Maria

SEPTEMBER 3

EARLY IN THE MORNING Wyatt and I sat at the table, both of us quiet while he ate breakfast. Ernest had gotten up early, around six thirty, to take a walk. He was now sitting outside on the deck, drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper.

I found myself staring at Wyatt while he ate. His eyes were brown and sleepy, a bit of soot in his lashes. He was dressed for school and ready to go on time, wearing a collared shirt and khaki pants. I had gotten up at seven, not able to fall back asleep, so I made waffles and bacon, which Wyatt devoured. He drank two glasses of orange juice quickly. He was surprisingly calm, adept at making himself appear relaxed and steady.

“I’ll drive you to school this week,” I told him. “But you’ll need to ride the bus home. It will drop you off at the edge of the road, down by the pond. It isn’t a far walk.”

“Will you be there when I get off ?”

“I didn’t know if you’d be embarrassed, so I thought you could walk here. My kids used to get embarrassed if Ernest and I waited for them.”

“I’m not too embarrassed about things like that,” he said. “Hey, does Mr. Echota always drink coffee outside in the morning? It reminds me of my dad.”

“Oh, what does your dad do?”

“He’s in jail for another DUI. Does Mr. Echota drink much?”

“Not really. Not anymore.”

I wanted him to tell me more about his family. I only knew what Bernice had told me, that his mother was out of the state and his father was in jail. But I realized we were running late, so I got my purse and Wyatt put his backpack on. I didn’t tell Ernest we were leaving, since we were in such a hurry. It took about fifteen minutes to get to Wyatt’s school from our house, but we made it on time, and as he got out of the car, I told him to call if he needed anything. “You don’t need to call Bernice,” I said. “You can call me directly.”

“I don’t have your phone number,” he said. He stood at the door, looking around, nervous. I borrowed a pencil and wrote down my cell for him on one of his notebooks.

“There you go,” I said. “Call if you need anything. Don’t worry. Just call, okay?”

He shut the door and started to walk away. Watching him, I felt something inside me fall apart.

ONWARD! I HAD PLENTY TO DO to keep myself busy. I told myself I needed to get the details in order for Ray-Ray’s anniversary bonfire, and I also needed to call Edgar. When I arrived home I saw that Ernest was still sitting on the back porch, so I sat at the table and made a grocery list for the bonfire. We needed a dessert. We needed meat and fresh vegetables. Our meal would be plentiful, but it would take time to prepare for the family. I started writing out what I wanted to share aloud in remembrance of Ray-Ray. I wrote: I remember when you were little and liked to pick blackberries with me alongside the road. You always loved picking blackberries with me. I set the pen down and stared into the table, thinking. But nothing else came.

I got my phone from my purse and called Edgar, praying he would answer. It went to his voice mail. “Edgar,” I said. “Please call me when you get a minute, honey. I really need to talk to you.”

I sat at the table, thinking about Edgar and wondering whether he was at home or out using someplace, roaming the streets. It terrified me to think he was around dangerous people whose lives hung on the cusp of tragedy. I prayed silently for him to live, to think about us and want to come home. In the kitchen I poured a cup of coffee, then went outside to check on Ernest. He was leaning forward, looking out at the water.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“I’m looking for signs,” he said. “Spirits, messengers, anything.” He turned and looked at me, and I could see the seriousness in his face. “That boy,” he said.

“Wyatt.”

“No, Ray-Ray.”

I tried not to let it bother me. I tried to think about what I was going to do about the bonfire, who was going to run things, since Ernest was not mentally able to. I thought he might burn himself trying to start the fire. It was too dangerous in his condition.

“We should be careful talking about spirits in front of him,” I said. “Wyatt comes from a broken home. His mother has left, his father is in jail.”

“All the talk of music and movies last night.”

He remembered their conversation from last night. This was something of a surprise.

“Ray-Ray liked to collect records, too,” he said. “Remember he liked jazz? I’m almost positive he alphabetized his records.”

ERNEST WENT FOR ANOTHER WALK while I drove to the grocery store to get food and drinks for the bonfire. I called Sonja while I pushed the grocery cart down the aisle. “Papa’s memory is getting better,” I told her. “It just happened last night. He remembered his mother and father. He remembered Ray-Ray’s records.”

“Oh my God,” Sonja said.

“I don’t know why or what’s going on, but something is working.”

“Is it the meds?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You’ll have to come over and see.”

When I returned home, Ernest helped me put the groceries up.

“How are you feeling?” I asked him.

“I’m feeling good,” he said. He opened the pantry and set cans on a shelf. When we’d finished, he went to the couch to take a nap. I sat in the chair and watched him sleep, then grew sleepy myself and dozed off in the chair.