Читать книгу The Bernice L. McFadden Collection - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 43

Chapter Thirty-Three

May filtered into June and then spilled out into a July that marked one of the hottest on record. By the time August blinked its bleary eyes, Tass had made up her mind to go back home and sell her mother’s house.

She and Sonny were in the attic fishing through a steamer trunk filled with old records, toys, magazines, and photographs. They’d been at it for most of the morning, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

When Sonny stood up and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead in frustration, Tass blurted out the thought that had been pressed onto her tongue for two full weeks.

“I’m going to go down to Money for a while.”

Sonny reached into the trunk and pulled out a dusty, dingy Raggedy Ann doll.

“Why? Ain’t nobody left down there.”

“Padagonia is there.”

Sonny held the doll up to the light to study its freckled fabric face.

“That’s true, don’t know how I could forget her,” he chuckled. “I think you could use some time away, and I’m sure Miss Padagonia would enjoy having you around.”

Sonny tossed the doll onto the pile designated as garbage.

“Well, Mama,” he said as he slipped his hands back into the steamer trunk, “just let me know when you want to go and I’ll book your plane ticket.”

Tass glanced at her son, who looked so much like his father, and she began to slowly shake her head from side to side. “No, no plane ticket.”

Sonny shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, a bus ticket then. Why in the world anyone would want to spend a thousand hours on a bus is …” His voice trailed off. When it returned it was bursting with excitement. “My old baseball mitt!”

He tried in vain to fit the childhood glove onto his grown-man hand.

“Not the bus either,” Tass said.

Sonny struggled for a few more seconds and then tossed the mitt aside. “Aww, man, it don’t fit. Well, I’ll give it to one of my boys.”

Tass laughed. “Those sons of yours ain’t a bit interested in playing baseball. All they interested in is that Internet.”

Sonny chuckled in agreement and then he finally heard what Tass had said. “Wait. Not the bus? So what, the train?”

Tass shook her head no again.

“So how you expect to get there?”

“In the car.”

Sonny eyed her. “Aw, c’mon, Mama,” he whined. “That’s a long-ass drive. I ain’t got any more time to—”

Tass raised her hand. “I’m not asking you to drive me anywhere, Sonny.”

“Well, who then?”

Tass’s response was calm and confident: “I’m going to drive myself.”

Sonny stared at her for a moment and then started to laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

Again Tass shook her head.

“You’ve only ever driven the same twenty or thirty blocks, and to get to Mississippi you have to get on the highway—a number of highways—and you have never driven on one.”

“Gotta learn sometime.”

Quiet amazement spread across Sonny’s face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

The second reel of laughter doubled him over. When he was finally able to compose himself, he said, “Well, it’s not going to happen. I can’t let you do it. I’ve already lost one parent and I’m not ready to bury another.”

Tass smirked. “I ain’t never known my daddy and your daddy is dead. So the only person who is the boss of me is me.”

What was he to do? Yell, scream, bound and gag her until she came to her senses? In the end, he stormed out of the attic, down the stairs, and into the dining room where his sisters were setting the table for dinner.

“Y’all better go up there and talk some sense into your mother!”

“Why, what happened?”

“She talking about driving herself down to Money, Mississippi!”

Up in the attic Tass continued going through the steamer trunk. Taking a break, she walked over to the window and looked out over the backyard. The grass was turning brown from the strangling heat and even though it was only August, fallen leaves were scattered everywhere.

A sparrow landed on the windowsill and gazed curiously at her.

“What you looking at?” Tass quipped.

The bird fluttered off.

After months of melancholy, Tass finally felt some sense of joy begin to thread through her.

Maybe it was the thought of going home, or just the effect of summer’s last stand—whatever it was, Tass was grateful.