Shaking the Sugar Tree by Nick Wilgus

release from prison. She had told me not to, had made no bones about it. I had refused to listen. I’d gotten his hopes up, and she had dashed them. Might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water in his face.
    I should have known. I thought time or circumstance might have changed her mind, or just the happiness of finally getting out of prison, or….
    I don’t know what I thought.
    Seems like nothin’ ever comes to no good up on Choctaw Ridge
    And now Billy Joe MacAllister’s jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge
    I made toast, fixed a cup of coffee, stood at the window looking outside at Jackson Street as Tupelo got ready to face another day of heat and humidity. I thought about the impossibility of knowing what was in peoples’ hearts, of ever really knowing what they thought, or what they wanted, or why they did what they did.
    Noah came to the table. He hadn’t dressed and had ugly bruises on his forehead. He sat down without checking in with me, which was not a good sign. The bones on his ribcage were clearly outlined, as if I was starving him to death.
    I went to him, looked at the bruises. He winced when I pushed on one of them too hard.
    Are you hungry? I asked.
    He shrugged.
    I made toast, lathered it with grape jelly, grabbed a strawberry yogurt from the fridge, set them before him with a glass of juice.
    He looked at it with disinterest.
    Are you okay? I asked.
    He shrugged.
    I have to get ready for work, I said. Eat your food. Get dressed.
    He took his eyes away, ending the conversation.
    I stood behind his chair, put an arm across his chest, bent to kiss his hair. He put his hands over my arms, letting his head lean back against me. Checking in at last. Touching me to make sure I was real, that I was still there, that everything was all right.
    I crouched down next to him, looking at him carefully.
    Why, Daddy? he asked.
    I don’t know.
    Why does she hate me?
    She’s confused.
    He lowered his eyes, bit his lip. Then he sighed, picked up a piece of toast, and began to eat.
    I showered, dressed in my FoodWorld uniform, and soon we were out the door and walking down the street hand in hand to Mrs. Humphries’s house a block down.
    An old black woman now retired from FoodWorld, Mrs. Humphries was helping to raise her deaf granddaughter, Keke, who was Noah’s best friend. Keke’s mother Tonya had gotten one of the coveted jobs at the new Toyota plant in Blue Springs working the night shift.
    Keke saw us coming and hurried down from the porch.
    Hi, Mr. C!
    “Hi, Keke,” I said.
    She took Noah’s hand and led him inside, anxious to get underway with the day’s activities. With Keke, there was no telling what it might be. Last time they had made little concrete bricks with their handprints. One day had been devoted to a formal dinner inside Keke’s large doll house.
    Mrs. Humphries sat on the porch with her suitor, Mr. Eddie.
    “Good morning, Mrs. H., Eddie,” I said.
    “Morning, Wiley,” Mrs. Humphries said. “I don’t like that look on your face. Did you take that boy to see his mama?”
    I nodded.
    “Was it ugly?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, don’t you worry. The Lord gon’ make a way in his own good time.”
    “I sure wish he would make a way for me,” Eddie said, leering at her just slightly.
    “You shut up,” she said in a friendly voice.
    “Hear the way she sass me?” Eddie said. “If we was married, I’d be taking you across my knee!”
    Mrs. Humphries laughed at this ridiculous image.
    “Don’t take no nonsense off him, Mrs. H.,” I said.
    “You know me,” she replied. “I’ll throw him off this porch if he don’t do right.”
    “How’s Miss Tonya?” I asked, referring to her daughter.
    “Oh, they work her like a dog, but it’s good pay. She stopped at the store to get some food for the kids. Ought to be home shortly.”
    “I’m off at two,” I said.
    “You have a good day, Wiley.”
    “Y’all be good,” I said.

13) Fifteen items or less
     
    W ORKING THE express