Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Thirteen

After his hour and a half trip down I-64, John hoped that Clay was in town and hadn't already picked up his mail. He finished his sandwich and chips on the road. He'd have about three hours before the post office closed today and then, if Clay didn't show up, all day tomorrow before Arlene started calling.

The area surrounding the Buckroe post office presented a problem. He hadn't realized so many businesses had closed around there. With the sign taped to the door of one old convenience store—‟Only two students inside at once"— John suspected the owner would be hyperalert to anyone hanging around outside for hours at a time. He needed a place where he could watch the post office parking lot unobserved. He had the choice of two convenience store parking lots, or several spaces in front of empty storefronts. This wasn't official business; he hadn't announced his visit to the local patrol, which would make explaining things awkward if some spooked or annoyed shopkeep called Hampton PD.

For today, John parked on a side street—one he could quickly walk to while Clay carried his red-taped box out to the car—and planted himself in the bushes at the corner of a windowless, cement-block "Tavern" that didn't seem to be in business despite the artwork on the front of the building. Curling seaweed, waves, and a naked mermaid with modestly positioned hair.

The ancient brick cube across the street, so tiny it looked like a cracker box, was only half post office; the other half was an accounting office. Diagonally across from the post office, the old gas station, empty for so many years, shone sorbet-orange with a coat of new paint, and sported the head-scratcher sign: Blend. Inside, two figures pushed display cases around. Ice cream freezers, maybe? A green couch with comfy-looking pillows stood in one corner, conjuring images of a cool, trendy coffee shop. He'd have to keep an eye on this place.

John made up his mind. Tomorrow: Blend or the empty storefront next to it. Inside the car if possible, so he could pull out in a hurry. He'd make up a pretext for being there.

Five o'clock came and went, leaving John sitting cross-legged on the ground in cold, damp jeans. The post office closed up without a sign of George Evan Clay. John stood up and brushed himself off, debating finding himself a hotel for the night. Spending the night at Ma's was like spending it with a sore tooth.

                                                                                             ***

Ma fixed spaghetti. John had always loved his mother's spaghetti.

Tonight Ma was in a state. "You'll never believe what Valerie at the gym said to me!" she began, filling a sandwich plate with spaghetti and sitting down to that and a big bowl of salad. John filled his own regular-sized dinner plate and poured himself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher on the counter. His mother had always made the best iced tea.

"Didja get tea, Ma?"

"Oops, I forgot my tea!"

He grabbed her a glass, added ice cubes from the freezer, and poured. "Here you go." He put it in front of her.

Other guys on his squad had to deflect questions about open murders at their family gatherings; John never had to worry about that. When he'd first called Ma to tell her he'd made detective, she'd started up with, You'll never believe what so-and-so did to me, and it was an hour before he could even break his news.

He sat down and started to cut his spaghetti into manageable length. He wasn't one to bother with twirling it around his fork; besides, it gave him something to concentrate on. She could make him listen, but she couldn't make him look at her.

"I was talking about that mess at the paper, and she was standing there drying her hair, and all of a sudden she switches off the hair dryer—so everyone can hear, mind you—and turns around to me in front of everybody in the locker room. And she says, 'You're not the first person who's ever lost a job!' Real mean and snotty."

John glanced up at her. She stared indignantly at him out of wide blue eyes.

"Then she says, 'You're going to have to do what the rest of us do—' like I'm an idiot or something '—Buck up, suck it up, and move on!'" Her head pecked back and forth, strawberry curls bouncing at her cheeks. "She said it just like that—real nasty."

Valerie had had a point, but John kept that part to himself, and only said what he knew wouldn't cause trouble. "That's an extreme way to put things, especially in front of other people," he conceded. That was the only way to deal with Ma: Respond only to what you could agree with.

"Yeah, isn't it though!" She stabbed at her salad. "I was standing there gaping like a fish, because I didn't know what to say, and then she starts going on about how she's been laid off three times, and she 'couldn't sit around moaning about it because she had three kids to feed.' And some stupid thing about how I 'was trying to turn back the clock.᾽"

John agreed, but he forced that assessment back down with a mouthful of hot spaghetti. That was the thing with Ma. You never knew when you were going to have a pleasant home visit and when you were going to have to sit on the steam or blow your stack.

His mother crunched broccoli and swallowed. "And the whole locker room went dead silent and I was so embarrassed! In front of my whole class I'd just finished teaching, and not one of those ladies stood up for me. Not one!"

Because they all agreed, John thought silently, and couldn't hold back a snicker. He covered it with a sip of tea and a fake choke.

Ma stood up, reached over, and slapped him on the back a few times. "Are you okay?" she said.

John patted his chest and nodded, and she relaunched. "And I was so upset, I just started crying right there."

John shoveled in spaghetti. He knew what she wanted him to say: Oh, you poor thing! That was horrible! What a mean thing to do! She's a terrible person!

And that was what he had done ... when he was six. And ten. And fifteen. These days he envied people like Valerie who skated the periphery of his mother's world. They were the ones who got off easy.

"God, Ma, that's horrible," John said in a tone that he hoped conveyed enough sympathy to allow him to escape maligning the other party. He had made that mistake before in quarrels within the family, and then had to endure the burning shame of Ma telling Grandma or somebody exactly what he'd said about them—at the dinner table in front of them.

"Valerie rolled her eyes and stalked out, and then these three nice ladies came over and started patting me on the arm and handing me tissues. I think they were afraid to say anything to Valerie's face." She attacked her salad, ferociously pinning down an errant leaf of romaine.

"They invited me to have lunch next week," his mother prattled on. "I think Valerie's been rude to them, too. They didn't act like they liked her. Maybe it's because they don't have rich husbands and beach houses and drive BMWs!" Her voice rose into little-girl pitch, with a snide, childish edge.

John checked his watch under the edge of the table. A few more hours of this and she'd be in bed. He had to start his surveillance pretty early, which should give him an excuse to hustle out.

There was only one good thing about this: Just when he started feeling guilty about not wanting to visit, she'd do this again and reawaken the many memories of why he didn't want to visit.

The shitty thing about this being his mother, though, was that he still wasn't excused from feeling guilty about it.