Yellow Mesquite (10 page)

“Why did you leave home to come live with your aunt?” Harley asked over ice-cream sundaes.

Sherylynne hesitated, a faint shadow flickering behind her eyes. “There were no opportunities in Vinton. It’s this little tiny place in the middle of nowhere.”

When they got back, the garage light was already on.

INSTEAD OF ENROLLING
in school, Sherylynne took a job as a nurse’s aide at the hospital and went to work on the graveyard shift. Now she came home as he was going to work. In the mornings he would wait for her and they would duck into the garage for a few moments, Sherylynne in her candy stripes and cap, her slender body dancing its angular rhythms against his, her arms floating around his neck, smelling of soap and starch and hospital. Then he would rush off with his hardhat and lunch sack to meet Berry at the corner for another day of setting utility poles for Dallas Power & Light. By the time he got home at five in the afternoon, Sherylynne would be up.
 

And finally, after all those sweaty, agonizing nights of touching and feeling and rubbing and kneading and massaging, all the nights of tingling and prickling and throbbing, genitals raw and senseless, they finally did it.
It
. And once they did it, they did it a lot. He had known from the beginning they would; he didn’t intend to make the same mistake with Sherylynne he had made with Darlene Delaney.

Chapter 10

Bad News

O
N A SATURDAY
morning
,
Harley took the bus over to Lemon Avenue. He got off at Big Shorty Magee’s Used Cars. Two dozen assorted vehicles were parked in rows among red and yellow pennants fluttering in the breeze. Behind the windshields, DayGlo-orange signs lettered with black markers read: “N
O
M
ONEY
, N
O
P
ROBLEM
!” “E-Z F
INANCE
!” “N
O
C
REDIT
C
HECK
!”
 

Harley had barely set foot on the lot before a wiry man in jeans and boots, wearing yellow-lensed aviator glasses and a billed John Deere cap, came out from a little boxy office. He walked toward Harley carrying a clipboard. With forefinger and thumb, he flipped the stub of a cigarette aside, sparking onto the gravel.

“Caught me in a weak moment, son. Child support’s due, and I’ll sell you a fine car today, cheap.” He held out his hand. “Shorty Magee. Looking for anything in particular?”

“Harley Buchanan,” he said, shaking the man’s hand, though he didn’t like the feel of it. “You said cheap. What’s the cheapest car you got?”

The man turned, briefly scanning the lot. “Got a fine little Henry J there, and I can do right by you on it.”

“I can’t afford that car. Besides, I don’t much like them.”

Shorty Magee grinned, pushed the aviator glasses up on his nose. “They do take a bit of getting used to, don’t they.”

“What’s the story on that little black Ford back there?” The car in question sat near the rear of the office. There was no sign on it.

“That little Ford?” The man squinted at Harley, squinted at the car, pursed his lips. “I’ll tell you for a fact, son, that’s a mighty fine car, but it’s a little old. Nineteen-forty-two, one of the last Fords rolled off the assembly line before they started making vehicles for the war.”

“How many miles on it?”

“I ain’t right sure. Let’s take a look.”

Harley followed him back to the car. The tires and the body looked pretty good. The brake and clutch pedals were worn down about right for the mileage—76,000—suggesting that the speedometer hadn’t been turned back. But that kind of mileage on a twelve-year-old car meant it was pretty much worn out. Harley got in and started it up. The acceleration was fair, suggesting decent compression, and while a little smoke blew out of the tailpipe, it was black smoke and not blue, which meant the gas was set too rich for the air intake. That could be adjusted with a screwdriver. Had the smoke been blue, it would have meant the engine was burning oil, the rings shot.
 

Harley stepped out and shut the door. “How much you asking?”
 

“How much you offering?”

“Not much.”

“Three hundred.”

“Two.”

“I can run that car through the auction and get twice that.”

“I can go to that auction and buy it for half.”

“Two fifty.”

“Two twenty-five. Cash. And you don’t have to fool with transportation or auction fees.”

“How old are you, son?”

“I was eighteen in February. Why, what’s that got to do with it?”

“Good. Under eighteen, somebody gotta sign for you.”

“
YE GADS!
” Sidney exclaimed. “Whatever do you want a car for?”

“Same as you. I might want to go somewhere.”
 

Harley had planted sorghum on a Farmall-12 when he was nine, driven the family pickup around Separation when he was eleven, and had gotten a hardship drivers license when he was fourteen—commercial. It wasn’t unusual for farm boys and girls; several his age had gotten hardship licenses. He didn’t bother trying to explain to Sidney how he’d felt bottled up in Dallas without his own transportation.
 

Even so, the car stayed in the garage for the most part. He drove to his sessions with Sidney, and sometimes he drove Sherylynne to the Dairy Queen for sundaes, and once they drove northeast of Dallas to White Rock Lake where they snuggled in the backseat after dark. But he continued to pay Berry each week for rides to and from work.
 

HARLEY STOOD IN
the doorway to his room, watching Sherylynne sneaking up the staircase. Aunt Grace would be taking her afternoon nap. Sherylynne’s skirt amplified the motion of her body. Her every move weakened him. Drawing her inside, he closed the door and put his arms around her, his face in her hair, the faint odor of lavender-scented shampoo, her intimate womanly smell.

But she withdrew, her eyes on him, clouded.
 

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

She looked away, bit her lip.
 

“Come on. What’s up?”

Her eyes rimmed with tears. “I’ve missed my period. Two months now.”

In the moment he took to absorbed what she was saying, his mind scrambled—images of Sherylynne and himself with a baby, his dreams of New York fading…

“I’m pregnant.”

“Pregnant,” he repeated.

She began to cry. “What’re we gonna do?”

Of course, there wasn’t but one thing
to
do.
 

“Don’t you worry about it,” he said gently. “We’ll get married as soon as possible.”

HE STOOD BEFORE
a blank canvas in Sidney’s studio, very much aware, if against his will, of Sidney’s assemblage,
Beaver Trap
.
 

“Don’t think so much,” Sidney said. “Throw that canvas on the floor. Kick it around.”

Harley turned to see Sidney observing him from across the room. “What?”

“Either you intimidate the canvas, or it intimidates you.” Sidney slap-footed across the studio to his side, eyeing him from beneath one cocked eyebrow. “I think this is more than just a pushy canvas, eh?”

“I’ve been thinking about going out to Midland. A man offered me a job in the oilfields a year or so back.”

Sidney stood back, giving Harley an are-you-kidding look. “Ye gads! Are you mad?”

“Sherylynne’s pregnant.”

Sidney stared, then threw his hands up and shuffle-circled the room.
 

“We’re getting married.”

Sidney stopped. He hit the heel of one hand against his forehead.

“It’s the only thing I can think of where I might support a family.”

“Oh? And what about your art?”
 

“You know I can’t make a living at that.”

“A living? Ha! Art, that’s your work. You’re supposed to be dedicated. Obsessed. Art, that’s all that matters.”
 

Harley realized how much Sidney had invested in him, not just time, but trust, emotion, hope.

“What about Sherylynne and the baby?”

“My young friend, that is not your problem.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh?” Sidney said coolly. “Then perhaps you’re not an artist after all.”

Only barely aware that he was following Sidney’s advice, literally, Harley grabbed the canvas off the easel, slammed it on the floor and dropkicked it against the wall.

He was aware of Sidney staring after him as he rushed out.

Chapter 11

Vinton, Louisiana

H
E AND SHERYLYNNE
had gotten the results of their blood tests. As Sherylynne had only just turned seventeen, they were advised that a consent form must be signed by a parent or legal guardian in the presence of a county clerk. Both parent and child must show birth certificates. Fortunately, Sherylynne had brought her birth certificate to Dallas, as it was required for job applications.
 

Sherylynne had written her mother a week before, begging her to go with them to the county clerk’s office in Orange, Texas, to sign the consent papers. She didn’t mention that she was pregnant.

“I haven’t heard from her,” Sherylynne said.

“Call her,” Harley offered.

“She doesn’t have a phone.”

“You know what this means?”
 

“We have to…just drop in on her?” She looked troubled. “What if she won’t?”

“Even if she knows you’re pregnant?”

“She wants me to be happy. But my stepfather, he…” She trailed off.

“He what?”

“We don’t get along.”

Harley frowned. “He ever bother you?”

“No. Of course not!” she said, flushing.

He shook his head “No phone. Okay, we need to get this show on the road.”

EARLY SUNDAY
HE
placed his and Sherylynne’s bags in the trunk, then stood by as Sherylynne knocked on Aunt Grace’s door.
 

“Aunt Grace,” she said, “Harley’s taking me to visit my mom. We’ll be back tomorrow evening.”

“Well…” Aunt Grace said, a suspicious frown, one forefinger tugging at the collar on her dress. “Does she know you’re coming?”

“No phone. We’re going to surprise her.”

Aunt Grace lifted her glasses to her forehead, placed both hands over her eyes, then, inhaling deeply, she set her glasses back in place. “My, my. You young people. Well, please drive carefully. I’ll be praying for God to watch over you.”
 

According to the map, it was three hundred and twenty miles from Dallas to Vinton, Louisiana. The weather was nicely cool, the sky a rich cerulean blue. It was an adventure, the fist time they had been so freely together. Sherylynne sat close, her fingers playing with the hair on back of his neck. He told her about growing up in West Texas, his mother and father, his twin sisters. He hoped he and Sherylynne could save a little money and eventually move to New York. He casually mentioned the job offer from Mr. Whitehead.

“Wait a minute… Somebody offered you a job? In Midland?

“A year or so back, yeah.”

“A year or— What makes you think he’s still got it now?”
 

“He’s an oil man. They always got jobs. I could make enough to support a family. You can stay home and take care of the baby.”

Sherylynne studied him, something working behind her eyes. “Harley, do artists really make a lot of money?”
 

“Best I can tell, good ones do.”
 

“Is Sidney a good one?”
 

“I think so.”
 

“He doesn’t seem to have much money.”
 

“Yeah, well. Sidney’s different.”
 

The one time she’d met Sidney, she’d gone with Harley to pick up a painting. The meeting was a little strained. She thought he was a kook.
 

“I know you’re gonna be a good artist. You’ll make a lot of money. I know you will.” She frowned. “Won’t you?”
 

She was less forthcoming about her own life. Her biological father had been killed in a sawmill accident when she was eight. Her step-father was a merchant seaman. “He ships out,” Sherylynne said. “Sometimes a hundred and twenty days at sea, then a hundred and twenty days at home.” Her mother had a pickup truck, but no phone. Sherylynne worried about her.
 

They drove into Orange, Texas, at 11:30 a.m. Harley pulled into Buster’s Burgers, then a 7-Eleven. With cheeseburgers, fries, a box of Fig Newtons, and a six-pack of Coca-Cola in the floorboard behind Sherylynne’s seat, they crossed the Sabine River into Louisiana.
 

“Another fifteen miles,” Sherylynne said. She sat forward on the seat, picking at the buttons on her shirtfront.
 

At first he thought she was tense with eagerness. But then she slid back down in the seat, hands clamped between her knees, glancing furtively, almost fearfully, out the window, watching the landscape sliding past—trailer houses, clapboard houses on piers, ditches of alga-green water, ragged pines, hackberry, cypress, underbrush smothered under kudzu—everything hazy in the heavy, humid air.
 

“You nervous?” he asked.

She half turned, looking at him aslant. “Of course I’m nervous. Who wouldn’t be?”

They passed a bank of grain elevators, then drove through Vinton itself—several blocks of decrepit one-story buildings strung out along either side of Highway 90—a post office, feed store, drugstore.
 

“I hadn’t realized how…” She trailed off.

“How what?” he said.
 

“I don’t know…how…how run down? Something…”

They left Vinton. A few miles farther she said, “Okay, slow down now. See that mailbox up there on the left? That’s it.”
 

A sandy, pot-holed track ran fifty yards off the highway to a little boxlike house with a screened-in porch on front. An older GMC pickup stood alongside.
 

Harley brought the car to a stop. Sherylynne sat for a moment, watching the house until he thought she might be waiting for him to come around and open the door for her. Then she got out. Harley followed. A shadowy figure appeared behind the screen door.