Darlene knew who I was—she seen people smoking, they even offered to introduce her to me several times before, but she think she too good for me then. In the back of her mind, she thought I was dangerous, but she also recognized that sometimes you could do dangerous shit without no consequences. I was good friends with Spar, for example, and he the manager of a convenience store. When Spar brought her to the garden in his backyard and casually lit that pipe, almost elegant, like a English dude from the past would do with a pinch of tobacco, they had already had a beer or three and he had loaned her a sweatshirt, one still a li’l bit warm from the dryer and that had a clean, flowery scent to it. Her resistance gone way the fuck down; she wanted to get free from the shit reality she living in, plus, with how nice her manager acting, it seem rude to turn down the trademark thick velvety smoke created by Yours Truly. Hello, Darlene, I said, and my smoke entered her lungs for the first time, gentle like a handshake at the start, then my lovely fingers of smoke got in her breath and grabbed it right where Nat’s breath had once spent all that time. I am so glad we met.
After a couple hits, I had gave her the first confidence she felt in years, not to mention contentment. She talked more and played checkers and drank whiskey with Spar—in a couple hours, she was certain this social outing gonna lead directly to a promotion at work. It dawned on her that she felt like recently everything in life had twisted her ass out of shape, but right then she seen that her distorted outline was a piece of a puzzle, the last one hanging above what had been a real tough board. I floated her ass above the board on a cloud of smoke. The smoke lowered her down and pushed her in place and something inside her went snap and we finished the puzzle together. It felt so good we ripped all them motherfucking puzzle pieces apart and did that shit again. And the ripping and the doing-again felt just as good the second time. And the fifty-second. And…
14.
Lost Years
Because of all the expectations Eddie had stockpiled about being back with his mother, the reality couldn’t have held up even if things had been perfect. But he listed the ways in which things had improved. His mother didn’t go out on the street in Houston anymore—she stayed in one place and worked steadily, got regular meals, and had friends. She and Eddie could spend time together in the morning and for a while at night. Sometimes the drugs didn’t get in the way of her personality and he could see, behind the glazed looks and volatile reactions, the mother he remembered. His mother reminded him of the proverbial stopped watch that tells the right time twice a day. Every day he would wait for those two times.
In the late afternoon of their reunion, three men had followed Darlene up the path asking where she had gone. She responded by introducing Eddie as her son, and their attitude switched to a more jovial, relaxed one; pretty soon they sheathed their weapons and shook his hand. But the mood didn’t last long, and they hustled him and Darlene back to the sleeping quarters, where he got his first look at how her life had changed. Though he had clamored for them to bring Tuck as well, they kept the old guy quarantined.
Not even the chicken smell or the concrete of the barracks or the locking in at night bothered Eddie enough to make a fuss after finding Darlene. She’d introduced him to everybody at the place before he noticed anything untoward about the atmosphere. The novelty of a kid among the workers made everybody there curious and excited. People now wanted to play the incomplete, broken set of Connect 4 that had gathered mildew in the corner—you couldn’t use the last row because the chips fell through; they usually played it as Connect 3. TT gave a tour, pretending to show off a luxury suite; Hannibal taught Eddie an elaborate soul handshake. A child had arrived, and you had to show a happy time to a child, regardless of the circumstances.
By supper, the room calmed down, as everybody dispersed and tugged the matted plastic wrap off their green cardboard trays before munching privately. Darlene sat at the edge of her bunk, its metal bar creating an impression across the backs of her thighs. When she talked to Eddie about the place, her voice grew lower, softer, more urgent. Habitually, she scratched the bug bites on the back of her neck, the small of her back, and her legs.
Sirius got in touch with Mrs. Vernon? she asked. Is that how you found me?
Serious? Who? No…
Darlene’s face didn’t move for a few moments. You can’t stay here, Eddie. Don’t let them make you stay.
But aren’t you glad to see me?
Yes! You know I am. But it’s just—I wanted to get out of all this first.
It seems okay to me.
Darlene laughed uncontrollably, then slower, until she started to cough. Eddie slapped her on the back, and she twisted her torso out of reach. She lit a cigarette.
You need to go to school.
No, I don’t. I’m smart enough.
We’re not going to have an argument about that, she said. You’re going.
Under other circumstances, Eddie would have fought her, but it struck him that Darlene had made a motherly gesture, and that caused a wave of happiness and relief to whip through his body like wind through a bedsheet on a clothesline. In his mind, he flashed to a moment in the future when she would act like a real mother all the time; he ached for it.
Is there a school? he asked. Is it far, the school?
No. It’s around here somewhere, Darlene said, as if she’d misplaced it. She threw her pointing finger in a vague direction behind her and to her right. Cigarette smoke swirled around her hand. Out there, she said.
When he asked about the color of the schoolhouse and the character of the teachers and the other kids, Darlene frowned and stopped giving complete answers and then excused herself to go to the bathroom, stubbing her cigarette out on the bottom of the bed frame. Eddie occupied himself by playing with the rusty bedsprings as if they were a musical instrument.
After about twenty minutes Darlene returned, having turned jittery and unresponsive. For a while Eddie tried to continue the conversation. He repeatedly attempted to find out whether she was okay, but the exchange became one-sided, her answers less and less like answers until eventually they resembled the growling of dogs or the cries of birds. He’d seen her in a condition like this before, though not as severe, and he knew to find something else to do as he nursed his plummeting optimism. He helped his mother lie down, his shaky hand supporting her underarm.