Rebound Read online

  that he’s gone

  and then remember.

  The Arrival

  Two hundred and forty-six minutes later

  we pull into

  the gravel driveway

  of my grandparents’ home.

  They’re both sitting on the

  porch just like in the picture

  that hangs

  on our living room wall.

  My grandmother

  starts speed-walking

  toward us,

  and before

  I can barely wake up

  and get out of the car,

  she’s at my window,

  grinning and whatnot.

  Lord Have Mercy

  So tall and handsome like your father, she says. I smile back, politely. Get the bags, Percy, she yells to my grandfather, who’s still sitting on the porch, bobbing his head to music I can faintly hear.

  The last time

  I saw them (I mean her,

  ’cause he didn’t come)

  was at the funeral,

  where I didn’t

  really say anything,

  and then

  when we got home

  I just stayed in my room

  ’cause I was so sick

  of everybody

  asking me the same

  lame question:

  Are you okay, son?

  Hey, Momma, my mom says, leaning over me to greet her. Welcome, WELCOME! Charlie Bell, if you don’t get outta this car and give your grandmother a hug, she says, opening the door for me.

  So I do,

  and I almost knock her

  wig off.

  Dread

  Charlie can get his own bags, Mom says.

  Sure can, my grandfather echoes. Don’t shirk the work, Chuck.

  Percy, they just drove half a day—they’re tired and the boy’s hungry. Right, Charlie?

  I nod heck yeah, but

  my mom,

  who’s now getting bear-hugged

  by Granddaddy,

  shoots me a look

  that says, Get the bags, Charlie.

  Hustle and grind, peace of mind, he continues, that’s my motto. You do what I say this summer, everything’s gonna be fine. Just fine.

  I grab my suitcases

  and on the walk

  up the driveway

  remember the things

  I love and hate

  about visiting

  my grandparents:

  Love her good food.

  Hate his corny rhymes.

  What

  an incredibly long

  and dreadful

  summer

  this is going to be.

  Fried Chicken

  My grandmother

  could put KFC

  out of business

  with her fried chicken

  that tastes like

  crispy pieces

  of heaven

  just fell

  from the sky

  and landed

  right on your plate

  next to

  the biggest slice

  of jalapeño cornbread

  you ever saw—so hot,

  the butter

  that sizzles on top

  could burn

  your tongue.

  Yeah, her cooking

  is so good,

  it’ll make you

  want to

  slap yourself.

  Small Talk at Dinner

  How was church this morning, Momma? Mom asks.

  We didn’t make it this morning. Percy’s knees acting up.

  My knees are made of iron. Iron Man is just fine, Granddaddy says all grumpy-like.

  I know, Percy, she says, kissing him on the head and putting another piece of chicken on my plate.

  How was school this year, Charlie?

  Fine, Grandma.

  Good grades?

  Uh-huh.

  Excited for summer?

  Sure.

  Food okay?

  Yes, ma’am.

  Your cousin Roxie is excited to see you.

  Okay.

  And it’s like this

  for the whole meal

  back

  and forth

  them asking

  me not wanting to answer

  ’cause I have nothing

  to say

  and I really don’t want

  to even be here.

  Another piece of chicken, Charlie?

  Yes, ma’am.

  After

  listening to Grandma talk

  to Mom

  about family stuff,

  and my grandfather complain about

  the new neighbors

  who let their grass

  grow too long, and

  who are probably over there

  smokin’ that stuff, and

  After

  Mom lets me

  drink grape soda,

  which she never

  lets me do,

  but since Grandma

  had already poured it

  in my glass and I’d already started

  drinking it,

  well . . . and

  After

  I’ve eaten five pieces

  of thick, tender,

  juicy meat, and

  I admit, almost eating

  the bone, my grandfather belches

  and says

  to me:

  Okay, enough playing, Chuck. Game’s over. We got work to do.

  Work?

  Hustle and Grind

  The boy just got here, Percy. Let him relax a bit.

  Hustle and grind, Alice. Freedom ain’t free.

  Percy, you’re just talking nonsense now.

  Alice, the grass won’t cut itself

  Can I be excused, please?

  Oh, now the boy wants to talk.

  Percy!

  What, Alice? He hasn’t said but two words since he got here.

  He doesn’t have to speak right now if he doesn’t want to.

  Well, he’s got to work.

  So soon, Percy? Let him rest up.

  Alice, we’re about teamwork in this house. This summer, we all got our jobs. Mine is putting food on this table. Yours is to keep cooking that good food, run this house, and give your sweet daddy some sugar. Now give me some sugar.

  She gives him a kiss. UGH!

  And Chuck Bell, you have one job to do. Just one.

  To cut the grass? I ask.

  To be on the team. To get in the game when the coach calls on you. You know who the coach is?

  You.

  That’s right, Chuck Bell, I’m the coach. Percy Bell, husband to Alice Johnson Bell, father to LeRoy and Charmaine and . . . your father—may he rest in peace—Joshua Bell.

  Who cut the grass before I got here?

  That’s your response to everything your grandfather has been saying? my mom asks, shaking her head and getting up from the table to put the dishes away.

  Listen to your grandfather, Charlie. Some of this stuff might actually make sense, Grandma adds, smiling and patting me on the back.

  Doesn’t matter about before, only after. The game isn’t over son—you gonna learn that. This is the first quarter. We’re just getting started.

  Percy, this isn’t the Boys and Girls Club. You’re going to talk us all crazy. Just take the boy outside and show him how to use the lawnmower.

  That’s what I been trying to do, ’cause the grass won’t cut itself

  I know how to use a lawnmower, I say, then add, This sucks, loud enough for no one to hear but me.

  Thought

  I’d give anything

  to be at Disney World

  right now.

  He watches me

  push the mower

  shows me how

  to lift the side

  to get the corners,

  tells me,

  Proper way is to cut it at a diagonal. Looks better.

  T
hen he keeps correcting

  the way I turn

  at the end

  of each row,

  tells me never, ever

  pull it backwards.

  Always push, Charlie,

  to get the blades

  of grass lying

  in the same direction, like

  little green soldiers

  saluting

  the sky.

  A friend

  of his in a cowboy hat

  and a way-too-tight

  silver suit,

  big glasses,

  and tie

  comes over

  and they stand

  near the ditch

  at the back

  of the yard

  talking

  and laughing,

  which means

  I get to finish

  in peace

  without

  any more commands

  from the general.

  Conversation with Mom

  How was your time with Granddaddy?

  Horrible.

  It wasn’t that bad.

  You’ve sent me to a child labor camp.

  At least the food’ll be good, she says, smiling.

  Why does he have to call me Chuck? That’s not my name.

  Just enjoy the time with them. They’re not going to be around forever.

  . . .

  I think I’m going to get on the road first thing in the morning.

  But we just got here.

  I know, but—

  You can’t just leave me here with them. I don’t even really know them.

  You’ll be fine, Charlie.

  It’s just not fair.

  I’ll call you every night.

  . . .

  Give me a kiss. You’ll be asleep when I leave.

  You’re not gonna marry some other man, are you?

  What?

  Some of my friends’ parents got divorced, remarried, and the new fathers abused the kids, and that’s not cool, so I just wanna know.

  I am not getting married anytime soon, and if I did, this new husband would never lay a hand on you, lest he find himself pulling back a nub. You hear me, Charlie? A nub!

  And then she starts

  tickling me

  and I try not to

  laugh,

  and then

  she just stops

  and stares,

  wiping

  her single tear,

  and I try not to

  cry.

  I wake up

  the next morning

  to piano

  and horns

  blaring

  bacon

  sizzling

  and sun

  peeking

  through

  pea-green curtains.

  Why are all these lights on

  Granddaddy says

  standing

  in the hallway

  when I come out

  of the bathroom.

  Hallway light’s on. Bedroom light’s on. We gonna have problems if you waste my electricity like that, boy.

  Sorry, I say.

  He’s wearing

  a brown cap

  leather jacket

  and sunglasses

  big as goggles

  like he’s about to

  fly a plane.

  You hungry?

  Yeah, I say, wondering

  if Grandma made

  her famous

  butter biscuits.

  Good, go get your socks and shoes on.

  Where are we going so early?

  You’ll find out when we get there.

  Are we going out to eat? Didn’t Grandma cook?

  Too early for all these questions, son.

  . . .

  Don’t forget to say good morning to your grandmother, then meet me on the porch.

  Yeah.

  “Yeah” is for your friends.

  Yessir.

  Break of Dawn

  Apparently

  every morning

  before breakfast

  my grandfather

  walks from his house

  to a lake

  at the end

  of the neighborhood.

  By himself.

  Well, every morning

  until today.

  The Walk

  Keep up, son.

  You’re going too fast.

  I’m a hundred years older than you. Where’s your hustle?

  It’s just hot out here, I say, sweating, wishing I was back in my room with the fan on high.

  It’s summer, boy. Supposed to be hot.

  . . .

  Your mother’s a real good woman. Too easy on you, though. You a lucky boy. My mother wasn’t so easy. Used to make me get a switch from our peach tree, then we got whupped good.

  You mean “whipped.”

  I mean she spanked us for days, it seemed like.

  Oh.

  Wasn’t her fault, though. She tried her best to keep us behavin’, but we were bad boys. Me and my brother. We used to cause all kind of ruckus in that house. One time we set a trap for a rat and caught a raccoon, then took it to school.

  . . .

  He’s gone now, rest in peace. Both of us went to war. Only one of us came back.

  Sorry.

  Don’t be. He died fighting for this country. Hell of a man, Jordan Bell. Rest in peace!

  . . .

  . . .

  How far are we walking?

  Till the river meets the road.

  I thought it was a lake.

  Till I say we’re done.

  I’m hungry.

  Faster you walk, faster you eat.

  . . .

  Kerplunk

  When we get to

  the lake

  he skips rocks

  on the surface

  of the water

  then hands me

  one to throw.

  It sinks.

  Conversation with Granddaddy

  Dang, boy, you gotta turn it to the side, slide it, glide it, like a Frisbee.

  . . .

  You play sports?

  I skate.

  That’s not a sport.

  They have skating in the Olympics.

  Unless you’re figure skating on ice, it’s a hobby. Your father played football, baseball, and basketball.

  . . .

  He was so-so. I never had time to play with him like I wanted. Too busy working two and three jobs. But he coulda been good.

  Oh.

  You ever have kids, Chuck, you take the time to play with them, okay?

  Uh-huh.

  Course that means you gotta know how to play something.

  Yeah.

  . . .

  Yessir.

  Okay, let’s get back to the house. I gotta shower and get ready for work.

  I thought you retired.

  I did. Mostly. It’s a part-time job at the Boys and Girls Club. I open the club, work for a half-day or so, help the young folks, stay out of Alice’s way. And keep her out of mine.

  . . .

  How about you come with me?

  Do they have an arcade?

  Pinball and some other machines.

  Maybe, I don’t know.

  Look at that! Holy bazooka!

  At what?

  That, he says, pointing

  to the blue-gray sky

  above the lake. The sun’s a coming.

  A new day, a new dollar

  Makes me wanna holler!

  And then he does,

  like a madman,

  which makes all

  the neighborhood dogs

  do the same.

  Breakfast

  While I eat

  three pieces

  of crispy bacon

  sandwiched between

  a biscuit

  the size

  of a hamburger bun

  with butter

  dripping down
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  the sides,

  Grandma fills

  my juice glass,

  wipes down

  her silver-colored

  General Electric stove,

  and sweeps

  the kitchen floor.

  Grandma, um, I was thinking maybe I would go with Granddaddy.

  WELL, IF YOU’RE COMING, THEN COME ON, Granddaddy screams from the bathroom. WE GOTTA PICK UP ROXIE AND BEAT THE TRAFFIC

  I need to pack him a lunch, Percy.

  ALICE, THE TRAFFIC’S NOT GONNA EASE UP ’CAUSE YOU WANNA FIX HIM A HAM SANDWICH.

  Drink a lot of water today, Charlie. It’s supposed to be eighty-nine degrees.

  Yes, ma’am, Grandma.

  CHOP-CHOP, CHUCK!

  Yessir.

  My cousin Roxie

  was at the funeral too,

  but I didn’t talk

  to her, either.

  The last time

  I really talked to her

  was at the family reunion

  when we were both

  in third grade.

  I remember

  she thought

  she could dance real well