You Believers (15 page)

“I know who you are.” She came toward him, moved like she might give him a hug, but he pushed the box of books at her. She stepped back a little. “Your momma just called to see if you’d dropped
by yet.” She glanced at the books between them. “Put them on my desk there.”

Jesse set the books down. “She worries,” he said.

“Why, sure,” the woman said. “Every lovin’ momma worries about her boy, no matter how old he is.”

“Yeah,” Jesse said.

“You all right, honey?” she said. “You look a little green around the gills. Is it the heat? Want a glass of water?”

“No, ma’am.”

She reached to shake his hand. “They call me Miss Moniece around here.” She had soft hands, a good grip. “Tell your momma we sure are grateful for all the things she does. Last month she paid the light bill. She’s a saint, that momma of yours.”

“That’s what they say.” He watched her going through the books:
Curious George
,
Treasure Island
,
Where the Wild Things Are
. He wished he hadn’t given away the pirate pop-up book.

She stopped rummaging, looked up at him. “These must have been your books, Jesse.”

He was surprised she remembered his name. Most never caught a name on first greeting. Then again, his momma had probably told Miss Moniece all about him.

“Don’t you want to hang on to some of these? Might want to share them with your own kids one day.”

He kept his smile on, backed toward the door. “I don’t plan on having kids.”

She laughed. “Hardly nobody plans on it. Good-lookin’ boy like you, you’ll be making babies.”

“No, ma’am, I’m dead set against it.”

She looked at him, surprised. “What, you don’t like kids?”

“Oh, I like kids.” He watched her pull out
Goodnight Moon
.

She held it to her chest. “I always loved this one. Gave a copy to
my grandbaby. He’s six now, thinks he’s too big for it, but I sure love reading it. Just calms you right down to look at the thing.”

He leaned to look as she flipped through the pages. “That was my first book,” he said. “The first one I remember.”

She offered it to him. “You sure you don’t want it back?”

He thought about it. He could give it to Zeke and Nicki Lynn’s kid coming: Jesse James Daniels. But they’d probably tease him about giving a book to a baby. “I got a baby cousin on the way,” he said. “They’re naming him Jesse. For me.”

She put the book on her desk. He knew she wanted to keep it for herself. “Isn’t that something,” she said. “Your momma didn’t tell me there was a new baby on the way.”

“Well, he’s not really a cousin,” Jesse said, picking up the book. “I got a friend with a baby coming. Kind of like a cousin.” He pushed the book toward her. “You keep this one. You give it to someone good.”

She leaned back, looked him over. “Well, ain’t you a sweet one.”

“Not really,” Jesse said.

She turned toward the playroom and called, “Dee-Dee, come on out here and meet somebody. He brought us a box of books, good hardcover books for these kids.”

He didn’t want to bother meeting somebody and playing nice again. Then as soon as she came through the door and he saw that flaky bad skin and those dead eyes, he knew what she was. She nodded at him, looked at the books as if they were already a chore. All skinny arms and tight jeans and that kinky bleached-blond hair that looked like it’d break if you touched it. He stared at her until she looked back at him.

Miss Moniece nudged her. “Well, mind your manners and say hello, Dee-Dee.”

She gave a half nod. “Hey.” Their eyes stayed fixed on each other.
He knew what she was, and she knew he could see it. A damned crack addict trying to set up a fake life working with kids.

Miss Moniece picked up the box, pushed it toward the girl. She took it, gave a little sigh, and walked back to the playroom with that lazy I-don’t-give-a-shit-if-I-get-across-the-room way addicts had.

He felt Moniece watching him watch the girl, but that was all right.

“You two know each other?”

“Nope,” he said. But he pulled his lips in between his teeth, reached into his pocket for his mother’s keys.

She frowned a little, looking at him. “Well, it just seemed . . .” She wasn’t stupid.

Jesse shrugged. “She’s familiar, I guess. There’s a lot of girls out on the street like that.”

“Yeah,” Moniece said with a laugh. “We got a lot of skinny bleached blonds around here. Sometimes I swear all those white girls look alike to me.” She gave him a quick look. “No offense meant.”

“None taken,” he said. “Sometimes they all look alike to me too.” He looked toward the playroom, where the girl was shoving his books onto the shelf. “How long she been working here?”

Moniece sat as if happy to be off her feet. She was rifling through some papers, letting him know it was time to go. “ ’Bout six weeks. I don’t think she’ll last. Kids work her nerves a bit.”

“That ain’t all working her nerves,” Jesse said.

She kept going through her papers. “You some kind of doctor, or a psychic?”

“Well, you know the look. Worn out at twenty-two. Hard-looking, real hard-looking. Don’t y’all do drug tests on the girls working here?”

She rolled back in her chair, gave a
good God
kind of sigh, looked toward the girl and back to him. “I ain’t no fool, Jesse Hollowfield.
I can tell when they using on the job. Ain’t my business what anybody does on the weekend. I just make sure they do right by these kids when they here.”

Jesse watched the girl shoving the books onto the shelves, not looking at the titles. “She got her own kids?”

Moniece stood, got in between him and the door to the playroom. “I don’t think that’s your business.”

He gave her the I’m-just-a-guy-who-cares smile, a little shake of the head like he was disappointed with something sad in the world. Old ladies liked that. “It’s just my momma sent those books. I gave those books to be read. So kids could see them, learn something maybe.” He jerked his head toward the girl. “Shouldn’t she be looking at the titles, thinking which kid might like what book? Shouldn’t she be laying out a few books on the tables so when the kids came back inside from playing, they might get a little surprise?” He clenched his momma’s keys.

Moniece blocked the doorway to the playroom. He gave a little shrug, stepped back. “I’m just saying . . .”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Moniece said. Her hands were moving into something like fists at her sides, but her face, it kept smiling. “I’ll make sure I talk to Dee-Dee about that as soon as you leave. And I thank you. It’s a rare thing to see a boy your age think so much of what might be best for the children.”

She opened the front door, and he went to it, felt the heat of the day on his face. He turned to her. “I’m sure my mother has told you about me.”

She nodded.

“I always think about kids. And I’m telling you to keep an eye on that Dee-Dee.”

Then he left. Heading toward his mom’s car, he heard the squeals of the kids again, not as loud as before, but happy sounds.
Then he heard the singsong rhythm of girls singing: “Pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.” He hated that song.

He leaned against his mother’s car and lit a cigarette. Across the street, a couple thug types stood there, eyeing the car. “Just try it, fuckers,” he whispered. They walked on. His cell phone buzzed. Mike. He flipped the phone open. “What.”

Mike was freaked. Like he was always freaked when he couldn’t get a handle on something going down. “That girl,” Mike said in a voice that sounded like a whisper, had the feeling of a scream.

“What girl?”

“The blue-truck chick.” Mike went on about how they found the girl’s truck, traced the tags, and were doing searches all around Lake Waccamaw.

“So?” Jesse said. “That means they’re looking for her, not you and me.”

“Yeah, for now,” Mike said. “But somebody’s bound to say something. I mean it was my car. Anybody could remember a rusted-out red Datsun.”

“Tell you what,” Jesse said. “Go park your car at your granny’s for a while. Let it sit, and get cool, dude.”

“But the girl—”

“You’re taking up my minutes, Mike. My mom monitors my minutes. You let me worry about the girl. When you get worried, you run your mouth off.”

Mike said, “Okay, but—”

Jesse flipped the phone shut. Then he heard the kids again. Another song. He walked toward the playground, listened to them singing: “This old man, he played two, he played knick-knack on my shoe. . . .” He stood at the fence, saw that an old lady had a bunch of kids sitting in a circle on the shaded patio. They were all smiling.

“He played knick-knack on my knee, with a knick-knack paddy
whack, give a dog a bone.” His mother could never get him through that song. It scared him. He didn’t like the old man. But these kids were laughing and singing like it was “Jingle Bells.” And the other kids were all playing, a little girl in a pink shirt pumping hard to get as high as she could on that swing. A boy and a girl on the seesaw going up and down. And there was a boy standing at the top of the slide, the other kids piled up on the ladder behind him, chanting, “Go on, sissy, go on.” The boy didn’t look scared. He was just standing there, taking in the view. “That’s right, dude. You’re king of the world right now. You go when you’re ready.”

He heard the lyrics: “This old man, he played four, he played knick-knack on my door, with a knick-knack paddy whack . . .” He looked back to the girl. She was watching him, slowing down by dragging the toes of her sneakers across the ground. The sole of her shoe was flipping back, all loose. She needed shoes. He’d have to tell his momma about that. He knew he needed to get home. His momma would be calling, but he wanted to hear the rest of the song. He’d forgotten what rhymed with five and nine.

He saw the crack bitch Dee-Dee come out the back door, stand on the edge of the playground, and light a cigarette. She was just like his blood mom. It wasn’t the cigarettes that put those burns on her hands. If he could get hold of her, he’d do a good knick-knack paddy whack on her.

The song droned on: “He played knick-knack up in heaven.”

The crack bitch was staring straight at him. She knew what he was. Yeah, she’d seen some shit, he was sure of that. He pointed his finger at her, gave a nod, said, “You.” She might not have heard it, but she felt it. She threw down her cigarette, went over and said something to old Mother Goose lady, something like “There’s a pervert over there by the fence.” The old woman looked at him now, said something to Dee-Dee, who ran back inside. Yeah, she was
scared. He could get her. It’d be easy to follow her home. They were coming toward him now. Mother Goose old lady with Moniece leading the way. “Jesse Hollowfield!”

He let go of his grip on the fence, didn’t know he’d been squeezing so hard. His fingers burned. He smiled. “Yes, ma’am?”

She was right up on him. “What are you still doing here?”

“I was just watching the kids a little before I went home. It was nice to listen to them singing.”

“I called your mother,” Moniece said.

All the kids were staring at him. They’d been warned about strangers.

He looked to them, gave a nod to the girl in the pink t-shirt with the busted sneaker. She was standing close to Mother Goose lady. A few minutes ago he’d just been a guy standing there. Now all of a sudden he was bad. “It’s all right, kids,” he said. “I’m Jesse Hollowfield, and I just brought y’all a bunch of books. They’re inside. Tell them, Miss Moniece. I’m not a bad guy.”

She leaned close. “You’ve got no more business here. Don’t you make me call the cops.”

He backed away, palms up. “Whoa, now. I was just watching the kids. I saw that one there needs new shoes, and I’m gonna talk to my momma about getting these kids some new shoes.” The little girl crouched down, tried to hide her torn shoe.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Ain’t no shame in needing new shoes. I’m gonna see to it that you get some new shoes.”

She stared up at him, not believing, not disbelieving, just waiting to see what would happen next.

“You get on home. Now!” Moniece turned her back on him, waved her hands to gather up the children, herd them back inside. “Play time’s over,” she said softly. She wouldn’t give him another
look. But Mother Goose did, a squinty-eyed sneer. He just looked right back until she turned away.

He walked to the car, thinking how he’d tell his mom he’d been polite, he’d just stopped to listen to the kids sing. He wouldn’t tell her about the crack whore. He wouldn’t tell her a lot of things he was thinking. He’d keep it all positive. His mom liked that. He grinned, thinking he’d get that Dee-Dee in time. He got in the car, singing, “With a knick-knack paddy whack, give a dog a bone, this old man is going home.”

So Much for Grace

Billy pulled the truck to the curb, braked, cut the engine, stared at his hands on the wheel. He had hardly spoken on the ride from the airport. Had just given Livy a shake of his head.
Not a word yet. Nothing
. That was all Livy could recall of his responses to her questions. Finally she’d given up trying to learn anything about Katy and just sat back in her seat, let him drive.

She leaned forward to see any sign of Katy. The house glowed in the darkness, blazed a warm yellow light. “The lights are on,” Livy said. “Could she be home?”

“I can’t turn the lights off,” Billy said. “Can’t stand the dark.” He got out of the truck, went to the back for her suitcase. Livy didn’t want to get out, didn’t want to walk down that sidewalk, up those steps to an empty house. The front porch was covered with Katy’s plants arranged on tables and pieces of furniture someone had thrown in the trash, junk that Katy rescued, sanded, painted, revived. “Katy likes to rescue things,” Livy said.

Billy stopped, turned toward her. “What?”

“Nothing bad could happen to her. Right, Billy?”

Billy hefted the suitcase up the sidewalk. Livy stared at the house,
waiting, as if any minute Katy would rush out with her hands dirty from digging in the yard, or smeared with paint. But the house just sat there.