“The boy just needs some direction, so let it go.”
“You think you can put different clothes on that kid and have it change anything? And if he continues to bother my son, there’s going to be a problem and I will deal with it as I see fit.”
Teddy stares at us.
Patrick takes Birdie by the arm and starts walking toward his truck. Birdie doesn’t let go of my hand, so I follow.
As we walk away, Ross calls out, “Hope you had fun shopping, ladies.” He laughs, but it’s not the kind of laugh that makes you want to join along.
We get in the truck and Patrick drives quickly out of the parking lot. My heart is still pounding and I still have Birdie’s hand in mine when we turn onto the highway.
I keep thinking Patrick’s going to say something like Don’t listen to Ross or That guy is an idiot, but he doesn’t.
It’s almost dark when Patrick pulls over into a run-down gas station with a small house next to it. It’s more of a shack, really, with a bright ordering window where a customer stands looking up at a menu. There’s a light-up sign that says THE SWEET POTATO SHOP.
“I’ll be right back.”
Patrick goes up to the ordering window and gets in line. He talks with a guy in an apron who’s sitting out front.
“I don’t want to wear those Norman clothes, Jack. Even if they are my size,” Birdie says.
“I know.” If only we hadn’t run into Ross and Teddy. It was too much. It was too real.
“Mama would be so mad if she knew I had to wear clothes like that every day.”
There’s a sign next to one of the chairs that says SWEET POTATO LAYER CAKE, SWEET POTATO CHEESECAKE, SWEET POTATO COBBLER, SWEET POTATO PIE, SWEET POTATO COOKIES.
I hear Birdie sniffling and look over, but I can’t see his face. “Mama hated sweet potatoes,” he says. He wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“It was yams she hated. And she’d always get annoyed when people would confuse the two.”
“Yeah well, what’s the difference?”
“I can’t remember exactly, but I think yams have really rough brown skin. And they’re not as sweet. Something like that.”
Birdie shrugs. “Who cares.”
I sigh. I know there’s no point in saying anything else.
When we get home, Duke barks and turns around in a circle. I’ve never seen him so energetic. Patrick pets him and scratches him behind the ears. He whispers, “I know, boy. I know.”
I know, boy. I’ve been gone all day. They are the worst.
I offer to help Birdie with his shopping bags, but he ignores me and drags them upstairs.
Patrick watches him and then goes into the kitchen and opens the Sweet Potato Shop bag.
“I bought one of everything since I didn’t know what you guys wanted.” On the table is a big slice of layer cake, a small cheesecake, a miniature cobbler in a foil tin, a slice of pie, and a package of cookies.
He grabs some paper plates and forks. He cuts himself a big piece of the cake and a piece of pie, sticks a fork in the cake, and then stands there with the plate in his hands.
“I don’t want him wearing the other clothes anymore. Make sure he wears the new stuff,” he says. “That’s why I bought them. They fit fine.”
Thinking about those stupid clothes in plain “boy colors” makes my whole body itch and feel hot.
“And from now on, I want to know where you guys are at all times. It’s no longer a suggestion. You let me know when you’re going somewhere other than school.”
I just want this horrible Wolf Day to be over.
“Do you understand?” he says, a little louder.
I nod, staring at all the dark orange desserts.
He grabs a cookie from the package and holds it out. Then he says, “Your mama would throw the biggest fit for these cookies. We couldn’t drive that stretch of the highway without Dad stopping for some. We’d drive fifteen minutes out of the way just to keep her from seeing the Sweet Potato Shop. She’d stomp up those stairs and slam her bedroom door if we didn’t stop.” He doesn’t smile as he talks.
He stares at the cookie for a few moments and then puts it back into the package.
“There’s nowhere else for you guys to go. I hope you can understand that. I need everyone to understand that.” He looks at the wall as he says this. It seems like he’s still trying to convince himself.
Him and Duke disappear outside, probably into that stupid silo shed.
The clock ticks.
I could make toast, but honestly, I don’t think even a million slices of toast would help in this shoebox house.
I eat through part of the cake and part of the pie and a bit of the cobbler. I stick my fork in the cheesecake. I don’t eat the cookies.
Why did he buy them anyway? Just to tell his dumb story?
And then I realize what he said. She’d stomp up those stairs.
Of course. This must be Mama’s old house. The one her and Patrick and Uncle Carl grew up in. And their oldest brother, who I think passed away when she was really young.
And now that I think about it, the picture in Uncle Carl’s drawer was taken right here, in this kitchen, against the wall with the ticking clock.
No wonder she left this place.
**Observation #780: Mama in a Shoebox
Which room did she sleep in?
Did she learn how to build a fire in the wood-burning stove?
Did she help plant the trees?
Did she watch Patrick through the blinds?
Did she learn how to make bread in the kitchen?
With a mom, a dad, and three brothers, was it ever quiet enough to hear the ticking clock?
Did she sit on the back of the couch and imagine a yard
