Slow Way Home Read Online Free Page B

centered at the top.
    18
    m i c h a e l m o r r i s
    “Umm. That’s Rachel, my oldest granddaughter.” The way she clasped her hand with the napkin still caught between her fingers told me that Rachel was the detour.
    “How old is she?”
    “Fourteen. Lives in Chattanooga. And can dance like you never did see. Wins all sorts of talent shows. Told me the other night that she’s going to be a majorette.” She wrinkled up her nose and giggled.
    “She sure is pretty.” And while I learned how Rachel was a walking miracle on account of her being born too early, the big hand on the clock that hung over the file cabinet continued to move forward.
    On Saturday afternoons the squeals and yells from Mac and Mary Madonna were the only invitation I needed. I’d run down the path Uncle Cecil had mowed between my grandparents’ home and their trailer, pulling my T-shirt over my head in mid-flight.
    Three sprinklers fanned water in all directions. We would run up and down Uncle Cecil’s mound of dirt, pretending to dodge the falling water. At the top I’d stand so tall I could see Nana’s front porch, all the while envisioning I was a king of some ancient terrain. A shove from Mary Madonna would quickly end my reign. “Quit hogging up all the water,” she’d scream.
    Once the mountain had turned to quicksand, Aunt Loraine would stand on the back steps of the trailer and hose us down. No matter how careful I was not to get too much mud on me, she always said the same line when it came my turn to get hosed. “And you, young man. I’ll just have to use the spray nozzle on you. You’re downright covered in filth.” As the pellets of water stung my legs, I never let on that she was doing anything out of the ordinary. I’d jump around like it was fun and act like she was playing some kinda game. And it was a game in which she always had the last say.
    Aunt Loraine was a tall woman who puffed out her hair until it looked like one of G.I. Joe’s helmets. Her pug nose turned up just enough to remind me of one of the hogs Poppy kept pinned behind the house.
    Slow Way Home
    19
    Her face was painted and pasty, just like Samantha’s mama’s on Bewitched.
    Although I never shared this comparison with Mac or Mary Madonna, I kept it in the back of my mind. With a woman like Aunt Loraine you never knew when you might need an extra supply of ammunition.
    Although Aunt Loraine believed in makeup, she did not believe in public transportation. “Public transportation is for coloreds and white trash. The last time I checked, my children were neither,” she said when Mac asked about riding the school bus. Since I got off the bus at the farm alone, Nana felt strongly that someone had to be at the end of the driveway to greet me. “Too much meanness going on now days,” she’d say. So every afternoon, humid or freezing, I disembarked to find her waiting inside the car with a cold Pepsi.
    She held up the bottle. “Did you do good in school today? I got a slice of pound cake waiting on the table for you.” And every day she waited while I checked the mailbox. It was another part of the ritual in living with them. Supper at six, bedtime no later than nine-thirty; everything was set by time and carved out of history. But nothing in the schedule prepared me for an uninvited guest.
    Just as I got to the black mailbox, I saw it sitting beyond the trees lurking like a cheetah stalking prey. Between the clump of maples across the road sat the old car with a different-colored door. The driver’s head was partially hidden by the branches. Closing the mailbox and walking towards the air-conditioning of Nana’s car, I heard the roar as the beat-up car engine turned over. A puff of blue smoke drifted beyond the treetops. Stillness wrapped around me just as it had the day I saw the rattlesnake slither in front of the mailbox.
    The driver’s face was shielded with sunglasses. She was missing the bright yellow curls, but it was her all the same.