Read Online Slow Way Home by Michael. Morris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael. Morris
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sideburns glanced at me over black glasses. He halfway smiled and continued scribbling on a pad. Mama’s lawyer. Nairobi had prepped me on who I would find inside the judge’s chambers. She had told me to be myself and that everything would work out fine.
“Brandon, I want us to get to know each other a little better. You know, chew the fat as they say,” the judge said. “Now this is Mr. Jeffords.
He’s working with your mother just like Nairobi is working with your grandparents.”
Mr. Jeffords smiled bigger this time, and the woman sitting in front of the little typewriter started pecking away.
The judge rubbed his hands and looked up at the ceiling. “So tell me, how’s school going?”
“Fine.” My comment echoed against the high ceiling, and the woman clicked at the little typewriter.
“I see you make excellent grades.” The judge flipped the file open and glanced at the pages. “They tell me you’re a smart one.”
The clicking of the typing filled my ear. Bouncing off the ceiling, it sounded like clicks from a gun. “Good grades are very important.
But what about downtime, are you able to have fun as well?”
“Yes, sir. I play with Mac and Mary Madonna a lot. Poppy put up a tire swing for me. Sometimes we play inside the old car Poppy uses for parts when the tractor gets messed up.” I moved to the edge of the chair, hoping to see the notes the judge was making. The vision of my permanent record sprawled open on the guidance counselor’s desk came to mind.
“Mac and Mary Madonna are Brandon’s cousins. They live next door,” Nairobi said.
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m i c h a e l m o r r i s
“I see. Well, tell me about your friends. Do you have friends visit you at your grandparents’?”
I wanted to explain that we lived away from the city, but decided against that for fear that the judge would think that we were back-woods. “Sometimes. My friend Poco comes by.”
The judge rubbed his chin the way I used to picture Santa doing whenever he made out his naughty-and-nice list. “Poco? Does he go to your school?”
“No, sir. I see him down by the Farmers Market. He lives with his granddaddy. They farm too so . . .”
“What sort of things do you like to do with your grandparents?
You know, special things on the weekend or after school?”
The ticking from the clock sounded louder. “Uhh . . . I go fishing with Poppy. He picks me up from school sometime.” More notes were scribbled in my file. “But only once in a while. Nana picks me up after school. We go by the Dairy Queen and have milkshakes. So . . .”
“I understand your mother came by the school recently.” The judge quickly looked up, and I gripped the edge of the chair until the grooved wood began to feel like it was apart of me. “How did you feel about seeing her?”
“I don’t know. She just showed up is all.”
“What did you do when you lived with your mother? I mean after school and on the weekends?”
The scent of Mama’s freshly washed hair swept over me, and I turned to see if she had walked into the room. The woman at the little typewriter smiled and glanced back down at the machine.
“We’d go places. To the flea market and stuff.”
“Do you miss not having her around?”
The words caused me to flinch. Now I could not only smell Mama, but I could see her too. See her running her fingers through my hair the way she used to do. She smelled fresh and clean. She was renewed. I slipped down in the chair and stared at the letters on the big gray books lining the bookshelf until they blurred into Techni-color red. The judge faded, and suddenly the row of books behind Slow Way Home
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him became a movie screen to my mind. I watched the clip of Mama and me acting the fool one Saturday at the flea market. Just the two of us. She put on an old blue hat with a flower on it and pursed her lips until I bent over laughing. Her teeth were pure white and the hat sky blue. Colors so real and bright that I wanted to reach
“Brandon, I want us to get to know each other a little better. You know, chew the fat as they say,” the judge said. “Now this is Mr. Jeffords.
He’s working with your mother just like Nairobi is working with your grandparents.”
Mr. Jeffords smiled bigger this time, and the woman sitting in front of the little typewriter started pecking away.
The judge rubbed his hands and looked up at the ceiling. “So tell me, how’s school going?”
“Fine.” My comment echoed against the high ceiling, and the woman clicked at the little typewriter.
“I see you make excellent grades.” The judge flipped the file open and glanced at the pages. “They tell me you’re a smart one.”
The clicking of the typing filled my ear. Bouncing off the ceiling, it sounded like clicks from a gun. “Good grades are very important.
But what about downtime, are you able to have fun as well?”
“Yes, sir. I play with Mac and Mary Madonna a lot. Poppy put up a tire swing for me. Sometimes we play inside the old car Poppy uses for parts when the tractor gets messed up.” I moved to the edge of the chair, hoping to see the notes the judge was making. The vision of my permanent record sprawled open on the guidance counselor’s desk came to mind.
“Mac and Mary Madonna are Brandon’s cousins. They live next door,” Nairobi said.
50
m i c h a e l m o r r i s
“I see. Well, tell me about your friends. Do you have friends visit you at your grandparents’?”
I wanted to explain that we lived away from the city, but decided against that for fear that the judge would think that we were back-woods. “Sometimes. My friend Poco comes by.”
The judge rubbed his chin the way I used to picture Santa doing whenever he made out his naughty-and-nice list. “Poco? Does he go to your school?”
“No, sir. I see him down by the Farmers Market. He lives with his granddaddy. They farm too so . . .”
“What sort of things do you like to do with your grandparents?
You know, special things on the weekend or after school?”
The ticking from the clock sounded louder. “Uhh . . . I go fishing with Poppy. He picks me up from school sometime.” More notes were scribbled in my file. “But only once in a while. Nana picks me up after school. We go by the Dairy Queen and have milkshakes. So . . .”
“I understand your mother came by the school recently.” The judge quickly looked up, and I gripped the edge of the chair until the grooved wood began to feel like it was apart of me. “How did you feel about seeing her?”
“I don’t know. She just showed up is all.”
“What did you do when you lived with your mother? I mean after school and on the weekends?”
The scent of Mama’s freshly washed hair swept over me, and I turned to see if she had walked into the room. The woman at the little typewriter smiled and glanced back down at the machine.
“We’d go places. To the flea market and stuff.”
“Do you miss not having her around?”
The words caused me to flinch. Now I could not only smell Mama, but I could see her too. See her running her fingers through my hair the way she used to do. She smelled fresh and clean. She was renewed. I slipped down in the chair and stared at the letters on the big gray books lining the bookshelf until they blurred into Techni-color red. The judge faded, and suddenly the row of books behind Slow Way Home
51
him became a movie screen to my mind. I watched the clip of Mama and me acting the fool one Saturday at the flea market. Just the two of us. She put on an old blue hat with a flower on it and pursed her lips until I bent over laughing. Her teeth were pure white and the hat sky blue. Colors so real and bright that I wanted to reach
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