THE SAINT ANN'S REVIEW

GROWN CHILDREN
Ashley Danielle Moore

MISS LINDA is yanking crabgrass from her patchy, yellow lawn when a minivan pulls into her driveway. She hopes it’s the solicitors with a cash offer for her home, the one whom she always chases away. Or the proselytizers who have stood on her porch, hours at a time, because she has difficulty being rude to any servant of God. She hopes for anyone but the lawn inspector again. So when her son Mark steps out of the minivan full of white faces, she shrieks at the surprise and finds Mark scrawny and stiff and impossible to squeeze.

“They don’t feed you at school,” she teases.

“I’m the same size I was my senior year,” Mark says. “You just haven’t seen me in a while. Come meet my friends.” Miss Linda hasn’t seen him since the summer he went to college. The same summer they buried her mother (God rest her soul). He always claims blizzards make it impossible to travel down for Christmas and internships on film sets occupy his whole summers.

She asks Mark’s friends if they want a cold drink, relieved when they decline. They smell like reefer and look unbathed. She tells them, “God bless” and “Take care,” as they back out of her driveway, heading to Houston. She leads Mark inside, keen to hide the gaping hole in the screen door from the time she dragged out her mother’s hospice bed by herself. Mark will have plenty to complain about, and she would like to sit down first.

“Jeez,” he says as he steps into the day room. “It’s too hot in here.” He draws the curtains, scattering dust that hangs in the air like lifeless gnats. “Where are your wall units?” he asks.

“Broke,” Miss Linda says.

He opens the windows, but they slam down every time.

“Broke, too.”

“How can you live like this? In the dark. No air.”

“Just fine, Mr. Prince.” Then, “I stay in my bedroom. It’s cooler there.”

Mark grabs encyclopedias from his grandmother’s bookshelf. Her avid reading skipped Miss Linda completely and reemerged in Mark. Miss Linda has plans to gift Mark all her mother’s books after his graduation. Something to decorate his NYC apartment if he still plans to stay permanently. But watching him wedge the relics in the window makes her reconsider. Mark plops on the couch and lets a faint breeze hit the back of his neck.

“Before you leave, help me with the grass out front,” she says.

“Argh. Not now, Ma.” Mark always addresses her like he’s in pain.

“I’m talking before you go back to film school.”

“I can’t go back,” he says. Miss Linda’s chest fills with concrete. She always feared he wouldn’t invite her to graduation. He was good at keeping his distance. Good at getting off the phone when she called. Mark adds, “I’m not going to graduate.”

“What about your scholarship?” she asks. Mark burrows his head in his hands and groans. She knows he’s on the verge of tears. “It’s okay, baby,” she says, rubbing his bony back. “Imma call these people up.” She rummages junk drawers for her mother’s old phonebook, though she doesn’t know who she’d call. When she looks up, she finds the sofa empty.

 ***

MARK ONLY LEAVES his room at night. He sleeps during the day and Miss Linda doesn’t disturb him. She has nothing to offer other than wilted salads. Her mother was better at those things—whispering secrets for a painless, fruitful life. Miss Linda remembers telling her parents she was pregnant. Her father (God rest his soul) said, “Don’t raise no boy by yourself.” Her mother, who was rarely cynical or unpleasant, warned, “Boys cause the worst stress.” Miss Linda knew she was referring to her older brother, Bill, who had spent his teens worried about the draft. He sent one letter home, joking that jungle heat was no different from New Orleans.

Every night, a truck pulls up with glaring headlights which illuminate Miss Linda’s bedroom. She watches Mark hop in and take off. She reawakens to the sound of her kitchen drawers rustling and plates scratching. The cicadas have started their singing. Mark’s smoker’s cough shakes all the walls. When he has a hacking fit, Miss Linda bolts upright in bed, thinking he’s in her room.

***

MISS LINDA WORKS at the café which sits catty-corner to Mark’s old high school. She never gets customers in the summer. The regulars and young staff leave during hurricane season to avoid the humidity, torrential rain, and flash floods. She used to wonder how people could afford to sit here all day, but now she misses the company. She watches salads wilt behind the glass display.

A big man brushes by her as she’s hauling the patio furniture inside. She tells him, “We’re closed, sir,” but he still stands at the counter. Miss Linda recognizes Mark’s old teacher. She liked that his students called him by his first name, and remembers he’s from a ranch in the Dakotas or Iowa—someplace she wouldn’t expect to find blackfolk. Mr. Glenn wears a bolo tie and tiny leather vest which wouldn’t be able to fasten over his hanging gut. She can smell leather singeing like he’d been in the sun all day.

“Mr. Glenn,” she says and watches him study her. He tries to connect dots on her face, then she relieves him, “You taught my son.” She offers him iced tea, the only beverage available. They stand at the counter with the pitcher until both admit their knees aren’t what they used to be and slide into a booth.

Mr. Glenn finds every opportunity to say her name. He tells her, “Linda, I don’t teach no more. I do movies now. You should see some of the extras they hire, Linda. Linda, you’d make a great passerby, but your face might steal the scene. You know what, Linda, I’ll get your boy a job. I know all the set guys. Everybody loves me, Linda.” A petite drifter, tatted head to toe, walks into the café, and Mr. Glenn shouts, “Can’t you see we closed!”

The barbell piercing on the bridge of her nose makes her look menacing as she glares at Mr. Glenn. She waves a dog bowl and says, “My pit is thirsty.”

Miss Linda spots a pit-bull tied to a lamppost, drooling on himself. She fills the bowl and the drifter leaves. Mr. Glenn cusses. “Can’t stand those people,” he says.

“It’s just water.”

“All them junkies do is freeload. You know why they keep them dogs?” he asks, leaning across the table. “So police don’t arrest them. If they get arrested with the dog, animal control gotta get involved. It adds paperwork.” The pitcher is empty. The sun is gone. He takes Miss Linda’s hand and says, “You ain’t safe here. Alone like this.”

Miss Linda reassures him she’s fine. “But you’ll talk to Mark for me, right?” she asks. “You were so good with him.”

“Of course, hun,” Mr. Glenn says. “Anything for you.”

 ***

MISS LINDA CAN’T WAIT to get home, high from an evening of good flirting and caffeine. Even her untouched lawn doesn’t taint her mood. She is greeted by mountains of her mother’s clothes piled in the dayroom. She is caught off guard, but the familiarity feels like a surprise party. She finds Mark amongst the piles, and he asks, “Mind if I sell these?”

“Don’t nobody want this, Mark,” she says. She plops on the sofa full of her mother’s church clothes. They still carry the scent of their Sunday ritual. Hair sheen and hot-combs. Buttery grits. Ironing starch and shoe polish. The olive oil her mother lathered over her face like she was shining a penny. Even the mothballs in the church basement.

Mark shines his bright phone in Miss Linda’s face and scrolls through pictures of white girls posed in bedrooms. “This is where I’ll sell the clothes,” he says.

Miss Linda feels the caffeine wear, the top of her head tingles and floats to the ceiling fan. “Why don’t you focus on getting back to school,” she says. “I ran into Mr. Glenn. He’s in movies now. He can hook you up, instead of you selling old lady clothes. Call him.” Miss Linda hands Mark her phone, and to her surprise, he takes it.

“What does Glenn do on set?” Mark asks.

“He acts!” Miss Linda says. “He played a pedestrian in a Tom Cruise movie.”

Mark sighs. “No, ma. He doesn’t know anybody.”

“The prince is too good for work!” she exclaims. “Couldn’t even do the lawn today.”

“Life doesn’t have to be this difficult. My friend will lend me his weedwhacker. After I sell clothes we could buy a used one and used film equipment. I could make my own films.”

Miss Linda studies Mark as he arranges her mother’s clothes, snaps photos of the outfits with his phone, and, as he puts it, “Work smart, not hard.”

 ***

THEY FORM a routine. She uses her café tips to order take-out, and Mark catalogs her mother’s wardrobe. Miss Linda enjoys calling out measurements like they’re reconstructing her mother’s frame. His phone pings with sales and questions. “Tell her it’s dry clean only,” Miss Linda says. “She can spot-clean the armpits. Gently. You get that, Mark?”

He nods and slides the blazer into a padded envelope labeled to an Eric in Tacoma. “These clothes survived weeks of floodwater and mold,” Miss Linda says. “It’d be a shame if some fool ruins it.”

“I sent the message,” Mark says.

When Mark leaves at night she uses the opportunity to try on her mother’s gowns. She’d forgotten how she dreamed of Mardi Gras balls. She stands in the dayroom, which is dark but not still. The mating bullfrogs have found puddles in her lawn. Their croaks are sirens. Miss Linda clenches her gut and drapes an ivory gown with beaded magnolias over herself. The zipper won’t accept her broad shoulders and stops short on her back. She remembers when her mother wore this to the Zulu Ball—and now some girl in Maryland will alter the gown for her prom.

But she likes the time spent with Mark, shipping pieces of her mother across North America like they’re spreading ashes. Only Bill and Mark left home, and now her mother’s wardrobe has a second life. Miss Linda wonders why she likes to stomp in place. Her mother was much better with boys.

 ***

MISS LINDA IS COLLECTING the patio furniture when Mr. Glenn pulls up to the café in a loud and dusty truck. “Glad I caught ya, hun,” he shouts over the rattling engine.

“Hi, Mr. Glenn,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to call. Mark’s figured himself out, but thank you.”

Confusion crosses his brows before he says, “I just want to feed you, actually.”

The sun sits in her eyes and makes her face mean. She smooths the lines on her face and says, “I have plans with my son.”

Mr. Glenn sighs. “I’m auditioning for N.C.I.S. New Orleans. I need a line partner.” He stares at Miss Linda, patiently, and she remembers he has no people down here.

“Only if I’m the coroner,” she says. “I like her. Nothing gets past her.”

“You know more than me,” Mr. Glenn says, grinning. “This is why I need you.”

He drives them to a TexMex chain in a strip mall where all the servers wear Hawaiian shirts. Mr. Glenn orders two steak burritos and margaritas. Her soggy burrito falls apart in her hands. “I promise I’m not a messy eater,” she says. She wipes globs of sour cream and cheese from her hands and face, making a pyramid of gross napkins. She wonders if this is why Mr. Glenn likes this place. He is from dairy country, after all. She tries to swaddle the innards but the tortilla shell keeps ripping.

“This is ridiculous,” he says. He wrings the wrist of the closest Hawaiian shirt and shoves her plate into his hands. “She needs a new one,” he says.

“Or, just a fork,” Miss Linda says, sheepishly. She reaches for her plate, but Mr. Glenn holds her hands down.

“No. No. No. Another one.” He glares at the server until he is gone with the sad plate.

By the time her new steak burrito arrives, she is full and woozy from two margaritas, and Mr. Glenn’s plate is barren. “Let’s run these lines,” she says, packaging her new burrito.

“I play a barfly,” Mr. Glenn says. “Last man to spot a missing woman. I’d rather get in scene at a real bar. I have one in mind.” He throws a few twenties on the table although they haven’t received their bill yet, and she follows him out, doggy-bag in hand.

 ***

MR. GLENN HOLDS her waist and guides her down a street lined with live oak trees. Maybe he holds her because she seems tipsy and like she might fall over, or because the tree roots have cracked through the sidewalk and require careful steps. Either way, Miss Linda doesn’t mind that he might feel the dampness under her shirt and the fat jiggling on her torso. Cicadas wail in the canopy, and their singing follows them down a clear street. Miss Linda loves this part of the day—when the sky is buttery and the clouds look like flesh. The sky looks the most alive right before the day ends. Her mother had experienced a similar burst of energy. The hours before she passed were the most lucid she’d ever been. The home aide called it terminal lucidity.

Mr. Glenn barges into a near-empty bar and waves like he’s the mayor atop a parade float. The bartender, a skinny, pale, tattooed lady, barely looks up from her phone as she says, “Hey, Old G.”

He pulls out a stool for Miss Linda and says to her, “I host trivia here every Tuesday.”

“Ever the educator,” Miss Linda says. She sets her doggy-bag down.

He orders, “A double Bulleit and the prettiest beer bottle y’all got for her. One of them fruity ones with the flowers.” The bartender slides coasters in front of them, then their drinks. Miss Linda uses the condensation on the bottle as a hand wipe and notices Baron Samedi grinning and tipping his tophat at her. He points his cane to an unmarked gravestone. Mr. Glenn squeezes Miss Linda’s thigh, and she bolts upright as if she’s fallen asleep during sermon again, and this is her mother’s final warning. Mr. Glenn taps a pack of Marlboros on the bar and asks, “Mind if I smoke outside?”

“Go ahead,” she says.

“You should keep me company. I want to make sure you don’t bolt.”

They find the backyard full of bar patrons who look just as Miss Linda expects—young, white, loud, and excited. Some curl around each other in dark corners. He holds out a cigarette, and she tells him, “I don’t smoke.”

He smiles. “Fine. Save me if I choke.”

“I know CPR,” she says.

“I bet you do.”

She giggles and sips her beer, which takes like rust. She finishes it anyway because it’s muggy and she’s thirsty and woozy. The sweetness from the three margaritas dances on her scalp. She leans on Mr. Glenn, pulls his cigarette from his mouth, and takes drags. “You sure you can handle that,” he says, lighting himself a new one.

“I’m grown,” Miss Linda says. Each pull is minty, and she teases, “Didn’t take you as a menthol man.”

A soft voice says, “Hey, Ma,” and Mark stands before her. She tucks her cigarette underneath the table, even though he’s the one with the smoker’s cough. A man with dreads stands beside Mark, beaming, mouth wide and white.

“Baby,” she stammers. “I’m helping Mr. Glenn run lines.”

“Hey, Glenn,” Marks says.

Mr. Glenn clears his throat and says, “What’s up, young blood.”

“We were just on our way out,” Mark says, and their backs are turned before Miss Linda can utter goodbye.

She knocks off the trail of ash and smokes what’s left of her menthol. Every pull washes some of the fluster, and she feels as if she is brushing her teeth before bed. Mr. Glenn puts his arm around her, and they inch closer together. He clears his throat and is on her lips. At first, she finds it strange to have another face so close to her own, but then she gets lost in the hints of salt and cream on his breath, and the menthol that sits on his tongue. She pecks him, just to tease, but he holds onto her lips. He pants in the nape of her neck, and his beard tickles her. He kneads her thighs with thick hands that make her feel small, precious.

Miss Linda recognizes the type of loneliness on his breath. They share it. It’s the kind of lonely which after years of deprivation starts to provide its own warmth. She could live with it. She didn’t yearn for anyone, although the thought sometimes crosses her mind. As Mr. Glenn pants and kneads at her thighs she can tell, his kind of loneliness, like hers, has to do with being forgotten. He looks up at her and asks, “Can we go home?” like a tired, sun-drunk boy.

 ***

HE INSISTS on driving. They return to his dusty truck, which sits alone in the strip mall parking lot.

“You sure you alright to drive?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and squeezes her knee to reassure her. “Guide me to your place.”

“Oh,” she says. She folds her arms. “I have a son at home.”

“Oh,” says Mr. Glenn. He stares at her and grins. Miss Linda wishes she could take it back and wipe the smug look off his face, but he says to her, “I didn’t think you were down. I’m such a lucky man.” He cranks through the gears and whips down dark streets. All of the cars are parked in the opposite direction.

She tells Mr. Glenn, “We’re going the wrong way.”

“It’ll be alright,” he says. “Ain’t nobody here this time of night.” Miss Linda thinks about ‘this time of night.’ The radio clock reads half-past one, so she texts Mark not to expect her.

Mr. Glenn presses harder on the gas and runs over every pothole. Miss Linda reaches for the grab handle and discovers that a predecessor yanked it off the hinge. Her phone rings and when she answers, Mark shouts, “Ma, where are you?”

“None of your concern,” Miss Linda says. “I’ll be home later.”

“Don’t get in a car with Glenn.”

“We fine, baby. Really.”

But Mark screams in her ear, and Mr. Glenn studies her face for any signs of doubt, telling her, “I got Crown. Nice records. We having fun, baby.” Another car barrels towards them. She screams, “Mr. Glenn,” and he swerves into parked cars. Steel scrapes and burns. His tires yowl. Glass shatters like confetti. The airbags plop her in the face, and the car horns blare. She feels stunned, like she’s just entered her own surprise party, and must take a moment to gather her bearings. She hears her son’s voice underneath her seat and reaches for her phone, but she can’t hear a word past the blaring horn. People pour into their front lawns, and the car in front of them backs out of the block. Her chest is tight, and it feels like the horn is coming from her head. She wobbles out of the truck as Mr. Glenn cusses up a storm.

“This nigga tried to kill us,” he says, punching through his gear shift. His bumper is caught on a parked vehicle, which he drags as he tries to back out. The neighbors surround his truck. One reaches in the cab, to grab the keys out of the ignition, but Mr. Glen fights them off, cussing, “Fuck you,” at everyone. An older woman in a cheetah print bathrobe and bonnet grabs Miss Linda’s shoulders and ushers her to the sidewalk. “You alright, baby,” she says, or asks—Miss Linda can’t tell. She takes Miss Linda’s phone and says, “Operator. Operator,” and shouts her address.

 ***

MISS LINDA SITS in the backseat of a huge pickup truck. Mark and the man with dreads argue over the closest hospital. Her skull rattles and she remembers she left her doggy-bag at the bar. “My burrito, Mark,” she says. “We gotta go back.”

The man with dreads turns to her and says, “We’re going to the hospital. Remember?” He drives them over a drawbridge; Mark cusses as red lights flash and a traffic bar flies down in front of them. Miss Linda feels the gears crank underneath them as the truss extends to the sky. She mutters, “I hate rollercoasters.”

“We shouldn’t have gone this way,” Mark shouts.

The man with dreads says, “Sorry, baby,” and Mark shushes him. “Ambulances take forever to come. This is still best.”

Miss Linda notices packages under her feet with addresses in Mark’s handwriting. “What’s this?” she asks.

“More gowns,” Mark says. “We’re mailing them tomorrow.”

Miss Linda sighs and stares into the canal. There’s a barge with towering shipping containers that could be a whole story or two. The weight of the barge forces ripples through the canal and into the river. Miss Linda asks, “What do you think is in those?”

“Crap,” Mark says.

“Everything is crap to you.”

“Grandma’s clothes are going to good folks. They’ll love them. They’ll have to after all the money they spent.”

She struggles to keep her eyes open. She remembers her mother, who was good at dispensing secrets, claimed the deceased only truly die when the last person who knew them passes. This can be a shared life. A memory of their scent, laugh, or smile.

Mark squeezes her knee. “Don’t sleep, Ma.”

“Now you’re babying me,” Miss Linda says. “Would you look at that? We’re all babies. Just in bigger bodies.”

Miss Linda curls into herself. The red lights sink her into a dream. She’s svelte in her mother’s magnolia dress, standing in her mother’s house but the ceiling is higher, the bookshelves, wider. The dayroom fits more people than it can accommodate. Friendly faces. Faces she hasn’t seen in years. It smells like a hot day and olive oil. She tries not to stomp on the packages.