He’d slept maybe two hours, then woke at four and sat there, wide awake, the light from Mrs. Brown’s porch light casting a faint glow on Memaw’s face.
Could he leave her? Could he just run off for good, see if Rev and Marla could take him in, protect him?
But “could” wasn’t even the question.
Robinsons stick together.
He remembered when Mama had said it that last time, in the hospital bed, the hum of oxygen and the soft puffs of the machine at her bedside the only other sounds besides her voice.
“You need to take care of each other, baby,” she’d told him, calmly and patiently, like her body wasn’t shutting down, like they hadn’t called him in for his final goodbye.
He’d promised her, then: He’d never let her down. He’d stick with Memaw and Memaw would stick with him. They were a team. For now and for always.
Only he was at the end of his rope now, and he wasn’t sure he could keep his promise anymore. Would Mama want him to? Would she have told him to leave a long time ago? Or told him to tough it out, sustain, carry on the fight?
“Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might,” she’d scrawled in the Bible, from Ephesians 6:10.
But he wasn’t like her. Wasn’t even like CJ. He wasn’t strong at all.
If he went back, he might not make it out alive.
A thought came to him then—maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Then he’d be with Mama again, and Jesus. Jesus had been through this and worse. Jesus understood.
He gripped the handlebar of his bike, took a deep, centering breath, and pedaled down First Street, heading to the corner store.He needed some hard work, a few dollars from Mr. Allen, and time to think.
Plenty of time.
???
Uncle T’s car was gone by the time he gathered his courage and headed home a couple hours later. As he walked to the house, he passed by Mama’s memory garden, touched the cross at the center for comfort. Strength.
Padding up the back stairs, he put his hand on the doorknob, closed his eyes a moment. One of the psalms popped into his mind: “The Lord is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do to me?”
He found Memaw dozing in the recliner.
“Memaw,” he whispered, leaned close.
He said it again and she stirred, eyes half-lidded and drowsy, then opened fully to look at him straight, like she knew and had been waiting, like she wanted him to say the words once and for all.
“Tell me, boy.” Her voice was soft, and he knelt in front of her, clasped her hand.
The words wouldn’t come at first, but then they did, like they were a roomful of water unleashed with the opening of a door. He told her everything—the drugs, the late-night parties, the threats. Slipped off his jacket and showed her his wrists, the still-fading bruises on his ribs.
He needed to get it all out, needed to make her see what was happening, why they needed to go.
As she listened, he saw her eyes narrow and glisten, at first with tears, but by the time he reached the end, with a rage he’d never seen before. And finally the words were done and he sat, numb and empty.
She stared back at him, her mouth opening to speak, then shutting as she appeared to consider, rethink, start again.
He swallowed. “Memaw, we—we need to go. You and me, just get up and go. We’ll walk over to Mrs. Brown’s, and … and you can wait there while I ride out to get Rev and Marla, and I know they’ll take us in, help us make a plan, and then we’ll—”
“We’ll do nothing of the sort.” Memaw struggled to sit upright, her eyes hard, harder than he’d ever seen from anyone, ever. “This is my house, mine and yours. And nobody, son or not, has the right to walk in here and bully his way into a takeover.”
Her hands shook as she tried to stand, and Devon’s eyes were wide.
“Memaw, sit back down.” They needed to gather their things, go, not sit around getting angry.
He glanced at the door, stomach roiling. Any second now, Uncle T could walk in.
