Secrets, Lies and Dragonflies

Chapter 12

"Hey, Bub. So, how was it? Don't leave out any details."

Bouncing down the stairwell of the bus, Spencer immediate springs into action.  As he gives me a play-by-play of the annual kickball game between the fourth grade classes, it's not hard to miss that all the other kids' parents came out for their biggest event of the year.    

Ruffling his snowy white head as we stroll up the driveway, all I can think of is how lucky Vincent is.  His little stunt on the mountain trail with Ms. Morris almost caused me to break my promise to my brother. Every morning before we go our separate ways, he must ask me ten times if I'll be there when he gets home from school.  He won't come right out and say it, but I know he worries that one day I might meet the same fate as mom.

I can remember the last thing he heard her say like it was yesterday. She had put him on speaker phone so he could tell us about the Santas in Cocoa Beach on Christmas.  She flashed me a look while he boasted about the spectacle of costumed surfers covering the shoreline.  My grandmother sent us pictures to back up his story.  Mom really wanted both of us down there since Christmas wasn't happening at our house, but I refused. Leaving her alone with Rob wasn't an option. 

"I can't wait to see you tomorrow morning, Bubby," she said just before hanging up.  Of course, she never made it on the plane. My grandparents flew him home from Florida a week later, after everything was taken care of.  Not a moment goes by that I regret staying.  She'd still be alive if I did what she asked.   So yeah, confirming repeatedly before we depart of when he will see me again must be his way of bracing for the uncertainty of the next eight hours.  Or maybe it's mine.  

I wrap my arm around his shoulder.  "I'm really sorry, kiddo.  I wish I could have been there.  I bet you knocked their socks off." 

"It's okay.  Mrs. Cannon was there.  She gave me two snow cones 'cause I had two home runs!" he says proudly, handing me his backpack.  "It's Friday!" he shrieks and takes off toward the shed to grab his skateboard. Every Carolina kid in the area has one these days—the Supernova's Roman Arena effect. 

"Remember.  Move to the sidewalk if a car comes by!" Although he doesn't agree to some of the rules I make as his unofficial guardian, we never fight.  Not anymore.  "And do not go out onto Main Street." 

Aunt Amy lives on one of the busiest roads in Landry.  Actually it's the only busy road in Landry.    This little town is such a far cry from Elliot's subdivision-filled city where perfection is king.  Meticulously maintained lawns are the norm, or else face the wrath of an angry mob of hate letters swarming your mailbox declaring impending doom in the form of fines.  Rob would curse at mom every time one landed on the kitchen table.  Ironically, he was first in line to buy a house before it was even built, before any of them were built.  We came on weekends and watched the entire neighborhood go from streets of empty wooded lots to immaculately decorated boxes lined up in symmetrical rows as far as the eye could see.  And in Elliot, North Carolina, there seems to be a non-stop mission to flatten entire ecosystems in a matter of minutes to feed the hungry, hungry home-hunting hippos. 

But in Landry, South Carolina, no one is building anything.  And don't blink while you're driving down Main Street either or you'll miss the whole town.  After you pass the high school and Aunt Amy's Café, only the mini-mart gas station is left.  Once, and only once, we went there to buy milk and toilet paper. 

"I'm sorry.  You want how much?"  Aunt Amy said to the poor cashier, her voice about two octaves higher than normal.  "We'll keep the TP, but you better put the milk back.  Otherwise, I'll have to get a second mortgage on the house," she said, which didn't make any sense. She doesn't own a house.  The poor cashier has since become a fan of Aunt Amy's cooking and comes in every Wednesday morning.  

I make my way toward the porch of the old, rundown Victorian cottage we call home. Allegedly Aunt Amy is the tenth restaurateur to make a go of the oddly placed cafe built behind the house.  Mom thought she was crazy, but that didn't stop her from putting us all to work fixing the place up.  "When your friend, who has loved to bake all her life, finds out she's been slowly killing herself because of this Celiac Disease business, you ignore the rational and help her paint," she said. 

Armed with absolutely no knowledge of how to run a restaurant, Aunt Amy ditched a successful career selling drugs, the legal kind I'm told, to launch the Farmer's House Cafe.  Initially only opened on weekends, the place went from sitting vacant for years to being an instant hit. Apparently gluten is the enemy to many.  These days, I can't imagine living anywhere else.  It's still hard for me to believe we ended up here after mom's funeral, in spite of Rob's protest.     

Her burial service, as unbearable as it was, at least held a captive audience with family and friends constantly flowing around us.  But the hours were ticking away and soon we were going to be alone with a monster and there was nothing I could do to save us. When the last guest departed and all that was left were our grandparents and Aunt Amy, that's when our new life began.  A life I didn't expect could be possible. 

My grandfather gave Rob a copy of some paperwork, then directed him to hand us over to Aunt Amy.  Apparently, Mom willed Spencer and me to her long before Rob was in the picture. He just laughed at my grandfather and threatened to call the cops if anyone tried to take us, claiming his lawyer was on speed dial.

You can imagine the ironic twist when two men with badges and guns showed up out of the blue and instead incarcerated him and later his sleazy attorney. Some kind of money issue with the government they say. I still don't quite understand it, but then again, I don't much care.  He's out of our lives and we are out of that horrible house.  And that's all that matters.  

You'd think the guy would be glad to rid himself of us, how he always went on about the innumerable ways we were a burden. But even from his jail cell, he's still trying to retain parental rights. Aunt Amy scoffs at the idea and hides the evidence of his attempts from me.  I wish I could tell her about how frightened I am of what will happen when he eventually gets released.  But everything would change if she knew the truth.  For Spencer's sake, I'm a vault.       

So come Friday nights after dinner, I'm beyond thrilled to join her in the kitchen to wash, dice, stir, mix and pound.  She insists I find something more exciting to do, like hang out with my friends.  Not a chance.  I will earn our keep.