Someone passed him a plate of food piled high with fried chicken, butterbeans, cornbread, and the creamiest mac-and-cheese casserole he’d tasted in a long time, and he sat next to Miss Becca, who was digging in like she hadn’t seen food in weeks.
When they were done and had cleaned up, the rest of the volunteers left, and Devon and Miss Becca brought some of the empty, half flattened boxes to the recycling bin out back while Rev and Marla finished inside.
It was twilight, Devon’s favorite time, the heat of the day not so bad anymore, the sky gray and blue, with a hazy orange glow off in the distance. From somewhere, an owl hooted, like it was welcoming the night.
“There!” he said, and jumped basketball-style to toss the final flattened box inside.
He cheered like he’d made the winning shot, arms raised high in victory, when he noticed Miss Becca staring at his midsection, a funny look on her face.
He glanced down, realized too late his T-shirt had lifted up, and he was standing directly under the streetlight, which lit his bruises like his very own look-at-me spotlight.
“Oh, this?” He forced a laugh. “Don’t you worry, Miss Becca. I took a really bad fall on my bike last week. I’m all better, though ithurt like crazy for a while.”
He shrugged like it was nothing, all the while crossing his fingers that she’d buy it. His heart thudded like it was in his throat, and his mouth got super dry, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to cry or run or hold on tight and see it through, play the game.
He shouldn’t have let his guard down, should have remembered the bruises, but with Uncle T still gone on his trip, he’d felt like he was on top of the world, carefree, like everything had all been a bad dream, but for Memaw still in the bed, and he really didn’t quite know what to do about that.
Miss Becca was still staring, but she had scrunched her brow now, and he saw it was more with sympathy than with suspicion. His heart thudded downward, out of his throat and back where it belonged, and he managed to swallow.
“Wanna see? It’s pretty nasty,” he said, started to lift his shirt like it really was all nothing, an accident like he’d said, and she crept closer.
“Ugh, poor you. That looks like it kills!”
“What does?” Marla stepped outside then, car keys jangling, Rev right behind her.
“I fell off my bike last week,” he said, and he saw their faces turn to worry. “The bike’s fine, though, rides like before, but I got all bruised up. The kids at camp said it could have been a lot worse. One of them took a spill not too long ago and broke his leg.”
Devon grimaced, then pointed to Marla’s keys.
“Time to go?”
Miss Becca pulled out her own keys. “Want me to drive you? I’m pretty sure I can fit your bike in the back. I assume you rode your bike here.”
“No thanks, Miss Becca. Marla and Rev here said they’ll run me home.”
Marla nodded. “We’ve got some business out that way. Ourstanding after-supper date with Miz Louree Jackson, matriarch of Dahlia, to hear her tell it.”
“Miz Louree’s a shut-in,” Devon said.
Miss Becca giggled. “Sounds like a prisoner.”
Rev laughed, slapped his leg. The sound made a sharp clap, echoed through the small enclosure.
“I always say the same thing.” He reached over, gave Miss Becca’s hand a shake. “Nice of you to join us tonight, Miss Becca. We welcome you back every week. Hope to see you Sunday, too.”
Marla drove the SUV, Devon’s bike in the way back and the to-go box for Memaw resting on his lap, while Rev leaned back, closed his eyes. Devon was quiet on the drive, though Marla asked a few questions about Miss Becca, and whether he thought she’d come again, and whether she’d liked the giveaway, and whether Devon needed anything for his bruises.
“I’m okay, but thanks.”
“If you’re sure, honey. We’re here for you.” She turned around to look at him when she pulled up to his house, put the SUV in park. “Like family.”
“I know.”
They waved when they pulled away, and he thought about that word, family, and wished it really were so. Wished he could just go live with them, move right into the parsonage, him and Memaw. Or even, he admitted in the private corner of his heart, just him. Though he knew that was a wrong way to think. He needed Memaw and Memaw needed him, and Robinsons stuck together. He’d promised Mama. And besides, who would take care of the memory garden if they didn’t live here anymore?
He thought about JJ and his dad, remembered the last time they’d gone fishing. Sunday. T hadn’t been around, so he hadn’t stayed out so long this time, but they’d caught a few bass apiece, and JJ’s dad let them go off again to the tunnel.
“Your dad really doesn’t care?” Devon had asked as they slipped through the grate, stepped inside. JJ’d told him the “keep out” signs were old, and the county had stopped using the drain like forty years ago or something.
