dad went flat-mouthed again. “This isn't about your mom, is it?”

“No, I promise. It's just, there's a lady in there who needs help remembering.”

Dad slid the suitcase from under his seat and popped it open, rummaging through the collection, gently but determined, like he so didn't want to let me down on my first sliver request ever.

“Let's see. Nope, nope, no not that one.…Wait, here's one!”

Dad handed me a pale yellow soap that was extra perfumey. “Mark Twain, great American storyteller. Packed a lifetime of books full of his own childhood memories.”

“But this soap says
S C
.”

“That's right,” he said. “For Samuel Clemens. That's his real name.”

“Perfect!” I snatched the sliver from his fingers and dashed back to the store.

“Don't forget the scissors!” Dad called out.

The front door of the Sav-Mor jangled when I ran in. Ambrette looked up from her crossword. I had to talk between huffs and puffs.

“I know this sounds crazy,” I said, nervously flipping the sliver in my palm. “But my dad, well my dad and me, we have this stuff. And I think it just might be magical, I don't know. He calls it Sway, and we have these old soaps that belonged to famous people, and you can wash your hands with one, and well, the Sway, it sort of gives you some of that person's good qualities. Like painting or singing or dancing or something.”

I moved the little soap across the counter to her, slow and steady, like I wasn't sure if I wanted to just rewind that whole speech and walk backward out of the store. Ambrette slid the soap from under my hand and studied it carefully.

“Who's S C?” she said. “Santa Claus?”

“No, ma'am. It's Samuel Clemens,” I said. “He was a mighty good remember-er-er. What I mean is, he never forgot a thing, and could tell stories about all the things he never forgot.”

I wasn't even sure I was making sense. Ambrette gave a puzzled look.

“I just thought that washing with his soap might make you remember stuff too. Maybe if you just try it, we'll—I mean, you'll see.

“And, oh yeah, do you have any scissors?” I added breathlessly.

“The last aisle on the left,” she said, keeping her eyes on the soap.

On the way up my aisle, I took at peek at the big round security mirror on the ceiling. Ambrette was already gone, and the ladies' restroom door was closing behind her. When I got back to the front, I had no earthly idea what to expect, whether she would come out of that bathroom and hug me or cuss me. I considered dropping the money on the counter and running, even with scissors, all the way back to The Roast.

Then Ambrette came out. And she hugged me. When she did, the scent of that little soap wafted off of her strong, as if her hands had absorbed the whole sliver.

“You got a minute for a little story?” she asked. I noticed that her eyes were watery, and I hoped it wasn't because of the soap smell.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Before he went into the army, my husband was an auto mechanic,” she said. “On the night of our second date, a customer with a squirrel stuck in his exhaust pipe had kept him after hours, putting him in such a rush to get ready, he'd accidentally splashed on his mother's perfume instead of his aftershave. That date was the first time we ever held hands, and we held tight through an entire showing of
Planet of the Apes
. I went to sleep that night sniffing the soft rosy scent on my palm and dreaming of our future together.

“I'd forgotten how that feeling smelled and how that smell felt, until just now,” Ambrette said. “When I washed with your soap, I remembered.”

“That's a really nice story,” I said.

“Thanks to that…that…now, what did you call it?”

“Sway.”

“Right. Sway.” Ambrette put her hand to her face. “You mind if I keep the rest of the soap? I'll consider the scissors an even swap for this maybe-magic.”

“Yes, ma'am. You can have it,” I told her. “And thanks for the scissors.”

When I climbed back into the RV, Dad was waiting anxiously for a report. He handed me my tank top, folded up neat and springy fresh.

“How did it go?” he said.

“She remembered,” I said. “She
really
remembered.”

“And you and that compassion of yours helped her,” he said, looking at me like,
Well am I right or am I right?

“So,” he added, puffing up with pride, “would I be correct in assuming a certain someone might be becoming a believer?”

“Might be,” I said. And it sure was a mighty might.

With his spirits lifted to the point of whistling a little tune, Dad set to filling all things empty. It was early afternoon when we found our way back onto the highway, which was bordered on both sides with soybean fields that looked like they'd been groomed with a giant comb. At first I busied myself with cutting the frayed edges of M. B. McClean's cuffs down to a nice neat row of fringe that looked far more on-purpose. Once the jacket and pants were sufficiently trimmed, I spent the next hour with my face leaned against the refreshingly cool glass of the side window, wondering silently to the blackbirds crowded on the telephone wires what on earth had just happened back there with Ambrette. And whether I was a total nut for sort of believing it.

I tried to remember stories about my mom from back before she even started rescuing. Soon I was wishing that I hadn't left the rest of the Samuel Clemens soap behind, because I could have used it to help me remember things, too. At least feeling the hard corners of the phone card in my pocket gave me some comfort that I'd have Mom's actual voice to help me remember, as soon as I could steal away and call her. Then, just about the time I began to wonder when exactly that would be, there came and went a magnificent sight, all blue and crumply, by the side of the road. That's when I shouted so loud, I made Dad cough powdered doughnut sugar all over the steering wheel.

“Stop! Dad! It's a shoe!”