“You mean the workaholic tendency? Some lady accused me of the same thing. Mrs. Blackwelder of the ever-present tracksuit? Lives by the newspaper office? ‘Aren’t you the workaholic—in the office at eight on a Saturday!’”
Rebecca exaggerated the accent in a clear falsetto, and Granny laughed out loud, not missing a beat as she snapped the beans.
“Well, Becca, I’d say she’s probably right. You did a full run, then went to work?”
Rebecca shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. And besides,” she said, pausing mid-snap to pat her thigh pointedly, “I’m forty now. Staying in shape isn’t as effortless as it used to be.”
“Oh, sweetie, you are beautiful. But I won’t stop you from running. It’s good for the body, good for the soul. Just take it easy. Life is not a marathon.”
“I don’t know, Granny. Sometimes I feel like when I slow down, I can’t help but think of, well, everything.” Rebecca bit the side of her lip as she snapped a bean. She cocked her head. “Ever feel you have to work sometimes just so you can’t think? So you can’t give yourself time to get depressed?”
Granny continued bean-snapping, but her eyes shifted to the window, scanning the pretty yard beyond like she was searching for something.
“After your Gramps died, I did that for a long time. Threw myself into work at the shop, work at home, work cleaning out his old tools and those dusty books he couldn’t bear to throw away.” She turned back to Rebecca. “But you know I was putting off the inevitable. Even though it felt right at the time. So I get it.”
Rebecca nodded, not trusting her voice yet. After a moment, she whispered, “I thought Peter and I would be married by now.”
“I know, girl.” Granny’s voice was soft. “You get through the best you know how. The sunshine is coming. Believe me.”
Rebecca wished she could.
CHAPTER 8
Devon
Uncle T stayed away for three weeks, long enough for Devon to finish ironing out the last details of the camp plans with Marla and Rev and get the flyers passed out to all the kids at James Watkins, and even at Dahlia Elementary in town, too. T stayed away so long Devon thought he’d finally gotten the message and wouldn’t be coming back.
Truth be told, Devon knew nothing about planning this kind of stuff, but it felt pretty nice to be included. They always took him out for ice cream after, and dropped him off at home so he didn’t have to walk.
“Didn’t you use to have a bike?” Rev asked him last night.
“Someone stole it from the bike rack.”
“At school?” Rev’s mouth hung open.
“Yeah.” He couldn’t tell him Uncle T had thrown it against Memaw’s big oak tree out back last month, bent the frame so badly it was worthless. He couldn’t even remember why Uncle T was mad. No good reason, most likely. Mama had gotten him that bike. Back then, it used to be too big.
Rev shook his head. “I’ll see if I can round up another for you,and a lock, too. We always seem to be getting our hands on extra bikes and stuff here and there. Between the Friday Night Giveaway and everything else we do.”
Devon just waved, hoping he didn’t look as desperate as he felt. He’d love a bike, love a lot of things, to be honest. But sometimes it was better not to want. It made the not-having easier to deal with. If you never wanted anything, you didn’t ever have to feel bad about what you didn’t have.
But deep down, he wanted so much. Wanted it all. Wanted his mama back. Wanted a house with air conditioning and good food. Real food, not the kind that came out of a box or a can. Wanted not to have to worry about whether Memaw had enough money for medicine or whether Uncle T was going to show that night, digging for dollars and whatever else he was looking for.
Uncle T was Memaw’s oldest child. Her only living child, now that Mama was gone. She and Mama had been quite the team, Prayer Warriors, they’d called themselves, and for as long as Mama had been alive, T stayed away.
“We don’ want none a’that drug business, hear?” Devon had heard his Mama yell late one night, when he should have been in bed. “Get on now, T. You get outta here. You might be blood, but what you bring here is bad news, all around. Go and stay gone. You won’t bring this family down. You won’t bring my son down.”
Her voice had been rough and raggedy, like she’d been crying. Devon knew he shouldn’t have been listening, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Your son’s gonna be just like me, Arnetta,” T had hollered back, but he’d gotten in his car, rolled down the window so he could holler some more. “Just you wait, hear?”
T was wrong. Devon would be nothing like Uncle T. He didn’t care how much stuff T’s drug money bought or that they were blood.Once he was grown, Devon didn’t plan to ever lay eyes on his uncle again. Not even at T’s own funeral.
Memaw was a different story, though. Uncle T was her son, her only child left, and she had a soft spot for him, even though he used her and she full-well knew it.
“You think your Memaw knows Uncle T steals money from her purse?” CJ had whispered to him late one night. They’d had a sleepover, and the two boys had huddled in Devon’s room with the lights out when T made one of his surprise visits. CJ’s mom didn’t let him come back after that, though Devon was always welcomed over at CJ’s house.
“I don’t know.” But Devon imagined she probably did. Memaw was the kind of woman who’d give you the shirt off her back if you asked for it. Decent people wouldn’t ask for it. Memaw was old, and her twisted-up knuckles were painful even to look at. Between the cane and the asthma and everything else, she was the kind of person you should be giving to, not taking from.
