Earnestine as she allowed me to enter her home. The humble abode, my grandmother’s previously, had been in the family several generations. The only time it was vacant was the brief period when my parents tried to make a go of it.
And we knew how that turned out.
Lucky for us that she didn’t sell it.
“Where’s your car?” she asked, glancing at my tiny rental parked behind her old burgundy Chevy Malibu.
“Gone. That’s a rental. Had a minor accident.”
“Don’t sound minor to me, boy. You okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Didn’t want to worry you with it. How was your day?”
“Same as the day before. My feet a little more sore, though.”
“Did you use that gift certificate for the pedicure yet?”
“No. I don’t like people playin’ with my feet, boy. That’s personal.”
“If you’re not gonna use it, I can give it to Dawn,” I teased. She gave me a playful tap on the shoulder, knowing she wasn’t one to part with a gift, even if it would go unused. I reciprocated by kissing her on the cheek and giving her a big hug.
“How is that wife of yours, baby?” she asked.
“She’s good, Mom. She asked about you the other day. Wants to have you over for dinner,” I answered as I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was lacking quite a bit, just as the cabinets, I’d bet. “When was the last time you went to the store?” I asked.
“A week or so. Been too busy. And you know I don’t leave once I’m in for the night.”
“That’s why I stopped by. Get your purse. I’m taking you by Wal-Mart…before it gets dark.”
“You don’t have to do that, boy. I can take myself.”
“And I don’t doubt it, but I insist.” Last time she went by the Wal-Mart on I-45, she almost got jacked on the parking lot. Security actually did its job and ran off the person before things got crazy. But I wasn’t letting her go there by herself ever again.
“In that little-bitty thing?” she asked, her face contorting over the rental car in the driveway. Her Malibu may have been larger, but it was hardly in better shape.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s bigger on the inside. Crazy space-age styling. Trust me,” I joked.
“Hmph. I guess,” she said, relenting.
On our way to Wal-Mart, I stopped at North Shepherd, waiting to make a left turn. “Saw Dad the other day,” I offered without taking my eyes off the road.
“Oh? How’s he look?” my mother inquired, her curiosity less than subdued. This was how the two communicated with one another. Indirectly and anecdotally through the one thing not destroyed by their union: Me. I was the carrier pigeon.
“Y’know,” I offered, letting her fill in the rest. “He asked about you.”
“And?”
“I told him you were good.” Just as you’ve been the whole time without him , I thought. At one time, Joell Hidalgo was more than a street urchin, entertaining the few that stopped to appreciate his magic. He was once magic itself—a legendary jazz musician and front man for the Asylum Seekers. Before the demons in his head and within the bottle consumed him. Even those my mother would’ve tolerated, if not for the endless womanizing that made things unbearable. I was almost in my teens when I came to learn all the sordid details. Mouthy drunk relatives at reunions say the darndest things—sometimes altering the course of stuff in unexpected ways.
“He needs to take care of himself rather than worrying about me,” my mother spouted, even though it was obvious she appreciated his interest even if from afar. We’d reached West Little York and took a right to take us to I-45. I passed the Popeyes chicken on the righthand side, taking a left beneath the overpass on the green light, speeding up on the feeder road—as best I could—to merge onto the freeway.
“Was he the one for you?” I asked as we passed the McDonald’s followed by a crowded Food Town grocery store.
“Huh? You usually not one to talk about that,” she said with a
And we knew how that turned out.
Lucky for us that she didn’t sell it.
“Where’s your car?” she asked, glancing at my tiny rental parked behind her old burgundy Chevy Malibu.
“Gone. That’s a rental. Had a minor accident.”
“Don’t sound minor to me, boy. You okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Didn’t want to worry you with it. How was your day?”
“Same as the day before. My feet a little more sore, though.”
“Did you use that gift certificate for the pedicure yet?”
“No. I don’t like people playin’ with my feet, boy. That’s personal.”
“If you’re not gonna use it, I can give it to Dawn,” I teased. She gave me a playful tap on the shoulder, knowing she wasn’t one to part with a gift, even if it would go unused. I reciprocated by kissing her on the cheek and giving her a big hug.
“How is that wife of yours, baby?” she asked.
“She’s good, Mom. She asked about you the other day. Wants to have you over for dinner,” I answered as I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was lacking quite a bit, just as the cabinets, I’d bet. “When was the last time you went to the store?” I asked.
“A week or so. Been too busy. And you know I don’t leave once I’m in for the night.”
“That’s why I stopped by. Get your purse. I’m taking you by Wal-Mart…before it gets dark.”
“You don’t have to do that, boy. I can take myself.”
“And I don’t doubt it, but I insist.” Last time she went by the Wal-Mart on I-45, she almost got jacked on the parking lot. Security actually did its job and ran off the person before things got crazy. But I wasn’t letting her go there by herself ever again.
“In that little-bitty thing?” she asked, her face contorting over the rental car in the driveway. Her Malibu may have been larger, but it was hardly in better shape.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s bigger on the inside. Crazy space-age styling. Trust me,” I joked.
“Hmph. I guess,” she said, relenting.
On our way to Wal-Mart, I stopped at North Shepherd, waiting to make a left turn. “Saw Dad the other day,” I offered without taking my eyes off the road.
“Oh? How’s he look?” my mother inquired, her curiosity less than subdued. This was how the two communicated with one another. Indirectly and anecdotally through the one thing not destroyed by their union: Me. I was the carrier pigeon.
“Y’know,” I offered, letting her fill in the rest. “He asked about you.”
“And?”
“I told him you were good.” Just as you’ve been the whole time without him , I thought. At one time, Joell Hidalgo was more than a street urchin, entertaining the few that stopped to appreciate his magic. He was once magic itself—a legendary jazz musician and front man for the Asylum Seekers. Before the demons in his head and within the bottle consumed him. Even those my mother would’ve tolerated, if not for the endless womanizing that made things unbearable. I was almost in my teens when I came to learn all the sordid details. Mouthy drunk relatives at reunions say the darndest things—sometimes altering the course of stuff in unexpected ways.
“He needs to take care of himself rather than worrying about me,” my mother spouted, even though it was obvious she appreciated his interest even if from afar. We’d reached West Little York and took a right to take us to I-45. I passed the Popeyes chicken on the righthand side, taking a left beneath the overpass on the green light, speeding up on the feeder road—as best I could—to merge onto the freeway.
“Was he the one for you?” I asked as we passed the McDonald’s followed by a crowded Food Town grocery store.
“Huh? You usually not one to talk about that,” she said with a
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