The Perfect Place (17 page)

“Who do you think I am, kid? Some errand boy?”

“Please. I'm begging you.”

There's silence on the other end.

“Please,” I say again. “And if my dad did write to us, will you hold on to the letter for me? I'll call back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Do you know how busy I am? I'll get to that mailbox when I'm free, and I'll call you when I feel like it.”

“But the mailbox is right in the building where you live. You just—please. If we don't find him, we'll be homeless.”

Mr. Brown sighs. “All right, kid. I'll check your mailbox today or tomorrow. Day after that at the latest. In the meantime, don't be blowing up my phone, calling every hour on the hour. When I get your mail, I'll call you. I have your number right here on my caller ID. Got it, kid?”

“Yeah. I got it.”

Mr. Brown hangs up before I can say thank you or goodbye. I don't care. He said he could get to our mailbox in a day; two, tops. I sit down on the cold stockroom floor, hope pumping like blood in my veins.

G
REAT-AUNT
Grace returns an hour later with her shopping cart full of plastic bags, all knotted at the top so their contents won't spill out. What the heck is Great-Aunt Grace hiding? I stare at the bags, thinking I should have wished for x-ray vision when I was skipping stones at the lake.

“What's in them?” Tiffany asks.

“Mind your business,” Great-Aunt Grace replies. For the remainder of the day she guards that shopping cart like it's got bags of gold in it. When we get back to her house, she puts the bags in the hall closet.

“No snooping,” she says, and starts fixing dinner.

We don't snoop, but we sure enough do guess.

“Are there presents for us in the bags?” Tiffany asks.

Great-Aunt Grace humphs. “Yeah, sure. And Mr. Shuffle will be makin' breakfast in the mornin'.”

That might be an improvement.

“Is it stuff for cleaning?” I ask. “This place could use a good scrub-down.”

Great-Aunt Grace shakes her head. “Y'all just best forget about what's in them bags if you know what's good for you.”

By the time we're done eating and I finish the dishes, the storm Great-Aunt Grace predicted is brewing outside. I run upstairs to our room, put on my pajamas, and jump into bed. Tiffany's right behind me. I'm hoping to be cutting z's long before the thunder starts. I'm just closing my eyes, ready for a good, long sleep when—
BAM!

That's not thunder. It's the front door slamming, followed by a loud voice. Moon.

He's complaining, as usual, only this time at the top of his lungs. About cigarettes.

I put my finger to my lips.

“I'm on a spy mission. Solo,” I tell Tiffany. She pouts, but she stays where she is. I creep down the stairs, quiet as a mouse wearing socks. If I stand in the downstairs bathroom, I can peek out the door and see and hear everything going on in the kitchen, where Moon and Great-Aunt Grace are arguing.

“How in the sweet name of Jesus can every single store sell out of the same cigarette at the same time? Good Lord, I need a smoke.”

Great-Aunt Grace's voice is calm. “Jesus and his daddy ain't got a thing to do with cigarettes.” She's doing something with sea-green yarn, crocheting what looks like clothes for a baby. She doesn't look up from her work as she gums her gum.

It's after ten o'clock now, and I'm assuming all the stores are closed. Moon paces the floor like a caged animal. Something brushes against my heel. I almost yelp, then catch myself and cover my mouth.

“What are you doing down here?”

Tiffany says, “I'm on a solo spy mission too.”

“Solo means
alone.
”

Tiffany shrugs and then says, in a voice louder than a whisper, “What'd I miss?”

My little sister is the Worst. Spy. Ever. “Keep quiet. And listen.”

Tiffany scowls, but she does just that.

Great-Aunt Grace is talking now. “Guess you'll have to drive over to Moonachie tomorrow, or wait until they restock over here,” she says. “Lord knows when that will be. Maybe Monday?”

“Monday is days away! Smokin' is not a hobby for me, Gracie! It ain't for you, either. Suppose I drive to Moonachie tomorrow, but what about tonight? I can feel the want down to my bones.”

“Mmmm, is that right?” Great-Aunt Grace says. She still hasn't looked up, but when she does, she says, “What brand is it you smoke again?” She puts her crochet down.

“Biltons, woman, you know that. I tried some Marlboros today and they tasted like pencil shavings!” Moon makes a spitting sound, like he's still trying to get that taste out of his mouth.

“Pencil shavings, huh?” Great-Aunt Grace says.

She puts down her crochet and, like a magician, pulls a pack of cigarettes from somewhere. Her bra? If so, I don't want to know about it. But Moon wouldn't care if she'd pulled that pack of Biltons from where the sun don't shine. He holds out his hand for them.

“What do we have here?” Great-Aunt Grace says, staring at the cigarettes as if they materialized from thin air.

“Let me have 'em, Grace,” Moon says. He starts toward her.

“Not until we work out a deal.”

Moon stops midstep and stares at her. He holds up his empty hands as if to say, “I got nothing.”

Great-Aunt Grace seems to read his mind. “I don't want nothin' material. Now, if you'll recall a conversation we had this mornin', before the girls got up, I told you in plain English not to smoke around my grandniece. I told you about her sickness. And what do you do while she's sittin' right at the table next to you? Light one up. You ask me what I want from you, and I want this: Never smoke around Treasure again.”

“Grace, this is practically my house too—”

“Never said it wasn't. But that girl is my family and you best do right by her.” Pause. “There's more where these came from, you know.”

Great-Aunt Grace gets up and starts in my direction. I pull Tiffany into the darkened bathroom, but Great-Aunt Grace stops at the hall closet a few feet away. Then she heads back to the kitchen and sits down at the table again, at least half a dozen plastic bags at her feet. She reaches into one, pulls out a box, and waves it in the air. A carton of cigarettes. She rips open the box and pulls out a pack.

“I've got more in that closet, just couldn't carry 'em all out here to you.”

Moon's mouth falls open. “Gracie, why you got all them Biltons?”

“Yeah, why does she?” Tiffany asks.

“Shush!”

“Wait a dang minute,” Moon says slowly. “You ain't buy out all the cigarettes from all those stores, did you?”

Silence from Great-Aunt Grace, and then an explosion from Moon.

“Woman, you're off your rocker, you know that?” He keeps wiping his brow until it looks like he's going to wipe the brown clean off.

“Yes, sir,” she says. “So if you want yourself a smoke tonight, you gonna have to get it from me. But I'm tellin' you, you best take it outside, down the block, away from this house while Treasure's stayin' here.”

Moon doesn't say a word. He's lost the battle; that's plain to see. But the way he keeps opening and closing his mouth tells me he's still trying to figure out a way to win. There's no such thing as winning with Great-Aunt Grace, though, and he should know this better than anyone else.

Moon holds out one hand to her for the cigarettes. Great-Aunt Grace pulls back.

“Your word.”

Moons sucks his breath in through his nose and blows it out of his mouth. “You have my word.”

“Good. That'll be eight-fifty.”

I still can't believe Great-Aunt Grace stood up to Moon for me. No matter how many times I try to wrap my mind around it, I can't.

“Can you believe she did that?” I ask Tiffany, as we're brushing our teeth the next morning.

Tiffany rinses her mouth. Then she examines herself in the mirror. “When I grow up I'm gonna be pretty like Sasha.”

“Yeah, okay. Can you believe Great-Aunt Grace did all that with Moon and the cigarettes for me? Tiffany, I'm talking to you.”

Tiffany tears her eyes away from her reflection and looks up at me. “You'll be smart like Keyana.”

I screw the cap back on the toothpaste and wipe my mouth on the neck of my nightshirt. “I can't be pretty too?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because your hair is cuh-razy.” Tiffany darts out of the bathroom and into the hallway before I can pop her.

She's right, though: my hair is crazy. Dad used to say it's because our hair, his and mine, is impervious to “doing”—unaffected by combs, brushes, blow dryers, and gel. No matter what you try, our hair will curl up and puff right back out. My throat tightens. It's been only a day since I called Mr. Brown and asked him to check the mail. By tomorrow, he's supposed to call me.

What if Mr. Brown doesn't find anything in the mail from Dad? What if Mom can't find him at all? We won't have anywhere to go and we'll never be an aggregate again.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, hair all over my head and eyes blinking back tears.

Don't give up hope.

I reach into the cabinet above Great-Aunt Grace's sink and find a hard bristle brush and a jar of Blue Magic hair grease. Then I get to work, slicking and brushing until I've managed to pull my hair into a ponytail. The front is laid down, but the back is still an explosion of unruly curls. I wipe my face on my nightshirt. My hair is impervious to doing, and from here on out, I'm going to be impervious to hopelessness.

 

I wonder if I should thank Great-Aunt Grace. She's sitting across the table from me, concentrating on her word find and chewing a wad of mint-flavored gum. If I thank her, though, she'll know I was spying, so I keep my mouth 100 percent shut. I don't complain about the dry scrambled eggs or crispy-black bacon, and when Tiffany and I are done eating, I start the dishes without being told to.

I'm scrubbing bacon grease off of Great-Aunt Grace's cast-iron skillet when the doorbell rings. Great-Aunt Grace goes to answer it. Tiffany slides into her empty seat and takes over the word find. When Great-Aunt Grace returns looking grimmer than ever, Tiffany says proudly, “I found three words.”

Great-Aunt Grace ignores her and goes over to the refrigerator. She reaches up and takes down a small stack of rumpled papers. I recognize the one on top immediately: Eunetta's reward poster for her missing pearls. Great-Aunt Grace takes out the most wrinkled one of all—Dot's poster about her missing statue—and studies it.

“What's going on?” I ask, as I set the skillet in the drain board.

“Dot came over, talkin' about how Mr. and Mrs. Russell came back from Virginia Beach yesterday and found out someone broke in and stole some of Juanita's jewelry. Askin' me if I know anything about it. I swear that woman is as simple as they come. What am I gonna do with this junk?” Great-Aunt Grace jabs her index finger at the picture of Dot's elephant statue.

“Found another word!” Tiffany declares. She pumps her fist in the air. “Earth to Great-Aunt Grace, I found another word.”

When Great-Aunt Grace's gaze doesn't shift from the flier, Tiffany gets up from the table and stalks over to her. “What's that?” she demands to know, practically climbing up Great-Aunt Grace's side to get a look. “Oh,” she says, losing interest almost immediately. She hops back to the table in full bunny mode. “Keyana likes elephants.”

“What's that, girl?” Great-Aunt Grace says.

“Keyana likes elephants. She was wearing a shirt with an elephant on it when we met her. She said she thinks they're good luck.”

“Wait,” I say to Great-Aunt Grace. “You don't think Keyana—”

Great-Aunt Grace is already striding into the living room, Tiffany and me right behind her. She picks up her ancient cordless phone and dials a number.

“Sheriff Baxter?” she barks. “It's Grace Washington. I reckon I'm ready for you to search my house.”

 

Great-Aunt Grace gave Sheriff Baxter strict instructions. He is to come within the hour and by himself. He follows these orders to a T, making it to Great-Aunt Grace's house a half hour after she hung up the phone. Great-Aunt Grace is on the porch waiting for him. She makes Tiffany and me stay in the living room.

Sheriff Baxter's footsteps are heavy on the porch stairs. “So happy you saw your way to letting me in,” he says as he walks through the front door and into the living room. “My Eunetta—well, you know, she doesn't give up easy. Neither does Dot—she's called me every day since we came round here the other day. I'll just take a look around.”

The sheriff is big any way you look at him. He's tall and wide with broad shoulders and a big stomach hanging over his belt buckle like a terrace. His gun is holstered on his hip. He lumbers around Great-Aunt Grace's living room, dwarfing everything with his size. Great-Aunt Grace watches him in silence, her arms crossed over her chest. When he's done “searching” the living room, he and Great-Aunt Grace move on to the kitchen. Tiffany and I get up. Great-Aunt Grace tells us to stay right where we are, so we sit back down and listen to muffled voices and creaking floors until Great-Aunt Grace and Sheriff Baxter return to the living room.

“My deputy and I did check other houses, you know,” Sheriff Baxter is saying. “But folks were a bit more concerned about yours, what with your record and all. I'm sure you understand.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Great-Aunt Grace replies flatly.

Sheriff Baxter nods to her and to us, ready to hit the road.

“Oh, and one more thing, Sheriff,” Great-Aunt Grace calls.

He stops and turns to her.

“Would you mind givin' me and my grandnieces a ride over to H&H Auto Service?”