Where Do You Stay Page 7

  “Sure,” I say. “No problem.”

  25

  We go back to that lawyer and wait for over two hours. What’d he give us an appointment for if he’s so busy? Aunt Geneva keeps shuffling the papers and looking at her watch. Finally I say, “Can I see those papers?”

  “They’re for the lawyer,” she says.

  “I know. But can I see them?”

  She hesitates.

  “Mama showed me everything,” I say.

  Aunt Geneva hands me the stack.

  There’s my birth certificate on top, Jerome William Mason. Place of birth: Cincinnati, Ohio. University Hospital. Next is my parents’ marriage license. Underneath the date are their names: William Randall Mason and Sylvia Nicole Jackson. I wonder if Mama wanted to change her last name.

  “When ladies get married, do they have to change their names?” I ask.

  “It’s the custom,” Aunt Geneva says.

  “But do they have to?”

  “It’s not a must.”

  “I’m not ever changing my name,” I tell her.

  She pulls her eyebrows together. “It would be simpler if we all had the same last name, Jerome.”

  I feel the tightness in my chest. “Jerome William Mason is the name Mama gave me,” I say. Jerome was Mama’s idea. Daddy wanted to name me William Randall Mason the Second, but Mama said Our baby isn’t second, he’s first. When they came with the papers at the hospital, Mama wrote Jerome in the line for my first name. Sometimes people try to call me Jerry, but I don’t answer because Jerry is not a name I like.

  Finally the secretary calls us into the lawyer’s office. He takes the papers and looks through them. On top of the stack is the one that says Mama died. I don’t know why he even needs that, because why would I be getting adopted if my mother was alive?

  “It looks like everything is in order,” the lawyer says. He smiles at me. “It should come through in about a month.” He doesn’t say anything like Sorry to hear about your mother.

  “Thank you,” Aunt Geneva says. “It would be best to have it settled before the start of the school year.”

  “No guarantee,” the man says. “We have to contact his father, you know.”

  I stiffen. My dad hasn’t been around in so long. What business does this man have trying to find him now?

  “His father hasn’t been seen in years,” Aunt Geneva says.

  “I understand that. But the law says we have to make an effort to contact him. He has one month to respond.”

  “And then?” Aunt Geneva asks.

  “He can voluntarily relinquish his right to the boy.”

  The lawyer acts like he’s not talking about me when I’m sitting in this chair right in front of his face.

  “His father hasn’t been present for most of his life,” Aunt Geneva says crisply.

  A temporary stop. He’s not interested in us, Jerome. No matter. We have each other, that’s what’s important.

  “The law protects his rights as a father.”

  “I don’t know why he would have any rights after all this time,” Aunt Geneva says.

  The man smiles at her like she is a child. “Most likely he won’t respond. That’s what happens nine times out of ten.”

  Aunt Geneva stands up and looks him right in his face. “I hope you will do what you can to expedite this process,” she says.

  “We’ll contact you as soon as we know something.”

  “We’ll be waiting.” Aunt Geneva leads me out of the office.

  We walk down the marble stairs out into the bright sunshine. People are hurrying this way and that on the sidewalk. I can hardly catch my breath.

  “Are you okay, Jerome?” Aunt Geneva asks.

  Concentrate on each breath. In, out, in, out.

  “You want to rest here a minute?” Aunt Geneva leads me to a bench in front of the courthouse. There’s a patch of grass behind it with a sprinkler going. I let the cold water droplets land on my arm. Aunt Geneva wets her hand and puts it on my forehead.

  “I know this isn’t easy, Jerome,” she says. “I know that.”

  The water is cool on my head, dripping down my neck into my shirt. Water the garden deep, Mama said, to keep the roots from coming up. Early morning’s best, before the sun rises. Then we’ll practice our duet before you go to school, once the whole way through.

  Aunt Geneva is rubbing my back. “I know it’s hard, I know. I know you miss your mama, Jerome. I do too, more than you even know, Jerome. There’s a hole there for me too, but having you fills it a little bit.” Aunt Geneva stops moving her hand. “I’ve been looking in the paper for a piano, did I tell you that?”

  I look up.

  “Uncle James says by the end of next month we may have enough saved for a used one, that is.”

  I take a deep breath, and we head over to the library.

  “You know, when we were little, your mother and I used to come down here. Of course Sy was always reading those big books with big words in them. Your mother was smart, you know that? I always wished I was smart like that, but words never came easy to me.”

  I breathe in the smell of books and air conditioning and Mama. We used to say how someday we’d get one of those nice downtown condominiums that’s only a quick walk to the library. Of course a river view would be nice too, Mama said, but we both agreed that the library was more important.

  I check out a book about a blind boy and his seeing-eye dog, and another one about famous African Americans that I think Monte will like too. Aunt Geneva takes out one about how to raise boys.

  “You already know that,” I tell her.

  “There’s always more to learn.”

  “Now you sound like Mama,” I say.

  26

  I wake up early and head up the hill. Mr. Willie’s still not back. I water all the plants in the vegetable garden plus the four o’clocks, then I pinch the suckers off the little tomato plants the way Mama taught me. I wonder why they grow there if they aren’t good for anything. I check the cucumber vine. Under a big green leaf is a tiny prickly light green cucumber.

  Monte is there, following me like he always does. “How long until we can eat it?” he asks.

  “Depends on if it rains or not.”

  “But you watered.”

  “Watering’s not the same as rain,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  We hear a loud noise. Two trucks carrying dumpsters are coming slowly up the street. One pulls up by the mansion and the other stops in front of the carriage house.

  “They’re tearing it down,” I whisper to Monte. “For real.”

  “What about Mr. Willie?”

  “He’s not home now.”

  “I know. But we better tell them somebody’s living in there. We better tell them not to mess with Mr. Willie’s stuff.”

  “We can’t,” I say, feeling my throat swell.

  “Why not?”

  “This whole place belongs to Ginny and Tom,” I say slowly. “So they can do whatever they want with it.”

  Ginny is walking toward us. “Is this your brother?”

  “My cousin,” I say.

  Monte looks at me like Why didn’t you just say yes, but I’m not his brother yet.

  Ginny reaches out to shake Monte’s hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Delmonte,” he says.

  “Pleased to meet you, Delmonte.”

  “He’s called Monte,” I say.

  “Monte, then.”

  Tom comes out of the mansion carrying three boxes that he tosses into the dumpster. The men follow behind with plasterboard and broken screens. It’s hard to believe how much junk has been sitting in there, all smelly and rusty and broken. “Maybe they’ll leave Mr. Willie’s house alone,” Monte says.

  “I told you, it’s not Mr. Willie’s.”

  Ginny comes out carrying a heavy box. I help her lift it into the dumpster. “Thank you, Jerome,” she says. “You’re a lot stronger than I am.”

  �
�What’s in these boxes?” I ask.

  “Very moldy books,” she says. “A lot of them. By the way, we went down last night and looked for the piano you’ve been talking about, but there’s nothing like that down there.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s not as if a piano can really hide itself.”

  “Did you find the keys to the back rooms?” I ask.

  “Not yet. But we looked in the windows, and there are just stacks and stacks of boxes.”

  I see Damon coming up the hill toward us. He stops a couple of yards from where we’re standing.

  “Another cousin?” Ginny asks.

  “That’s Damon,” I say. “Monte’s brother.”

  After I’m adopted, he’ll be my brother too. I never thought of that before. I’ll have a brother who talks back to his mother and shoplifts and smokes. But the adoption might not even go through. The lawyer wasn’t sure. It could be that at the last minute my father will decide to claim me. He may decide that he doesn’t want to relinquish his rights. But then what? There’d be plenty of places to hide in that big mansion. Behind all those boxes they’d never find me. Breathe deep and steady, Jerome, count slow like the first movement of the Moonlight, slow and smooth.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ginny says, holding out her hand.

  Damon hesitates, then comes just close enough to shake it.

  “Looks like we got a whole crew today,” Ginny says. “Anybody here who wants to work?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Damon says.

  Ginny looks him up and down. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “You can help Tom,” she says to him. “There’s some heavy stuff down there to haul up.”

  I want to tell Ginny that you can’t really trust him. He was just caught stealing and soon he has to go to court. But Damon is smiling and talking to Tom, acting all charming the way he does when he wants something. He says he’ll be in tenth grade next year.

  “What’s your favorite subject?” Tom asks.

  “Math,” he says.

  I never even knew Damon had a favorite subject. Tom wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “I’m not too good at math, but Ginny here, she’s good with figures. Isn’t that right, Gin?”

  “I’m not too bad,” she says. She’s squinting in the bright sun. “It’ll be another hot day today,” she says. “We better get started.”

  Tom and Damon go in through the side door. Ginny hands me and Monte sandpaper, sanding blocks, and masks, and we go into the mansion.

  The small pieces of wood fit together just right, dark and light and dark, small flowers all around the whole room. I show Monte how to sand with rough sandpaper first, then medium, then fine to make the wood feel soft as silk. When we are done, Ginny gets some rags and we clean off all the dust.

  “Take a break,” Ginny says, standing back. “Isn’t this gorgeous?” She calls Tom. “Come up here and just look at this floor.”

  Tom whistles. “Magnificent. Better get some serious varnish on it,” he says, “to protect it for the next hundred years.” He puts his arm around Ginny. “This is going to be the most beautiful school you’ve ever seen.”

  It’s not a school, I want to tell her. It’s somebody’s home. Me and Mr. Willie could fix it up and live here just fine.

  “Jerome and his brother did most of the work,” she says.

  I almost say No, he’s my cousin, remember, not my brother, but Monte is smiling from ear to ear.

  Tom takes out his wallet and hands me and Monte each twenty dollars. Monte is so surprised he can hardly talk.

  27

  The dumpster is already more than half full. Monte holds on to the edge and jumps so he can look inside. “Hey, there’s a candlestick,” he says. “I’m going to get it for Mom.” He pulls himself up and over the edge. “Hey, Jerome, come on in here. There’s all kinds of stuff.”

  It’s hard for me to get myself over the top. Monte tosses out a crate that I use as a step stool, and finally I am inside.

  Cabinets, blankets, lamps, pipes, screens. Mr. Willie said the house was just a shell, but really it’s full of stuff. I pick up a wooden box that’s small and white with green leaves painted in the corners. Inside are a few plastic beads and one of those diary books. I open the cover, and in curly writing it says Sharon XOXO Wilson.

  I shut the diary quickly. I shouldn’t be reading somebody else’s private business, I know that. Underneath the box are a whole lot of moldy-looking books. I pick one up. Catechism for Children, it says on the cover. I open it to the middle and a dried worm falls out. I drop the book.

  Monte finds a pillowcase to put our stuff in. Then I start opening every box to see if maybe Bach and Brahms are somewhere. We have to hurry because when the dumpster is full they’ll drive it to the dump. All that dust gets me coughing.

  “You boys better get out of there,” Tom says, throwing in a stack of screens. “You could get hurt.” He looks at Damon. “You want to start on the shack tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tom smiles. “No need for the ‘sir.’ Oh, and you know that book I was telling you about? I’ll bring it for you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” Damon says.

  Monte’s eyes meet mine like Was that really my brother thanking someone?

  Then I almost tell Tom that Mr. Willie stays there, it’s his home, not a shack, and after it’s gone, he won’t have any place to stay. But Mr. Willie might not want everybody knowing his business. Anyway, he hasn’t been around in a little while. My stomach flips. Maybe Mr. Willie found some other place to stay, someplace clean and nice and far away from here.

  I climb out of the dumpster first. Monte hands me the pillowcase and scrambles over the top. We carry it home together.

  28

  Damon eats like he’s been starving, chicken, potatoes, green beans, pie. He’s real talkative at dinner, telling everyone how Ginny and Tom asked him to help them for the rest of the summer, hauling, painting, whatever needs to be done. “They’re in a hurry to get the school ready,” Damon says.

  Aunt Geneva looks at Uncle James. “The boy got himself a job,” she says.

  After the dishes are done, Monte asks if we want to play capture the flag, but Damon says he’s outgrown that stuff.

  “So what do you want to do?” Monte asks him.

  Damon is standing at the door. He’s wearing a jacket even though it’s almost ninety degrees. “I’ll be back,” he says.

  We sit on the porch and watch Damon cross the street. He reaches into his jacket pocket, takes out a cigarette, and lights it.

  Me and Monte head up to the carriage house and wait for Mr. Willie in the dark. The air is hot, but there’s a breeze in the treetops and it smells like rain.

  “What if Mr. Willie doesn’t ever come back?” Monte asks.

  “He’ll be back,” I say, trying to sound sure. “If he left, he would’ve taken his stuff.”

  “When you left your house, you didn’t take all your stuff.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “They had an estate sale.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “They sell everything.”

  Monte’s picking up rocks and sorting them into piles in the dark. “Even the piano?”

  “Yup.”

  Monte throws a rock far into the woods. We hear it fall through the leaves. “My mom had no right to do that,” Monte says. “Because it wasn’t even hers in the first place.”

  “She needed the money.”

  “Still,” Monte says. “It wasn’t hers.”

  We are quiet then, feeling the wind pick up.

  “Jerome?” It’s Miss Ginny calling from the mansion. We can hear her voice but we can’t see her face. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Me and Monte.”

  “Just checking,” she says. “I thought I heard something out in the woods. You boys better be getting home. There may be a storm coming.”

&nb
sp; “Are you sleeping here tonight?” I ask.

  “Just working late,” she says. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Now go on home before it starts raining.”

  Me and Monte sit up in our room on the beds. The window’s wide open and the wind is blowing. Lightning fills the room with the thunder close behind.

  “I’m scared,” Monte says.

  “Me and Mama used to watch the storms come,” I say. Mama always said she didn’t want to live someplace that didn’t have storms. They make me feel alive, she said, like I’m a part of the world. But even when things aren’t alive, they’re still a part of the world, like fossils and arrowheads and bones and dried worms.

  “It could be a tornado,” Monte says.

  “It’s not that windy.”

  Then the rain starts.

  Me and Monte look at the library books. I show him the picture of Rosa Parks and tell him the story about the bus and how Ms. Parks didn’t give up her seat.

  “I bet she was scared,” he says.

  We look at her face. “She doesn’t look like she is,” I say.

  “But sometimes you can be scared and not look scared.” He turns the page and looks hard at the picture of Ms. Parks getting fingerprinted. “That policeman was wrong,” he says.

  “The whole country was wrong,” I say. I tell him all about separate but equal and Martin Luther King and the bus boycott.

  “How do you know everything, Jerome?”

  “Not everything,” I say. “But my mother told me all about history because if you don’t know where you came from, you don’t know who you are.”

  The thunder is loud, coming quick after the lightning. Monte is holding on to me for dear life.

  “You want another piano lesson?” I ask.

  Monte nods.

  “Okay. How about we try a real song this time. It’s called ‘Little Pony.’” I put my fingers on the paper keys and sing the tune as I play. Soon me and Monte are playing away on our paper keyboard and singing at the top of our lungs.

  29

  Aunt Geneva has a big envelope in her hands. “Mail came early,” she says, coming up the stairs. “And we got something from the lawyer.”