Deacon Locke Went to Prom

  It was nearly midnight by then. I sat in the cafeteria until morning, making plans for the financial future.

  I can probably earn ten dollars an hour at the hardware store or wherever. That’s about $1,600 a month, before taxes.

  Jean owns her house outright, so there’s no mortgage payment. Now let’s say for food and gas, $500 a month. Utilities and taxes, another $500. Insurance and things that haven’t occurred to me, maybe another $500, but I have a feeling I’m underestimating.

  So far, so good. But if Jean has to go into a nursing home, I have to take that into account. How much would that run?

  I do a quick Google search. When I see the cost for a private room in a decent-looking facility, I’m sure I’m looking at the yearly rate, not the monthly.

  It’s about five times what I could earn in a month. I desperately search for grants and assistance for this sort of thing, but I don’t understand any of the websites I find. They all seem to imply that help with this thing is hard to come by, and the waiting period is long.

  Also, it’s illegal to sell your kidney, at least in this country.

  Soon my table is covered with empty coffee cups and napkins with scribbles all over them. People begin to join me in the cafeteria, elderly people and nurses about to start their shift. No one notices me.

  The numbers. The damn numbers. I cannot afford to take care of Jean.

  Even if I became a TV star, it wouldn’t be enough. Though it would certainly help. . . .

  Maybe I’ll be able to track down Dad and he can do something. Or my aunt Karen. I think she’ll be headed for Sturgis this time of year. . . .

  The alarm on my phone buzzes. It’s seven forty-five. Time to face Jean. I plaster on a smile. I cannot let her know the desperate nature of our money situation.

  I stand in the corridor, hovering outside her room. Suddenly, I’m scared. I’m scared that when I go into that room, the person there won’t be my grandmother. She won’t recognize me again. That maybe I’m already too late.

  I hesitate, then knock.

  “Come in!” sings Jean. I peek through the door.

  I’d expected to find Jean lying in her bed, but she sits at a tiny desk, dressed, primped, and powdered. Her face splits into a smile when she sees me. Then she frowns, staring. For a second, I’m afraid she doesn’t remember who I am. Then I realize she’s startled by the bandage across my nose. She smiles again.

  “Eight on the dot. I knew you wouldn’t make me wait.”

  We embrace.

  “I’m sorry, Jean. I’m . . . sorry for everything.”

  She pushes me away to arm’s length. “Sorry for what? I’m the one who should be apologizing. I haven’t been honest with you. Sit down, we need to talk.”

  I sit on the bed. Jean used to take such pride in the living room, the parlor, the dining room, and now her guests have to sit on the bed.

  “Deacon, several years ago, I was diagnosed with early-onset dementia.”

  I wince. A real diagnosis from a doctor. The words don’t mean much to me, but obviously, they’re not good.

  “It was right before you moved in,” she continues. “My doctor advised me not to take on the responsibility of raising a child, but I wasn’t about to let your father turn you into a junior gangster. I thought you were worth taking care of, and I was right.”

  I will not get choked up. I will be strong for Jean. “You probably saved my life.”

  She smiles. “I think you would have survived, somehow. But things are starting to slip. I’m losing my marbles, honey.”

  “No!” I shout. “It’s just age. You’re just a little confused sometimes.”

  “That’s because I’m such a good BSer. Most of the time, I’m fine. But more and more often . . . it’s hard to talk about. Like with the fire the other day. Or—was it yesterday?—when I didn’t recognize you. I’m slipping, and I don’t need to be living out in the country by myself.”

  I stiffen my spine. “You won’t be. Not now, not ever. I—”

  She cuts me off. “I spoke to my lawyer yesterday. It’s all been arranged.”

  The room seems very cold all of a sudden. “What’s been arranged?”

  “I’m moving into an assisted-care facility. A place where someone can watch out for me. You said it yourself, that house is too big.”

  “Jean, I meant like a condo or something!” I sputter. “And it was a dumb suggestion. You already have a place to live. We have a place to live! Just come home. We’ll work all this out.”

  She pauses before answering. “I’ve sold the house, Deacon. The golf course has been after that land for years. They’ll take possession in the fall.”

  I jump up. “What? How did all this happen? Where are we going to live? You can’t decide something like this after one bad night! Who’s your lawyer, I want to talk to him!”

  “Sit down! Right now. Calm yourself. This wasn’t a rash decision, I planned for this over a year ago.”

  I fall back to the bed, stunned. She seemed so adamant about not moving when I brought it up. “And when were you going to tell me?”

  She glances to the window, then back to me. “When you were away at college. Or in Los Angeles, whatever you decided.”

  My utter shock must show on my face. “Don’t worry,” Jean continues. “Peggy’s son is in real estate, he’ll help you find a nice apartment when you start college. And your things will be put in storage in the meantime.”

  “My things!” My fingers grip the plastic mattress beneath me. “What about me? Why didn’t we discuss this? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

  She frowns. “You would have argued. You would have fought me on it. I didn’t want you to find out until everything was settled. But my little episode last night . . . it’s time for me to move out. You won’t believe how much the country club is offering, apparently they want to add another nine holes or something. I’m going to send some of the money to your aunt. . . .”

  “Jean . . .”

  “And use some to pay for your schooling.”

  “No. Please.”

  “And the rest will go for my living expenses. I’m going to be moving into the nicest little—”

  “Stop it! Stop it!” I know I sound like a little boy throwing a tantrum, but I can’t take this. I can’t take Jean giving up on herself. “You don’t need to move to some kind of home! You have a home! With me. I’ll take care of you.” I kneel down in front of her, but I’m still looking her in the eye. “Forget selling the house. Forget moving away. I’ll watch over you. All the time. For the rest of your life.”

  She slaps me.

  Not hard. Not at all. But I still stagger backward slightly.

  “Deacon Locke, get ahold of yourself! You are a wonderful young man, but you are still very much a child. You’re acting like I’m going to get better. I’m not. It’s going to get worse and worse, and I’m sorry, but you just are not capable of dealing with things that are happening. There may come a point where I won’t be able to do much of anything for myself. I can’t even remember how you hurt your nose. Do you realize how bad that scares me?”

  I’m tearing and snotting. “That actually happened last night. But Jean, don’t you understand, I’m not Dad. I want to do this! I want to help you.”

  “If you really want to make me happy, then get your ass to California and be on that show. That would really make me excited and proud.”

  I nearly slap myself. “You honestly think I’m going to leave the state now? You think I’m that shallow?”

  “No. I think you’ve been given a wonderful opportunity that I’m not about to let you squander.”

  I’m starting to get angry. “Well, this isn’t your decision. If you want to sell the house, I can’t stop you. But this is my life, and I’m going to spend it watching out for you.”

  I expect more arguments, but she gets a sad, faraway look in her eyes. “Deacon, you know your grandfather Howard was wounded in the war, right?”

&nbsp
; “Of course.” Did she honestly think I didn’t know that? Or does she not remember that I know that?

  “The thing is, something happened to him over there. Long before he lost his leg. I’m not sure what. He never talked about it. But he wasn’t the same man when he returned. He was angry and bitter and scared. He couldn’t sleep, and when he did, he’d wake up screaming. He’d get sullen and not talk to me for days. He’d sometimes punch out the wall or pick a fight with your father. We didn’t understand the psychological side of things, back in those days.

  “And I stood by him. I learned to deal with his moods and his anger. I taught myself not to make loud noises or to sneak up on him. And when he passed away, there I was, nearly sixty, with no education and kids I barely talk to. I did it because I loved Howard. And I’d do it all over again. But I’m not about to make you go through all that. Honey, I know what it’s like to take care of someone who has a lot of problems upstairs. It’s not fun.”

  I never knew this about my grandfather, but it changes nothing. “So you expect me to just abandon you?”

  “Posh. I expect you to visit me at least twice a week, once you start college. But I also expect you to be on that TV show and have the time of your life. I’m still going to be here when you get back.”

  Everything is happening too fast. “I don’t have to decide right now.”

  “Yes, you do. And I’m still your grandmother, and I’m still in charge until you leave home. So I’m telling you, go be a TV star. It would make me very happy.”

  And part of me, a selfish part of me, knows she’s right. Knows that I cannot take care of her, and that selling the house is the prudent thing to do, and that I shouldn’t pass on the dancing show, for the money, if no other reason.

  But it doesn’t stop me from hugging Jean and crying. I can’t sit in her lap, of course, but I kind of squat on the floor and let her hug me as I sob.

  She sobs too.

  After a while, we both lose momentum. She passes me a box of Kleenex, but it hurts too much to blow my nose. Jean notices.

  “What did you do to your face?” she asks.

  I smile, sheepishly, as I dab the mucus away. “I kind of lost it when they took you away. I went to town and picked a fight.”

  “Deacon Locke! Did your father teach you nothing? I mean, I know he taught you nothing, but still . . .”

  “It’s not like that. It was about Soraya.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “I doubt she needs you to fight on her behalf. But please tell her thank you for helping me yesterday. She’s such a sweet girl. I’m so glad she’s in your life.”

  I wince. “We’re kind of . . . just friends for now.”

  This seems to genuinely surprise Jean. “Why? What happened?”

  I shrug. “It’s complicated. Probably all my fault.”

  Jean’s eyes twinkle. “I’m an old woman, and I’ve seen a lot. And what I’m about to say comes from forty years of marriage.”

  “Yes, Jean?”

  “It probably was your fault. Even if you didn’t do anything, it’s still your fault. Go apologize to the girl.”

  Losing her marbles, my ass.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY. THE SUN IS SHINING, THE BIRDS are singing, and I’m about to pass out from exhaustion. I want to go home and sleep in my bed, while I still have a home and a bed.

  I have a lot of decisions to make, a lot of planning to do. But first things first.

  It was an arduous trek to Soraya’s neighborhood. I should have gone home to get the car but what I have to say can’t wait. I’m going to be very busy in the next few months, with Jean, with moving out, and . . . appearing on that show. While I still deny that it’s going to happen, Jean seems to have made up her mind.

  And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

  But I have to tell Soraya how much she means to me, and how much I appreciate her. And how I’m sorry I caused problems for her and her family.

  True to my recent run of bad luck, Jason is in his front yard, weeding a flower garden. He stands up when he sees me pass by. I notice a huge, purplish bruise developing on his face, and I’m not as pleased as I would have expected.

  He grins at me, raises his fists, and throws a fake jab. I join him in his yard.

  “How’s your grandmother?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Not good. She’s going to have to move into a . . . place.”

  He sighs. “Sorry, man.”

  I shrug. “Well, at least she’ll be here in town where I can keep visiting her.”

  “Yeah.”

  There’s nothing left to say, but it would be awkward if I just walked away or punched him in the stomach. “How about you, Jason? What’re you doing in the fall?”

  He flicks a speck of dirt off his immaculate gardening clothes. “I’m going to UALR. Good music program there. It’s time I got out of Fayetteville.” He looks over at Soraya’s house. “There’s nothing keeping me here anymore.”

  I don’t feel guilty. Soraya makes her own decisions about who she dates. It’s not Jason. And it’s not me.

  I extend a hand. “Enemies?” I ask.

  He shakes it. “Always.”

  I walk to Soraya’s house. One of their cars is gone. Hopefully that means her parents aren’t home. She answers my knock.

  “Hey! How’s . . .” She stops, noticing my face. “What happened?”

  “Um, I slipped in the shower.”

  She tilts her head, her brown eyes boring into my lying brain. “Really. Because I talked to Jason earlier. He looks like someone cracked him in the jaw, but he says he fell off a ladder.”

  “Yeah. Small world.” My foot jiggles and I rub the back of my neck.

  Fortunately, Soraya lets it drop. “How’s Jean?”

  Damn. I’d managed to stop worrying about her for five minutes. “Not good. She wants to go into a home. And sell our house.”

  She shuts the front door behind her and gestures to a couple of chairs on the front porch. We sit.

  “I’m so sorry, Deacon. How’s she taking all this?”

  I shrug. “Better than me. She knew this was coming. Me, I was too dumb to realize it.”

  “You weren’t dumb. You just love her and don’t want to see her suffer.”

  I nod. We sit.

  “Soraya? She thinks I should still do the show. But with her health problems, they’d almost have to let me out of my contract if I asked.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  I knead my eyes with my knuckles. I’m so tired I’m almost seeing spots. “The thing is, I kind of want to. Maybe it’s for the money, or the fame, or so I don’t have to watch the house get torn down. But these last couple of months have been weird. I think I’d like to go to California, and I think that makes me a terribly selfish person.”

  To my surprise, she grips my hand. “No it doesn’t. Jean isn’t dying. She’s going to be around for a long time. But this opportunity won’t last. Jean told me herself. It makes her very happy to see you do amazing things like this. To start earning a little cash. To save up for school. Um . . . you are still planning on enrolling next semester, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not my decision, but I think you should go. And I don’t care what my father says, I want you to tell the world what a great dance instructor I was.”

  I kind of wince. “Soraya, I’m sorry. Jason showed me what people were messaging you.”

  She snatches her hand away. “It’ll be a cold day in Arkansas when I give a shit about what some yahoo with an internet connection thinks about me. I’m not some kind of damn Disney princess who needs a man to come and save her. I’ve been handling assholes all my life. Yes, it bothers me. Yes, sometimes it scares me. And yes, it really helps to have friends like you and Jason to lean on. But when it comes down to it, I can live my own life. Jason and my father never really understood that, and neither do you.”

  I lean back in the metal deck chair, whi
ch creaks in protest. “I’m trying to understand.”

  “Well, you’re not totally hopeless.” She smiles at me. I hope she’ll take my hand again, but she doesn’t.

  “Listen,” I say after a moment. “Do you think you’d still be willing to look in on Jean while I’m gone?”

  “Of course I will. I promise.”

  “Good. That makes me feel a lot better.” I drum my fingers on the armrests. “And maybe, when I come back at Christmas, you and I could—”

  “Deacon,” she interrupts. “Let’s worry about that when the time comes. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Not really the answer I was hoping for, but it’s something.

  “Right now, we need to get you home before you pass out in Mom’s begonias. C’mon, I’ll give you a ride.”

  “In a second.” I scoot my chair closer to hers. We don’t hold hands, but just kind of sit there for a bit, watching the unimpressive view of houses across the street.

  My life is in chaos. I have no idea where I’m going or what I’m going to do when I get there. But for the first time in my life, I have a few good friends. A little self-confidence. Some fleeting popularity.

  The future is just a little less scary than it once was.

  EPILOGUE

  REMEMBER THAT MOVIE ABOUT THE GUY WHO’S ready to kill himself on Christmas Eve, but instead ends up having a huge party with all his friends and family?

  I never liked that movie.

  It’s late December, and I’m engaging in my two least favorite activities: moving and entertaining. My father did both of those a lot.

  Elijah is in my new mini kitchen, helping Clara prepare the party snacks. “Hey, Deacon, do you have a colander?”

  “In the cabinet, I think.” I’m not really sure what exactly I have here, other than my bed, a couch, and a TV. Most of the rest of my stuff is still in storage, along with all of Jean’s possessions. It’s going to take me months to go through everything.

  Our house is gone. They’re already landscaping for the new fairways. It seemed surreal when our home was no longer there, but when I saw the bulldozers leveling astronomy hill . . . I won’t be back.