She led us into the house, which she had arranged and decorated as invertebrate versions of the nations of the world. Mom herself had never been anyplace but Breathed, so she based her countries on what books told her and what photographs showed her they were like. Because of this they lacked the culture of the traveler and instead held true to that glittered optimism of the one who has yet to travel beyond the picture on the postcard.
She showed Sal room after room, quietly and with only her nylons swishing. The rooms verged on the gaudy, with trinkets, paintings, bright wallpaper done up in the countries’ colors and floras. Fabric was imported. Wood was country specific. The most expensive items were special ordered over the phone, the cheaper charms straight from catalog. She did hire carpenters, painters, artists, any and all who would carve for her the Taj Mahal in our dining room table, Saint Basil’s Cathedral in the fireplace mantel, the Great Wall in the crown molding.
Making a world proved to be expensive, and had there been only Dad’s income, we would have lost more than the respect of the rooms. But Mom was the daughter of the tennis shoe king of Breathed, and after he died she became the sole heir of Breathed Shoe Company, with the factory located just outside town.
“Folks say I shut myself up, never seein’ the world, but I ask ya how can anyone see as much of the world as I see on a daily basis?” She spun in the middle of Spain.
“But they’re not the real places.” Sal’s statement brought her to a sudden stop. “That Machu Picchu in the other room is smaller than a shrub. Don’t you want to see the real places? The real world? Feel the sun on your face as you marvel at the pyramids? Feel the rain while on top of the Eiffel Tower?”
I nudged him with my elbow. “I told ya she’s afraid of the rain.”
Mom dropped to the floor, crossing her lanky legs beneath the billowy skirt of her dress. She propped her elbows up on her knees and held her face with a sigh while the shadows of the room lengthened out toward her, making her one of them.
“What’s the matter with her?” Sal looked on.
“I’m fine.” Her whisper crippled her words. “You boys go on, have your fun. Don’t worry ’bout me. I’ve a whole world ’round me. Why shouldn’t I be fine?”
“C’mon.” I tugged his arm. “I’m starvin’. Let’s make some sandwiches.”
“I don’t want sandwiches.” He groaned like a true kid as I pulled him into the kitchen. “I want ice cream.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I let his thin arm go. On my way to the freezer he asked about Mom’s fear of the rain.
“Oh, um…” I tossed around the frozen vegetables, looking for any ice cream. “Don’t know, really.”
“You’ve never asked her?”
“Oh, man, I forgot the groceries on the porch.”
“I said, you’ve never asked her?”
“Well, yeah, I…” I saw the box of frozen fish sticks. “I think it has somethin’ to do with a fish or swimmin’ or somethin’. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember why your mother is afraid?”
“We’ve got Popsicles.” I pulled the open box out of the freezer and peered inside. “Grape is all that’s left.”
I offered one toward him. He shook his head and asked again about her fear.
“I told ya, it has somethin’ to do with a fish.” I flung the box back into the freezer.
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“No, I don’t. Lay off it.”
“If I had a mother, I would know for sure why she was afraid.”
“Don’tcha have one?”
He shook his head low.
“I don’t know if that’s true, Amos.” Dad stood in the doorway of the kitchen with the sheriff beside him.
“Why’d you call him Amos, Dad?”
“I’m not Amos, sir.” Sal looked from the balding sheriff to Dad and then back again.
“You sure fit the description. Best start to come clean now, sonny.” The sheriff crossed his arms over his bulging stomach, his leaner days having been lost.
“Really, I’m not.”
“You said he matched the description. What was it?” I had asked Dad, but the sheriff was the one to answer, “A boy of thirteen. Black. Wearin’ overalls. No shoes. A runaway been missin’ for two months.”
“Is that all the description?” I looked at Sal.
“It’s enough, ain’t it?” The sheriff was the type of man who spit aggressively when outdoors. It was a great strain for him to keep from spitting when indoors, and I saw this very strain as he cleared his throat.
“Well, what about his eyes? Do they say if this Amos has green eyes?”
The sheriff looked annoyed with my questioning. “Listen, Fieldin’, they don’t say nothin’ ’bout eye color, but I’ve no doubt that there boy is this missin’ Amos.” His big lips pushed out in a sigh as he looked at Sal. “Your folks will be here tomorrow mornin’, rise and shine or rise and dull—either way, this little lie of yours will have run its course.
“In the meantime, since we’ve no holdin’ cell for little boys in our jail, me and Mr. Bliss think it’s a good idea for you to roost here till your folks arrive. Hear me, sonny?” The sheriff had hung onto the Arkansas accent of his roots.
“You can stay in my room, Sal.”