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Authors: Michael. Morris
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never did leave town. The farmhouse soon became a place filled with muffled words and worried stares that would magically turn into tense smiles whenever eye contact was made.
The light from the kitchen bled across the hall floor. I gently stepped on the board that always creaked regardless of where I placed my foot. Nana coughed, and I paused to determine her location.
As I turned the handle to the hall closet, the click from the light switch might as well have been a firecracker. Nana jumped the same time I did, and the hall light shone on me like a police searchlight.
“What in the world are you doing up?” Then she looked down at the urine-soaked pajama leg.
I opened the closet door and reached for the sheets. Her hand was warm against my arm. The pat was as gentle as her voice. “We’ll fix it.”
Not another word was shared as we stripped the soiled sheets and balled them in the middle of the floor. The popping sound of crisp clean sheets reminded me that all was still in order in the farmhouse.
Nana’s long gray ponytail swung side to side as she bent down to secure the sheet. She smiled and nodded towards the dresser. Pajamas decorated with cowboy hats were neatly folded in the corner of the drawer. I clutched them to my chest and hoped the clean smell from fall air had been captured from the clothesline. A smell so clean that it would protect me from the darkness that had seeped into my mind and caused it to take flight with nightmare.
48
m i c h a e l m o r r i s
When I returned from changing in the bathroom, Nana was smoothing out the wrinkles and had the sheet folded down tight like I’d imagine a fine hotel would do. She fluffed the pillow and lifted the edge of the sheet. After I was secured in bed, she kissed my damp hair.
I wanted her to stay and lay beside me, to tell me everything would be fine come morning. I wanted to hear the words from our usual script.
But tonight she just smiled from my bedroom door. Against the back-drop of the hall light, she looked like an angel standing at the doorway.
When the door hinge squeaked as she pulled the handle, my heart raced again. Before she had completely disappeared into the hallway, I did it. I called out as loud as I would have if I hadn’t been used to nightmares. “I want to talk to that judge.”
“Now don’t you worry about . . .”
“I mean it. I want to talk to him. Remember Nairobi told me I could if I wanted to.”
Nana slid into the bed. Her stomach was soft and warm against the small of my back. “Shh, now,” she whispered. The thick arm draped against me and in her clutch I knew there was nothing that the judge from my nightmare, the one with the long white beard and fangs, could do to take me away.
But the judge I faced in real life had no facial hair at all. His white hair was streaked with tints of leftover nicotine. The hair was just long enough that it twirled up at the base of his neck. His gold-wire glasses and easy smile made me wonder if he had ever played Santa Claus down at the mall in Raleigh. My grip on the leather chair loosened.
Rows of wide books lined the shelf behind his desk. The walls in his office were tall and paintings of the beach hung next to me. Mama had always said she wanted to live at the beach. She had always claimed the setting sun helped settle her nerves. Thinking that any minute she might bust into the judge’s office and provide a rerun of the act at school, I gripped the chair again. But there was no screaming inside the room, just the steady tick of a brass clock and the ruffle Slow Way Home
49
of papers as the judge flipped through my case. Just when I started to lean forward and see if my name was stamped on the side of the file, Nairobi rubbed my shoulders. She winked and nodded enough so that her big silver earrings danced. Her chair was so close to mine that at first I thought they were connected like a pair of Siamese twins I had seen in the encyclopedia.
A skinny man with long
The light from the kitchen bled across the hall floor. I gently stepped on the board that always creaked regardless of where I placed my foot. Nana coughed, and I paused to determine her location.
As I turned the handle to the hall closet, the click from the light switch might as well have been a firecracker. Nana jumped the same time I did, and the hall light shone on me like a police searchlight.
“What in the world are you doing up?” Then she looked down at the urine-soaked pajama leg.
I opened the closet door and reached for the sheets. Her hand was warm against my arm. The pat was as gentle as her voice. “We’ll fix it.”
Not another word was shared as we stripped the soiled sheets and balled them in the middle of the floor. The popping sound of crisp clean sheets reminded me that all was still in order in the farmhouse.
Nana’s long gray ponytail swung side to side as she bent down to secure the sheet. She smiled and nodded towards the dresser. Pajamas decorated with cowboy hats were neatly folded in the corner of the drawer. I clutched them to my chest and hoped the clean smell from fall air had been captured from the clothesline. A smell so clean that it would protect me from the darkness that had seeped into my mind and caused it to take flight with nightmare.
48
m i c h a e l m o r r i s
When I returned from changing in the bathroom, Nana was smoothing out the wrinkles and had the sheet folded down tight like I’d imagine a fine hotel would do. She fluffed the pillow and lifted the edge of the sheet. After I was secured in bed, she kissed my damp hair.
I wanted her to stay and lay beside me, to tell me everything would be fine come morning. I wanted to hear the words from our usual script.
But tonight she just smiled from my bedroom door. Against the back-drop of the hall light, she looked like an angel standing at the doorway.
When the door hinge squeaked as she pulled the handle, my heart raced again. Before she had completely disappeared into the hallway, I did it. I called out as loud as I would have if I hadn’t been used to nightmares. “I want to talk to that judge.”
“Now don’t you worry about . . .”
“I mean it. I want to talk to him. Remember Nairobi told me I could if I wanted to.”
Nana slid into the bed. Her stomach was soft and warm against the small of my back. “Shh, now,” she whispered. The thick arm draped against me and in her clutch I knew there was nothing that the judge from my nightmare, the one with the long white beard and fangs, could do to take me away.
But the judge I faced in real life had no facial hair at all. His white hair was streaked with tints of leftover nicotine. The hair was just long enough that it twirled up at the base of his neck. His gold-wire glasses and easy smile made me wonder if he had ever played Santa Claus down at the mall in Raleigh. My grip on the leather chair loosened.
Rows of wide books lined the shelf behind his desk. The walls in his office were tall and paintings of the beach hung next to me. Mama had always said she wanted to live at the beach. She had always claimed the setting sun helped settle her nerves. Thinking that any minute she might bust into the judge’s office and provide a rerun of the act at school, I gripped the chair again. But there was no screaming inside the room, just the steady tick of a brass clock and the ruffle Slow Way Home
49
of papers as the judge flipped through my case. Just when I started to lean forward and see if my name was stamped on the side of the file, Nairobi rubbed my shoulders. She winked and nodded enough so that her big silver earrings danced. Her chair was so close to mine that at first I thought they were connected like a pair of Siamese twins I had seen in the encyclopedia.
A skinny man with long
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