“The man wants to build some kind of indoor shopping center right at that interchange,” he said. “Turns out your simple-minded old dad landed us on a prime piece of commercial real estate. Can I hear somebody say, ‘Way to go, Dad’?”
“Way to go, Dad,” said Bud, and Janie said, “Yay, Dad.” I didn’t say anything.
Dad said, “Not only is your husband a real-estate genius, Peg. I called up old Charlie Fabricant and told him I was halfway thinking of getting back in the chemical business. He practically begged me to come back. It took some sweet-talking, but he finally got me to say yes.”
Mom turned full around in her seat. “You didn’t!”
“I did! We’re a TriDex family again!”
“Oh dear Lord,” Mom cried. “Oh Lee, tell me you’re not fooling. Did you get your retirement back?”
“Every penny,” he said. “Like I never even quit.”
He hadn’t quit, of course, he’d been fired. And if he’d been rehired, I know it was not Charlie Fabricant who had done the begging. A few weeks ago I would have had something smart to say about it, but since I had become a molded plastic piece of the wheel well, I chose not to offer an opinion.
“You hate Charlie,” Mom said. “You swore you’d never work for him again.”
“That’s the beauty part,” said Dad. “I’m getting a new territory, a whole different district, so I won’t have to report to that son of a gun.”
“What territory?”
He put on a hopeful smile. “Provo, Utah!”
“Utah?” You could have scored glass with her voice.
“There’s a booming market for ag chemicals out there,” he said. “They’re growing cherries and apricots, and pears, and barley. Climate’s supposed to be real nice. Schools are great.”
“That’s a million miles from anywhere,” said Mom, “and anyway, aren’t they all Mormons? We’re not Mormons.”
“Well, that’s where we’re going,” he said. “This new manager Herman Foley seems like more of a straight shooter. At least that’s the impression I got on the telephone. Hopefully he’s the kind of man that doesn’t stab you in the back.”
“Dad. Y’all can’t move to Utah,” said Bud. “I’ve flown over Utah. It’s nothing but rocks.”
“They grow alfalfa out there,” said Dad. “And they’ve got a lot of mink farms. Do you know how much malathion it takes to keep down the red ants on a mink farm?”
“There’s not even a road across Utah,” Bud said. “There’s not a blade of grass. I seriously doubt they have cherries.”
Mom said, “I hope they have good divorce lawyers out there.”
Janie said, “I’ve never been west of Vicksburg. I think I would love to go to Utah.”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t,” said Bud.
Janie said, “Danny? What do you think?”
Why was she asking me? Did she think I might answer? If she really knew me, she would not be talking to me.
I was thinking about the real reason Dad begged for his job back. If we did move to Utah it would not be for the mink farms or the cherries. It would be for me. For my sake. To get me the hell out of Mississippi.
For the first time in our lives, Dad was putting me ahead of everyone else. He knew I could not keep living in Mississippi, after everything that had happened. Dad was not the kind of man who believed in ghosts, but he knew you don’t hang around the graveyard when the funeral is over and the sun is going down.
I would thank him, someday, when I decided to start speaking again.
“Leave him be,” Mom was saying. “He’ll talk when he’s ready. He knows we love him, and nobody blames him for anything that might have happened.”
Dad muttered, “Okay, buster, don’t flash your dadgum lights at me, I’ll move over when I’m good and dang ready.” He cut so sharply into the right lane that I slid and banged my head on the wheel well. Sat up rubbing my head as a Starlite Blue Pinto zoomed past our old green station wagon. I hadn’t imagined there was more than one Starlite Blue Pinto in the world with those particular pinstripes. There went a shiny one, zooming ahead in the left lane, leaving me in the dust.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARK CHILDRESS was born in Monroeville, Alabama, and grew up in Ohio, Indiana, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Childress is the author of five previous novels and three children’s books. His articles and reviews have appeared in the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Times of London, San Francisco Chronicle, Saturday Review, Chicago Tribune, Philadelphia Inquirer, Salon, Travel and Leisure, and other national and international publications. He lives in New York City.
Mark Childress, One Mississippi
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