Signed, Skye Harper (10 page)

Nanny spoke so low, it was like she was talking to herself. The windshield fogged up and she had me turn on the defroster.

“Sure is,” she said. And then: “I gotta find a place to pull over. Look for rest area signs, Winston.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

We pulled over twenty minutes later.

“He waited years to get married. All that time we worked together and built the business, and then he found Stevie’s momma, who happens to be almost half his age.”

With the motor home stopped the windows fogged
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over some more. I heard Steve get up and get into the shower. Thelma sauntered out of the back and stood at the door and whined. When I opened up the place to outside, she stared through the screen at the rain.

“Not interested?” I said.

Thelma slunk away and went to wait outside the bathroom for Steve.
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89

What I Didn’t Know

Nanny and I sat in silence a long time. Till the water went off. Till Steve walked out of the shower and back toward the bedroom, a towel wrapped low around his hips, his hair slick and dripping.

“The worst part . . . ,” Nanny said. She spoke as if she had to tell me a secret but didn’t look me in the eye. “The worst part was after Steve was born, his momma tried to buy me out of the business and then when I wouldn’t go for it, she pitched a fit till Leon all but stopped talking to me. Me and Leon? We haven’t worked a full shift together since. I work the front. He manages everything. We only talk business.” She paused. “It’s like parts of my heart have been sliced out of my chest. A bit when your momma left. A bit more when Leon listened to his wife and stopped giving me the time of day.”

The air felt too humid to breathe. “I didn’t know this,” I said.

Nanny stood and shook herself out. She went to the back, where she pulled out a raincoat.

“Some things a mother figure keeps from her kid,” she said.
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90

More Storm

Nanny walked Thelma (who stayed out long enough to do her business then hurried back in to shake off, splashing everyone) and Denny (who ruffled his feathers a time or two then hopped and pecked at the ground). She stood in the rain, that slanted west now, like it pointed the direction we should go, protecting her cigarette that glowed every time she puffed on it. At long last, Nanny came back into the motor home, toweled Denny off, then herself, and gave him a handful of corn on a paper plate. I set to drying off Thelma, picking at black hair that left her body and clung between my fingers.

Nanny was sure there was a tornado going on
somewhere
in Texas. The sky stayed dark with that tint of green. The rained pounded at us, hitting sometimes straight down from the sky, sometimes from the left, and sometimes from the right.

When Steve came out of the back, dressed in surf shorts and an old ratty T-shirt, wearing a pair of flip-flops, the five of us settled to wait out the storm. Wind buffeted the vehicle, and the sky turned even more scary looking.

“As I thought,” Nanny said, but it was hard to hear her,
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the rain fell so. She picked at her thumbnail. I would say, watching her, that my grandmother was nervous.

Cars passed on the highway going awful slow.

Hail the size of quarters slammed against the motor home, and other cars pulled in next to us to wait things out.

“If we need to . . . ,” Nanny said. “If I see a tornado, we run over there.”

Nanny pointed to the squat building almost hidden by trees. The rest stop. “Bathrooms are a good place to be in tornadoes.”

“There’s a good place to be in a tornado?” Steve looked a little nervous too. Good! He wasn’t perfect. I stretched. Acted calm.

In the distance we heard sirens, and the radio reported tornado sightings in several towns I didn’t recognize and called the weather a freak of nature. I wondered if it stormed in Germany. What was going on there?

“Get the cards, Winston,” Nanny said, after I had made myself comfortable. What was she so worried about? Tornado, shornado. I knew in my gut we would be okay.

Plus nothing would stop Nanny from getting her kid. Nothing. I knew that, too, and I bet this weather did and so did God. My grandmother clapped her hands together. “We’re gonna ride this little bit of a hindrance out in style, like we do at home.”
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91

Cards

We played poker until the weather cleared up.

Nanny won every hand.

“She cheats, I think,” I said to Steve, who was getting his butt handed to him by a front-end restaurant manager. We sat at the little table, chips spilled out in the middle of it. Nanny had herself a few good stacks piled on the table just left of her elbow. Red. Blue. White. Little towers growing ever taller. “She could clean up in Vegas, but she refuses to be a betting woman.”

The wind shook the motor home like a big ol’ hand had hold of us and was checking to see who all was in here.

“Is that so, Miss Jimmie?”

An unlit cigarette dangled from Nanny’s lips. “Devil’s play, that’s what betting is,” she said. “And I am too cheap to lose even a penny.”

“Who taught you to play this game?” Steve said.

Nanny paused. Smiled. “Why, your daddy. When we were in eighth grade.” Nanny smiled some more. What did she remember right now? What made her smile like that?

Would Steve teach me something? My stomach tumbled over.
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“Really?” Steve nodded, like maybe he didn’t believe Nanny.

“Why?” I shuffled the cards. They were worn in that perfect way, so they moved together smooth. I made a bridge then, when I thought the cards were good and mixed, dealt everyone a hand.

“My daddy plays every card game
except
poker.”

“Is that right?” I said.

Nanny didn’t flinch like I woulda. She didn’t rise to the challenge or say,
You calling me a liar?
No, she looked over the cards in her hand, moving things this way and that.

“Hit me,” Steve said, shifting cards around.

Did Leon ever talk about Nanny to Steve? I had a strong feeling the two had never spoken of Leon’s first love—my grandmother—and the thought was frustrating.
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92

Plans

When we pulled out on the road again, Texas looked wetter than a kitchen mop.

Rain still fell, and cars drove through puddles of water that sometimes looked the size of a small lake. They splashed waves big enough to surf on.

Nanny had spent some time giving Steve card-playing tips. Like, “Some people say to have a poker face. I believe in having a ‘fool ’em’ face. Pretend like you might have something when you don’t at all.” Or, “Lose every once in while, makes you appear vulnerable.” Or, “Don’t be afraid to take your time getting your moves down right.”

Steve glanced at me on that one. I practiced a poker stare.

“Never knew none of this,” he said. He slipped a rubber band that had almost lost all its stretch around the deck then handed the cards to me so I could put them in our grocery-bag suitcase. “I’m gonna win me some coin from the guys at school.” He looked at me. “You know Aufhammer? Benjy Aufhammer? He’s a running back on the team?”

I nodded though I had never watched one school game and I didn’t plan to. (
Not even if Steve is your boyfriend? Or you kiss him again? Or . . .
” “Not even,” I told myself.)
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“He’s a shark. Cleans my clock every time we play any card game.”

“Shouldn’t be betting,” Nanny said. She held on to the steering wheel now like it was a life preserver. Every time she headed toward a puddle on the highway she slowed. Once someone even beeped and flipped her off as he passed, sending water splashing at the windshield. “Got better things to do with your time, Steve. Gotta a business to run one of these days.”

Nanny sent Steve, who sat in my place up front, a side-eyed look.

Steve shook his head. “Not interested in food. I mean, no offense seeing you and my dad been working that place forever. But, I’d rather surf. Or”—he shrugged—“or play cards for a living. Or build houses. Don’t want to stay indoors all the time.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Nanny said, but in the rearview, I could see her lips were pinched.

Denny hopped around the dining area, or whatever this part of the motor home was called, on the spread-out newspaper. When he could, he pecked at the shag rug. Then after a moment he went and settled himself near Nanny.

Thelma pretended I wasn’t around.

“That’s not what my dad says. He wants me to keep the business in the family.”

“I can see that,” Nanny said, and she gripped the steering wheel all the tighter.
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93

The Alamo

We circled the Alamo three times, Nanny making Steve drive.

At one corner, she had Steve stop, and me and Nanny went out into the pouring rain that was like a slippery gray sheet.

“He coulda been shot right here,” Nanny said.

I looked at the sidewalk. “Wasn’t he in the fort?” I said.

“In the neck, girl,” Nanny said, and I saw she was pointing at her throat.

“I guess so,” I said. Then I took in a damp breath. “What are you contemplating? I see it all over your face. But I need to tell you something, Nanny. I’m not so sure I want the restaurant either. I’m thinking of something of my own. Something new.”

Nanny gave me a look. It was long and sort of drippy, seeing how the rain hadn’t let up one bit and I was soaked through to my underwear. I clasped my arms tight over my breasts that I knew showed through this shirt.

“We’ll do what we gotta do when the time comes,” Nanny said, and then she went and patted the fort, all reverent-like and said, “Let’s get on in that bus, dry off, and hit the road.”
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94

More Mark

Coming out of the storm and heading toward the middle of Texas, Nanny turned on the news where we heard the athletes (including Mark Spitz!) were getting ready for the Olympics.

“I want him to win one medal,” I said. “Just one gold medal. I know he’s setting his sights on seven wins. But if he gets just one, I’ll be happy.” I smiled. “No one in the world swims like Mark Spitz.”

Steve strummed the guitar. “How do you know that?”

I gasped. And not because of the way Steve looked at me from under his bangs, all cute. “Don’t you even know about him?”

“Sure.” Steve played a slow version of the Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

I tucked my legs up under me. “Haven’t you read up on him? Or seen what the news says about him? He was breaking world records when he was eighteen. Mark Spitz might win more than one gold. He’s
our
Olympic hero.” My mouth kept going and it felt, for a moment, like a runaway train. “I know Nanny’s said I wanna swim in the Olympics. But it’s more than that. I wanna win.”
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“She was born with flippers instead of feet,” Nanny said.

How embarrassing! “Not really,” I said.

“I’ve seen your feet,” Steve said.

And more.

I looked out the window. “Feels like ages since I been in the water.”

Steve set the guitar aside. “You were in the Gulf last night.”

Nanny drove, determined to make as many miles across Texas, which was a state as big as the world, before nightfall. Even though Steve had done a good job driving the night before.

“I know that,” I said.

In the bathroom, mine and Nanny’s wet Alamo clothes tried to drip dry. I had on a pair of cutoff sweatpants and a New Smyrna High band tee that Vickie Finlay, cheer captain, threw at me during a pep rally when the high school couldn’t sell them all.

“You almost got the body of a swimmer.” Steve whispered when he spoke. He leaned against the couch, close enough our arms touched. My skin felt made of live coals and I tried not to move too much. “Legs that won’t quit. Not a bit of fat on you. Muscles. But . . .” Steve’s eyes were closed. “But you got a big rack.”

“What?” I sat up, embarrassed and . . . and something else? Yes! Humiliated.
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“It’s not a bad thing. They look good.” Steve sat up now too, eyes open, this slow smile on his face.

“My bosoms are none of your business.” I hissed the words at him.

“I’m just saying. Most girl swimmers—”

“I know about most girl swimmers,” I said. “And breasts or not, I am faster than any girl on the team.
And
I have slapped down a few guys’ records, too.”

Steve was quiet a moment.

“Gloria Steinem would be sickened by your comment.” I stood as Nanny hit a bump, almost throwing me out the side door. If it had been open, I mean.

“I didn’t know you are on the swim team, Churchill,” Steve said. He stood too, even though the motor home rocked all over, and took hold of my hand. His touch sent an electric current through me. Probably curled my hair more, it was that powerful.

“I’m not. Anyone can time themselves and see where they rate,” I said, and shook free of him. I paused then said, “I’m thinking of trying out. I know it isn’t the football team and doesn’t get all the high school press. But . . .” I couldn’t think of anything else to say so I flounced right into the back where I pulled the curtain closed with a flourish. Then I fell on the bed and cried silent tears into a pillow that smelled like Steve.
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95

Being Real

Okay, here it is.

The truth.

I swim for myself.

Me, alone.

And I never thought of swimming for the Olympics till I saw a picture of Mark Spitz.

But I am fast. And strong. And, as Nanny said, I have flippers for feet. I’m a natural.

An odd thought pushed its way into my brain. Could I be such a good swimmer because of my momma?
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96

Apologies

It wasn’t but a few minutes later, I heard the curtain slide open. I was having me a conversation with my imaginary Mark Spitz about how a poor, bosomy Southern girl could swim, if she wanted to, if she worked hard, and if she worked out her shy fears about swimming in front of people. Gloria Steinem looked on, arms folded. I covered my head with the damp pillow.