Sweet Jiminy (10 page)

Chapter 9

S
he was determined
to meet with him, even though he works out of Texarkana,” Willa told Jean between huffs as she sliced her remote control racket through the air.

Willa was improving rapidly at virtual tennis, a game to which Jean had only recently introduced her. After their last trip to Trudi's Tresses, Jean had insisted Willa come into the house when she dropped her off. She'd pulled Willa eagerly up her walk, in the exact way that she'd been pulling her into dances and kitchens, parties and quiet confidences, for nearly seventy years. The gesture made them feel young.

Willa had only offered enough resistance to Jean's tugging to make it more insistent. When they reached the living room, Jean had pointed to a small white box in front of her TV screen.

“Ta da!” she exclaimed.

“What is it?” Willa asked.

“Our new tennis court!” Jean exclaimed excitedly. “Stand there. Are you limber?”

This wasn't the first time Jean had asked her this. She'd tried to get Willa into yoga several years ago without any luck.

“You know I'm not,” Willa replied.

“Just stay there,” Jean instructed, handing Willa an oddly shaped remote control. “You'll see how it works.”

Before them, the TV screen had changed to an image of a tennis court with two figures squared off against each other across the net.

“I'm the one with the dark hair,” Jean informed Willa, indicating the brunette on the screen. “And you're the blonde. I'm serving, so just watch the screen, and when the ball comes to you, pretend your remote is a tennis racket and hit it back to me.”

“What do you mean hit it back to you? There's nothing to hit back,” Willa replied.

“Just watch,” Jean ordered.

She made sure Willa was watching both her and the TV, then pressed the button that would release the on-screen ball and, holding the remote firmly in her hand, sliced her arm through the air in a serving motion. On the screen, her player served perfectly to Willa's character, who stayed completely still as the ball passed her by.

“Hit it!” Jean cried.

“Hit what?” Willa demanded, confused.

“On the screen, don't look away from the screen!”

“I got distracted by your little dance.”

“Okay, just look at the real me for a second,” Jean said and sighed. “See, I'm treating the remote like my racket. This is the way I serve, this is my forehand, this is my backhand.”

Willa watched Jean demonstrate each of these, pantomiming tennis, playing against the air.

“Now everything I just did, I'm going to repeat, but this time don't look at me. Look at the TV instead.”

Willa watched the screen and saw the dark-haired tennis player in the short skirt make a serving stroke, a forehand, and a backhand.

“Oh,” Willa said, a note of dawning comprehension in her voice.

“You got it?”

“Hang on.”

Keeping her eyes glued to the blond on the screen, Willa made a few forehand strokes. The blond tennis player did, too.

“Oh!” Willa cried, with significantly more delight.

Before long, they were enjoying long rallies. They weren't the quickest of athletes, but they were steady and dedicated, and they'd begun playing once a week. It was the first time they'd regularly raised their heartbeats in over a decade.

“So this Carlos fella knew Emmet Till?” Jean asked, panting.

“No, no,” Willa batted this away. “The Emmet Till Act. It's a government thing. He works with it somehow, and he opens up old unsolved cases, and investigates them. Jiminy read all about him.”

This wasn't as foreign to Jean as her reactions would imply. She'd reviewed some of Jiminy's Google searches by using the “History” tab on her computer and had followed a few of the links. Still, Jean hadn't fully engaged with what she'd discovered. She hadn't wanted to get pulled back in.

She was getting pulled back in now, though. It appeared that all of them might be.

“She drove all the way to Texarkana? That's seven hours from here.”

Jean tried to catch Willa off guard with a forehand to the left back corner of the virtual court. Willa stretched to return it.

“As I said, she was determined,” Willa replied, energized to have made the shot.

Jean was getting frustrated. She was glad that their games had become more competitive, but she was accustomed to winning more easily.

“And she went by herself?” she asked.

Which was the polite way of asking whether Bo went with her; whether they were spending the night together someplace in a strange town.

“Yes. By herself,” Willa replied with her lips pursed.

Willa was still in disbelief that her granddaughter had ever taken up with Bo. Though by the time Jiminy confirmed the relationship, late at night after the Roy Tomlins run-in, the two were freshly broken up.

“Bo doesn't think we should see each other anymore,” Jiminy had said.

In a detached tone, she'd relayed the story of the encounter with Roy and Randy, and of the strange, sad way it had impacted Bo. He had sat in silence during the slow drive back to Willa's farm. He parked the truck and climbed out and stood in the darkness on the gravel driveway, staring up at the sky. Jiminy had collected herself and joined him, reaching out for his hand. Which is when he began to speak in a voice one husky octave off of normal. He explained that Jiminy just fundamentally couldn't understand what they were up against in Fayeville. He called himself stupid for thinking there was a chance they'd be let alone, and said he couldn't in good conscience continue putting her at risk. He said that under different circumstances he'd be willing to force the issue, but the reality was that the summer was ending and neither of them planned to stay in town much longer. Given that, he didn't think it was wise for them to make everything more difficult and dangerous than it needed to be. He'd focus on his studying, and she'd figure out her next steps. Down the line, maybe their paths could cross again in some friendlier, easier place.

Jiminy had been unable to reply except to shake her head no while rogue tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Bo took her hand, kissed her cheek, and told her it was better for them both if they just didn't see each other anymore. And then he left.

Willa had listened to her granddaughter, wishing she could alleviate her hurt. But she lacked confidence in her caretaking skills. She'd already failed spectacularly with Jiminy's mother, as far as she could tell. And her timid attempts to help out with Jiminy when her daughter was otherwise engaged had been mainly rebuffed. Beyond agreeing to a handful of sporadic visits, Margaret had made a point of letting Willa know that her services were not needed. So Willa had backed off. But now Jiminy was on her own and had sought Willa out. Was she being given another chance? She'd tried her hardest to be comforting and wise.

“I know it doesn't seem like it, but Bo's right,” she'd said. “This is for the best.”

To Willa's surprise, Jiminy had been outraged instead of soothed.

“How could you say that?” she demanded.

“It's not right, I know, but this isn't a battle worth fighting right now. Listen to Bo. When a young person is trying to make something of themselves, they should avoid unnecessary distractions that might throw them off course.”

Jiminy blanched. She brought her hand down to the table.

“Bo isn't a distraction, he's an inspiration!”

Willa looked at her granddaughter with a face full of sympathy and apology. But it was an apology for what she was about to say rather than what she already had.

“I know,” she explained gently. “I was talking about you.”

Jiminy sat there, stunned, for a very long moment, and then she burst out laughing. It had taken Willa a few seconds to determine that it was laughter and not sobs.

“I get it, I'm the distraction,” Jiminy replied. “Bo's the one actually making something of himself, and I'm the one getting him off track. Of course. You're absolutely right.”

The next morning, Jiminy had told Willa that she was headed to Texarkana, and might be gone a few days.

“Does Lyn know what she's up to?” Jean asked Willa, determined to win the game in the next few strokes.

They were both getting tired, and Jean was trying to capitalize on any mistakes Willa might make.

“Because I imagine Lyn must have some strong feelings about it,” she continued. “I imagine she just might want it left alone.”

“I'm leaving that between Jiminy and Lyn,” Willa answered, feeling a burn in her right side as she reached to return a shot that barely cleared the net.

“But don't you think Lyn would prefer Jiminy to leave all this alone?” Jean repeated, taking advantage of the weak return to hurtle a shot over the head of Willa's avatar, to the opposite corner of the virtual court.

Willa didn't even try to go for it. Instead, she dropped her arm to her side and turned to face Jean.

“I don't know,” she answered in exasperation. “Is that what
you'd
prefer?”

Part Two

Chapter 10

I
n the grand room
of his plantation mansion ten miles outside of Fayeville, Travis Brayer was profoundly irritated.

He'd decided to watch
The Apartment
after reading that his favorite director watched it before beginning any major project. It so happened that Travis had a major project to begin, so he'd put in
The Apartment
with high expectations. And now he was trying to figure out if he'd misunderstood and whether there might be another movie of the same name.

He supposed the plot had been amusing enough, but Bud Baxter was such a loser—not remotely the type of character to inspire anyone to spearhead an ambitious new project. Travis overturned his tray in disgust.

“Now, Mr. Brayer, what are you doing?” the nurse asked as she hustled in to pick up the mess. “If you don't want any more juice, you can just tell me and I'll take this away. No need to make a scene.”

Travis ignored her. He remembered the days when the help had been frightened of him, and he deeply resented the fact that this no longer seemed to be the case. How and when had he lost his authority?

“Mr. Bobby should be showing up soon,” the nurse said.

If he took this news well, she might pass over his stack of phone messages, but she needed to determine the degree of his lucidity first. Outbursts could signal movement in either direction.

“That's State Senator Brayer to you,” Travis replied shortly.

He was lucid enough, and prickly as ever. The nurse decided to hang on to his messages a bit longer. He'd never know the difference, after all.

“Yes, sir, that's the one,” she answered. “The future governor.”

She mopped up the spilled juice with a washcloth and took the tray with her on her way out of the room, just as the dogs began barking from the front porch.

“Dad?” Bobby called soon after from the marble foyer.

“He's in his study,” Travis heard the nurse instruct.

A moment later, Bobby stood before him.

“Hi, Dad, how ya feeling?” Bobby asked.

He bent over to shake the old man's hand. The two of them didn't kiss or embrace. They never had, and now that Travis was increasingly fragile, his son was grateful for their more formal routine.

“Like I'm running out of time,” Travis answered with uncharacteristic candor. “I want to get my memoirs done faster than my brain and hands will let me.”

Bobby nodded and smiled his practiced, understanding state-senator smile.

“Why don't you let me get someone to help you?” he offered.

The people Bobby got to help his father were trained and efficient, and irksomely controlling. Travis had put up with their influx to this point because they were necessary, but he was beginning to feel that enough was enough.

“This is something I've got to do on my own,” he answered firmly.

Again, Bobby nodded empathetically.

“I completely understand, Dad. No one but you
could
do it. But you could have some helpers. You'd still be the one doing all the real work, but instead of having to write everything out, you could dictate. Other people could go through all those boxes of old material and bring the most important stuff to you. Think about it.”

Travis decided he would. The act of bossing people around had always appealed to him, which his son knew as well as anybody. Plus, it really couldn't be denied that he'd work at a faster pace with some assistance. But he detected self-interest in his son's suggestion, and this gave him pause.

“Maybe I will get some help,” Travis conceded. “Roy and the others have grandkids always looking for summer money—I'll get some of them to pitch in.”

As suspected, Bobby Brayer greeted this solution with dismay.

“They won't do as good a job as a skilled typist and researcher. I'll get you someone, Dad. I'll arrange the whole thing.”

Travis bet he would. He'd arrange it so that whatever Bobby wanted in or out of Travis's memoirs would be controlled by this new employee. His son didn't play straight and fair like a man should. He'd inherited his mother's gift for manipulation. Travis was on to him.

“You understand I'm gonna write this book the way I want,” Travis said, taking the stern tone with his son that he'd perfected over forty years.

“Of course,” Bobby answered. “I'm just trying to help.”

Travis grunted.

“Isn't everyone taking good care of you here?” Bobby pressed.

Travis grunted again.

His body was failing him by the day, and he could only hope that his mind wouldn't follow suit. He'd lost his ability to walk, to relieve himself, even to breathe for long periods of time without a respirator. A small army of caretakers swarmed around him to keep him stretched and fed and alive, and he supposed he was grateful for this. He didn't allow himself to consider the fact that he was actually dying. He kept thinking of old age as the flu—an illness he'd forgotten to inoculate against, but that he could recover from with enough rest and fluids. He honestly expected to wake up one morning a little bit younger than the day before, the first sign that he was on the road to recovery. Toward this end, he drank his juices and did his exercises and bore the indignities of being changed and washed by strangers. It was all temporary. He'd be on the mend soon enough.

“How's the campaign going?” Travis asked.

Bobby looked out the window, past the orchard to the far-off pastures that rolled down to the river's edge.

“We're ten points down, but gaining,” he answered. “I need to cut another commercial, which is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Travis nodded expectantly. He'd never been on television before, but he'd always believed he should be. Now it seemed his debut might be imminent.

“Would it be all right if I shot one here?” Bobby asked.

As he took a long pause to make it seem like he was considering the request, Travis reflected that it was too bad they couldn't have filmed this commercial a few years ago, when he might've showcased his cattle-wrangling or tree-chopping skills. Travis used to engage in all kinds of manly, athletic activities, before his aging had telescoped his days into their current narrow confines. But he still felt capable of projecting a unique toughness, and he looked forward to the opportunity to impress a larger audience.

“I think that'd be fine,” he answered.

“Great, thanks. We'll stay outside, totally out of your way. You won't even know we're here, I promise. It'll take a full day, but if all goes well, you won't hear a thing.”

“You don't want me in it?” Travis asked incredulously.

Bobby hadn't anticipated his father's hurt.

“You're in most of them already,” he replied. “They use those photos of me when I was younger, with you and Mother. You've seen them, you look great in them.”

Old photos, of course. Mug shots of better times, when Travis was revered, and sought after. This was clearly no longer the case. Other people were now firmly in charge, and the pain of this was brutal.

 

Rosa Gonzalez had worked a long, exhausting day in the hot Tortillas kitchen, after a sleepless night in which the baby had screamed every hour and a half. As the sun was setting, she finally stopped for a break. She escaped the heat of the kitchen to sit outside in one of her pretty new chairs and watch swallows swoop and swerve in plague-proportion swarms. She marveled at their synchronized, undulating waves and imagined she was at some kind of avian ocean's edge.

Two trucks pulled up and broke her reverie. She didn't recognize them, which was rare. Tortillas catered primarily to the Latino community within Fayeville. It wasn't often that others wandered in, although Rosa assumed it would just take time to convince the rest of the town to give them a try. She knew her food was good. In America, all you needed was to be good and work hard, and success would follow. This is what she firmly believed.

Five young men piled out of the trucks, two out of the first, three from the second. They had tattoos and buzz cuts and looked like they hadn't yet reached their twenties. Rosa briefly wondered if they might be soldiers since she knew that lots of young Fayeville men signed up for the armed forces. But there was an undisciplined air about this particular group that made her reconsider. She didn't really care who they were or where they came from. If they were hungry, she would feed them.

Or she'd get Juan to feed them. She wasn't quite recovered. She stayed seated, but greeted them with a smile.

“Hello!” she said brightly. “Welcome to Tortillas!”

She and Juan had argued about whether to give in to the erroneous local pronunciation of the name or to insist on the correct version. Rosa had advocated assimilation, saying it didn't really matter and that they'd get more business if they didn't turn people off by making them think they couldn't talk right. Juan had insisted they pronounce it the way it was supposed to be pronounced. He assured her people would come around, that they might even enjoy learning a bit of Spanish.

“Tor-tee-yas?” one of the young men repeated. “What's that mean?”

He had a tattoo of a bull with longhorns on his right upper bicep.

“They're a little like thin pancakes, made with corn or flour. We make them with corn. You wrap chicken or beef in them. They're delicious! Come inside and try.”

Whenever she had to explain what tortillas were to people, she felt secretly sorry for them, like they were sheltered children who'd been deprived of very basic knowledge available to everyone else. And sometimes she found people's ignorance disingenuous. Who hadn't heard of a tortilla, in this day and age? Still, she had to stay polite.

“They're a little bit like hot dog buns, but for Mexican food,” Rosa continued, determined to connect with these potential new patrons. “Did you know hot dog vendors used to give people gloves to eat their hot dogs with to avoid burned hands? But people kept stealing the gloves, so one hot dog seller asked his friend, who was a baker, if he would bake some kind of edible glove that they could use instead. And his friend came up with the hot dog bun!
Interesante,
no?”

Rosa didn't catch herself in time. She blushed.

“I mean, that's interesting, right, guys?”

The young men were staring at her. They didn't seem to find it that interesting. Rosa hoped they would just move inside so Juan could handle them. She didn't want to talk any more.

“We're not here for your dirty buns,” the smallest one said.

The others snickered. The one with the longhorn tattoo high-fived the small one. Rosa kept her mouth closed. She tugged her skirt down to make sure it was reaching to her calf.

“You feel like you're sitting pretty, doncha?” the one with the curly blond hair asked her.

His tattoo was a tractor with angel wings, on a part of his chest she could see because he was wearing a tank top.

“Everything's lookin' pretty good for you from there, ain't it? You got yourself a regular catbird seat.”

“What's a catbird seat?” the one with the longhorn tattoo asked.

The blond-haired man ignored him, so he turned to the small one.

“Seriously, what is it?” he asked in a low voice.

The small guy shook his head in a way meant to convey that his friend was an idiot for asking, as well as suggest that he knew the answer, when he actually didn't. Rosa was able to discern all of this even as she sat perfectly still in fear, wondering when Juan would come out to check on her.

“Didja hear me, Mex?” the one with curly blond hair asked.

Rosa pretended this was a friendly nickname. She didn't smile, but she looked alert.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said softly.

“Gittup,” the small guy suddenly bellowed. “Gittup-offa-those.”

Rosa wasn't sure what he was saying, he was speaking too quickly and loudly. She understood English perfectly well, but she couldn't comprehend this kind of quick rage. He took a step toward her.

“What's going on?” Juan called from the porch.

Rosa felt a surge of gratitude. She knew the danger hadn't passed, but simply having Juan with her made things better. And at least there would be a witness.

“Those chairs don't belong to you,” the one with blond hair said to Juan.

“Rosa, why don't you come inside,” Juan said quietly.

Rosa hurried to her feet and skirted around the men. She climbed the porch and touched Juan's arm as she passed him. Juan was taller than the small one, but he wasn't a large man. Rosa heard him close the porch door behind her, and she murmured prayers in rapid Spanish as she ran to their baby, tortured by the suspicion that they were utterly on their own.

 

Grady was wiping down his counter and thinking about a news show that had informed him that most people's kitchen sinks were sixty times dirtier than their toilets when the bell on the diner door jingled.

“Sorry, closed until tomorrow,” he said without looking up.

“Just wanted to let you know we got the Brayer chairs back.”

It was Roy's grandson saying this from the doorway. The curly blond-headed one named Randy who used to shoot spitballs out of straws when he'd come to eat at the Grill. Grady had spent a lot of time cleaning up after him. He'd grown up, but not too much.

“That so,” Grady answered.

He stopped wiping and walked outside. The chairs were there all right, in the back of Randy's truck, standing straight up like they were arranged for a traveling dinner party.

Grady reprimanded him. “You gotta lay 'em down so they don't get blown over.”

He wondered why some people didn't have more natural sense. He felt it was a generational deficiency. These younger boys weren't skilled at manual labor and seemed incapable of the simplest tasks. They might be better with computers and cell phones, but they were lesser men. Grady had made his own kids learn how to change tires and locks, how to build and fix. Just basic skills that were dying out, it seemed to him. Grown-up kids these days thought they could hire someone else to handle such things, but they weren't spending their saved time in any kind of productive, worthwhile way. It was a shame.