“Right, well, you could definitely do that, but you might want to think about something you’re really passionate about.If you don’t care that much about the church, it’s going to come through, and you want people to see that what you’re doing matters to you personally.”
“I guess,” I say.
I must have sounded pretty glum because Mr.Somerset laughs.“We can brainstorm some ideas.There are a couple of food pantries.And I know you’re good with kids, so we could talk to the high school, see if they have anything they need help with.Maybe something you’ve got a family connection to.Besides the church, I mean.”
Mr.Hazard’s voice comes up the stairs.“You can volunteer at Gray’s nonprofit, the intimate partner violence one, since he’s clearly trying to rope John and me into helping.”A beat passes, and he adds, “That was a real mind-fuck of a sentence.”
Mr.Somerset’s eyes get a little wide, and he does this tiny shake of his head.“Yeah, definitelydon’tdo that.”
4
Sam
I drive home.
I still don’t know what I’m going to do.It’s not that Mr.Somerset and Mr.Hazard didn’t want to help me, but they were right—I’m the one who has to decide, and they can’t make the decision for me.Even though you know Mr.Hazard wouldloveto make the decision for me, Mr.Somerset won’t let him.
So, as I drive, I think.There’s always drugs.Smithfield is about the worst part of Wahredua, and when I patrol there, I see all sorts of stuff.There’s sex work, too.Mr.Somerset said you’re not supposed to call it prostitution, and you definitely aren’t supposed to call it whoring, which I guess everybody knows, but Gran still says it sometimes.Like when she forgot to pay the light bill and said sheranto the post office to drop off that check, and she was sweating like a whore in church.But she doesn’t mean anything by it.
Detective Dulac has a nonprofit.
Rural poverty is another one.We had to learn about that at one of our trainings because it’s a big problem in Missouri.Maybe that’s what I should do.Or human trafficking, since that was a big problem around here not too long ago.
Detective Dulac has a nonprofit, and Mr.Hazard and Mr.Somerset are going to volunteer there.
Or maybe gun violence.Something about teaching people to lock up their guns.There was a kid, Danny Johnson, who shot his sister when we were in third grade.I was too little to know anything except that it was awful, but I think about it now, and I want to go back in time and knock Mr.Johnson around because he didn’t have a gun safe.
But Detective Dulac has a nonprofit.Not that I want to work with Detective Dulac.He can be funny sometimes, sure.But it’s a lot of noise, too.And sometimes it’s like heneedsyou to pay attention to him, or he needs to rile you up, or he needs to see you blink or look at him again.Shock you, I guess.
But if Mr.Hazard and Mr.Somerset are volunteering there, ithasto be a good organization, right?I mean, Mr.Somerset wouldn’t volunteer there if it wasn’t good.And that would be kind of fun, right?Kind of a different dynamic.Not mentor-mentee.We could show up around the same time to help, and we’d just be two guys helping, and basically that’s how you become friends.
And Detective Dulac saying all that stuff—he’d had that big smile on his face.
I’m still thinking about it as I turn onto our street.
Gran and I live in a brick house in a newer part of town.It’s a ranch, and it’s got a maple tree in the front yard, and I keep the flower beds clean even though Gran only ever puts in vincas and they burn up in the sun pretty fast.It’s Gran’s house, and she was nice enough to let me move in with her when I said I had to get out of Iberia.I guess I could move out now since I’ve had a job for a few years, and Mr.Hazard told me about one of those high-interest savings accounts, and he made me set it up right in front of him.I keep telling myself I’m going to look for a place.But I don’t.Sometimes, it’s good to leave things the way they are.Comfortable.
Except then I see Dad’s truck and say, “Well, shit.”
Right out loud, God help me.
The garage door is up, and Gran’s big old Cadillac is parked inside.I pull into the driveway, and I make sure to keep to my side—Gran’s always coming and going, and the one time she had to ask me to move my car, it was almost midnight and it put her in a real mood.When I get out of the car, the coolness of the end of a spring day meets me.It smells a little like the mulch I threw down the weekend before, and a little like motor oil.Growing up smells.
Dad’s on a creeper under the Cadillac, and when I walk up, he doesn’t even have to look.“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Something’s going on with the fan belt.”
“I looked at that.It’s nothing.”
He grunts.“Your gran’s in the kitchen.”
I go into the house.Gran keeps it real nice, and we painted everything last year and did the floors the year before that.Gran calls herself management, and that means she picks out the colors and tells me where to put things, and she calls me labor, so I move and lift and do pretty much the rest of it.I told Mr.Somerset about it one time, and Mr.Hazard talked so much about capitalism that we had to go outside.
Gran’s at the counter, making her chicken enchilada casserole.She’s got red hair, and she has what she likes to call a womanly build.She wears the same old housedress every day—it’s rainbow plaid, and sometimes, when I look at it too long, it makes my eyes go funny—but when she goes out, she likes to wear chunky gold chains and big hoop earrings.Lots of smocks and flared leggings.She pulls them up high because she likes people to see her socks, and one time, Dad said she looked like she was giving herself a wedgie.A few years back, she tried meditating, and she wore a huge ankh and had a friend named Denise.Dad calls those her Mr.T years.
“Hey, Gran.”
