“Joshieeee!” Whenever my grandma called my cousin Joshie instead of Josh, I knew something bad had happened or was about to happen. Her head was out the screen door, plump neck stretched to scan up and down Third Street, short stubby bare feet hanging partway over the door jam.

“He’s over at Jimmy Back’s!” I called back from atop my perch on the hot water tank in the front yard, which doubled as my pony in those days. Gigi retreated into the house, the screen slamming behind her.

Bubby Daniels turned the corner, pedaling for our house like he did every day at this time. I could hear his slow, sleepy whistle while he was still a few houses away. Bubby was a permanent fixture on Third Street, pedaling up and down every evening between the corner stop sign and the cracked blacktop lot of the old boarded up Henry’s House of Fashion at the end of the road. He was long and lean, always had a dirty blue bandana hanging out of his back pocket and pedaled like a sloth with vertigo – so slow he teetered back and forth struggling to stay upright. His trademark was working a wad of gum over and over in his mouth even slower than his bike pedaling.

Every afternoon, when his shift changing oil and checking tires at the Grease Monkey was over, he pedaled the three blocks to our little yellow vinyl-sided house to wait for my Aunt T, Josh’s mom, to get home from her shift at Burger Chef.

Bubby pulled up, stopping in front of the water tank. “She’s not home, Daniels – quit sniffin’ around T and get outta here.” My uncle Mike was also out front, bent over his broken-down Camaro with a buddy, the car set up on cinder blocks like an altar right there in the front yard with metal shards and broken parts scattered around like leftovers from some kind of ritual of sacrifice. He had very little patience with the car, muttering and cursing every time the engine turned but wouldn’t start, but he had even less patience for Bubby. Gigi must’ve heard Bubby’s name and made a second cameo appearance at the screen door. “Bubby, can you ride on over to the Back’s and ask Joshie to come home?” Bubby didn’t say anything,

but let his head bob a slow nod and his front tire to start drifting around toward the Backs’ general direction.

Gigi directed her attention to Mike. “Michael, I need you boys to cover the car and take the trash out for me right quick. The Deatons are fixin’ to come for dinner – no smokin’ out front!” The screen slammed behind her again. Uncle Mike and his buddy stretched out the faded blue painters’ tarp over the car and disappeared to the back yard with their stereo and cigarettes. Oakie and Annalee Deaton came over nearly every Friday for dinner, but Gigi always acted as if it was a special occasion. Annalee Deaton was the preacher’s sister and as such, had a direct line to his ear and Gigi wasn’t about to let her wayward son’s smoking jeopardize her position as Sunday night song leader. She’d only recently gotten out of hot water for not having pantyhose on during the Sabbath a few Sundays ago when Annalee arrived unannounced mid-afternoon to bring by some thick slices of Virginia ham and some gossip she’d cooked up.

Within a few minutes, Josh came into view. He was sweaty and dirt streaked like boys are after a long day of playing in the sun. I wanted to know what he and Jimmy had been doing, but I didn’t ask, puffed up because they hadn’t invited me. I slid off the hot water tank and followed Josh inside, curious about why Gigi wanted him home. We found her in the back bedroom Josh shared with my Aunt T, catty corner from the room my mom and I shared. My uncle Mike slept in the third bedroom – it was so small it was more like a closet. There were no more bedrooms so Gigi slept on the living room floor every night, on a blow up mattress we called The Diving Board.

Gigi had the blue hard-shell suitcase out open on the bed, folding Josh’s pajamas into it. “Joshie, your daddy called – he’s comin’ to pick you up for the night.”

“Uncle Gene is back?” I ventured.

“He’s not your uncle anymore. You call him Mr. Eugene. Joshie, do you want to take your long pants or your blue jean shorts?”

I wondered if Mr. Eugene would stay for supper. My grandma always said he had a tapeworm inside of him, that sat straight up with its mouth wide open at our dinner table. I thought better of asking, remembering what happened last time Mr. Eugene came around.

I headed back to my post at the water tank and saddled up. My aunt T was pulling in the driveway by then, windows down and long permed hair pulled back from her face in two lavender barrettes that matched her lavender striped top. I had helped Gigi sew the tortoiseshell buttons down the front.

Bubby Daniels reappeared at the end of the driveway.

“Hey T…how are ya?”

She barely glanced sideways. “Fine Bubby, just gettin’ home.”

“How was work?”

“Fine Bubby.” Aunt T was headed toward the front door.

“Wanna go for a ride?” Bubby motioned toward the handlebars.

“I’m a little old for bikes, and anyways, Greg’s picking me up for a movie.”

“Alrighty…” He paused to let the wad of gum take another turn around his mouth… “guess I’ll see ya tomorrow evenin’.” Aunt T rolled her eyes and walked inside. Bubby picked up his whistling right where he’d left off and started coasting down third street again.

***

Josh couldn’t stay still after he heard Mr. Eugene was coming for him. Dinner hour with the Deatons was long on any night, but it was eternal when something like seeing your daddy was about to happen. Every few minutes Josh was at the front window or rushing to the door because he thought he saw a car like Mr. Eugene’s.

I had that sinking feeling in my stomach, the same one I had last time Mr. Eugene came and made Aunt T cry and Gigi yell. I knew Gigi was nervous too, because while Joshie ran out to the porch to check the street again, I heard her worrying to the Deatons.

“That Eugene always was odd-turned. I thought we’d seen the last of him. It’s been a right smart bit since he called.”

Annalee nodded in agreement. “You know Oakie’s cousin knew his daddy from back home. That whole family is touched. None of those boys ever would work and most of ‘em drank like fish. He needs the Lord.”

Gigi headed to the window and looked through the crocheted curtains where Josh had posted up in her rocker on the front porch, suitcase next to him watching the cars go by. She had her worried face on, the one she wore whenever we were sick or sad.

“Gigi…is Mr. Eugene really going to come?” I had my suspicions, especially as the sun was starting to sink behind Henry’s House of Fashion and the lightning bugs began to flash.

“I don’t know, baby doll, I don’t know.”

***

It was well past dark when the Deatons headed home and Aunt T got back from the movies. Joshie was still on the porch, planted in the rocking chair. She tried to get him to come inside, but he wanted to wait out front in case his daddy had forgotten what the house looked like, he could look up and see him on the porch.

The phone started ringing. Aunt T and Gigi looked at each other, Gigi shaking her head and clicking her tongue.

Aunt T picked up the phone. “Hello? Where the hell are you?”

“He’s been waiting out front all night, Gene!”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“You can tell him yourself, but don’t you dare lie to him.”

Aunt T looked at me, “Tell Joshie to come inside. His daddy’s on the phone.”

I pointed behind her. Josh had already come in and was listening. He had already started crying. Aunt T handed him the phone. “Sweetie, your dad’s having some trouble with his car. He wants to talk to you.”

After a few seconds, Josh’s tears started to dry up and a big smile came broke out on his face. “Really, Daddy? You promise? Oh boy!” He hung up the phone and started to squeal do a jig like his body couldn’t hold in all the excitement.

“Daddy said he’s dropping off a new baseball glove for me. Says he gets paid on Friday and that when I go to sleep on Friday night, it’ll be on the porch waitin’ for me on Saturday morning. He says I’ll have the newest and best glove!”

In our house, toys of any kind, especially new ones, were a luxury saved for Christmases and birthdays, and even then you couldn’t be sure that Gigi wouldn’t just stick to winter coats and wool socks and other things we needed for school dressed up as gifts. Even as kids, when we didn’t understand how much money was a little or a lot, we knew our family didn’t have extra for things like toys or store-made clothes. But a brand-new baseball glove! It was every boy on our block’s dream to have one, new and slick and shiny.

Josh skipped off to the bedroom. Von and Gigi looked at each other for a long moment. Uncle Mike cursed under his breath and lit a cigarette.

***

Saturday morning came and went, and no baseball glove was anywhere in sight. After rushing out to the empty porch in his pajamas early that morning, Joshie had thrown himself headlong onto the Diving Board and wailed his little heart out. Gigi sat next to him on the floor, stroking his hair and humming her hymns. Even after he stopped howling he wouldn’t go saddle up on the water tank or walk to the creek with me. I laid in the front yard on a quilt that afternoon, looking up at the clouds and being glad that when my daddy didn’t show up, he at least sent my other grandma or one of my aunties in his place.

Bubby Daniels rolled around as usual that afternoon. By then, Joshie was wailing again. He’d gathered up some hope that maybe by lunchtime his daddy would be by the house and waited outside again, but Mr. Eugene never showed. Bubby weaved in and out of a lopsided circle in front of me on his rusty bike.

“What’s all that cryin’ about?” He nodded toward the screen door.

“Uncle Eugene promised Joshie a new baseball glove. He swore it’d be on the porch when Joshie woke up but he never came around or called or nothin.’ Joshie’s been cryin’ on Gigi all day.”

Bubby pulled the grimy blue bandana out of his pocket, popped his baseball cap back an inch or two and mopped his greasy forehead. “A baseball glove, huh? Well now…that’s a real shame. I reckon his daddy got hung up somewhere. Where’s your Aunt T at?”

I shrugged. “Out.”

Bubby nodded. “See ya later, kiddo.”

He pedaled off, slowly as ever, whistling that same old tune.

Saturday night found me hanging around in the back yard watching Uncle Mike fiddling with Gigi’s broken toaster. He fancied himself capable of fixing anything, but it seemed to me there were always more broken appliances and unfinished projects littering than the yard and scattered under the carport than there should’ve been for someone who knew what they were doing. As it began to get dark, I walked around front with my empty pickle jar, hoping to catch some lightning bugs or a toad.

Bubby Daniels was off his bicycle and midway up the three steps to our front door with a cardboard box in his hands. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him fully dismounted from the bike – even when he was stopped in front of the house trying to catch Aunt T’s attention, he was always straddling the bike and holding onto the handlebars.

“What’re you doing Bubby?”

“Shhhh…” he put his index fingers to his lips. He set the box down next to the door. It was open on top and whatever was inside was covered with newspaper. “Josh” was scrawled in heavy black marker on the side. He walked back down the steps and threw his leg over the bike. He got back on the street and when he was directly in front of me, motioned me closer. I walked over and he bent down, talking in a whisper. “I left something for Josh…don’t tell nobody it was me. It’s a surprise for him, after what happened with his Daddy.”

“Ok, I won’t tell.” Bubby nodded his head and winked, then headed out on his usual route.

Josh found the box later that night. After being scrubbed clean and put into pajamas, Gigi gave us a plate of oatmeal cookies and told us we could sit on the porch and listen to the cicadas with her for a while. In the yellow, buzzing glow of the porch light, Josh saw the box and nearly flipped his lawn chair over diving for it. “Daddy came!” He tore the newspaper out of the box, crumpled pieces flying to the sides. He stopped and stared into the box, nearly crying at the sight of its contents. He reached in and held up a brand-new baseball glove, shiny and slick in the porch light, with the sales tag still hanging from it. He turned it in the light, marveling at its magnificence, wearing it on one hand and running his other hand over the braided leather seams. He bounded down the porch steps yelling “I gotta go find my baseball!”

I turned to my grandma, suddenly stricken with guilt. “Gigi…I wanna tell you something.” She turned her head toward me, her eyes making their way to my face after the rest of her head – she seemed to struggle to break her confused stare from the box. I hated to break my promise of silence to Bubby, but it

seemed wrong to lie to Gigi or to give Uncle Eugene credit for something so nice. “Uncle Eugene didn’t bring that glove…it was Bubby. I caught him on the porch earlier, but he made me promise not to tell. Said it was a shame that Joshie was crying over his daddy. It was real nice of him, wasn’t it?”

Gigi’s face softened and her eyebrows untangled. “It sure was.” After a long pause, she went on. “I’m glad you told me baby, but don’t say nothin’ to Joshie. He’s had a rough way to go and I don’t want him thinkin’ any more bad things about his daddy or gettin’ his feelings hurt. Promise me?”

“Yes, Gigi, I won’t say nothin’.”

“Good. Now come give me some sugar.” I went to her, and she hugged me tight and kissed my forehead, told me I was her baby doll, and sent me off to throw the ball to Josh in the backyard. For once, she didn’t make a fuss about us playing outside after our baths or worry about Annalee Deaton seeing us outside in our pajamas.

Bubby was back the next day, coasting up and down Third Street at his usual time. Aunt T pulled in from Burger Chef like clockwork. “Hey T, how ya doin’?”

“Fine Bubby, just fine.” She flashed him a big smile and walked toward the street, meeting him at the end of our driveway. “How are you?”

Bubby gulped and stayed silent, staring at Aunt T like she was a stranger.

“Well…how ‘bout a ride?” Before Bubby could answer, she was grabbing the handlebars and climbing up.

“How could you have fallen for her lies again, Mama? You’re going to be broke if you keep giving her money like this.”

Joyce Allen looked up at her son. After nearly sixty years of motherhood, she was a woman accustomed to family drama. She worried deep down that David was right to be suspicious, but he didn’t have grandchildren yet. He hadn’t known the pain of raising a grandchild and watching her take a running leap into destruction.

“David, Amber needs me. Who else does she have?”

David hardened. “Well, for starters, how ‘bout that boyfriend of hers? They’ve got money for cigarettes, and fake fingernails and booze don’t they?” Joyce winced.

“Sorry Mama. I didn’t mean to upset you. Come on, Tasha made chicken and dumplings. Let’s have some lunch.”

“And what about the baby? Think of the baby, David.” She went on, unphased by the prospect of lunch.

“I know, Mama, I know.”

David tried his best to be respectful. Of Mrs. Allen’s three sons, he was the most even-tempered. She had raised the three boys alone – David, Little Ricky, and Danny Ray – since they were four, six, and eight years old. Divorce wasn’t exactly commonplace in those days, but Mrs. Allen’s ex-husband – Big Ricky – didn’t stick around long enough to watch the fall out at church and around town. Big Ricky died within a few years of the divorce, while the boys were still young enough to get his welfare check for black lung after working in the coal mines for so long. Between that and her work taking in sewing and giving occasional piano lessons, Mrs. Allen scratched out a living.

Danny Ray, her oldest boy, had done well. He married young and worked as a mechanic. He and his wife had raised two kids before splitting up. But still, he was a hard worker and a good daddy and now, a grandaddy too.

Mrs. Allen’s youngest, David, had three kids of his own with Tanya, a hearty woman who kept things simple and had stuck with David through all his hairbrained schemes to get rich quick without doing a lick of work. When those plans inevitably failed, Mrs. Allen welcomed him home – along with Tanya, their three teenagers, two hound dogs, and the menagerie of old cars and campers they brought in tow. Mrs. Allen never batted an eye at David’s request for the funds to get his carpet cleaning business up and running, even though he knew nothing about carpet or cleaning. The old utility van she financed still sits under her carport with black electrical tape spelling out “David’s Carpet Cleaning” on the rusty side panel.

But it was Mrs. Allen’s middle son, Little Ricky, that proved to be the sharpest learning curve. Rick had been born wild, even his delivery had been a near-death experience. He was a man who wouldn’t be caged by a steady relationship or a stable job. He felt free to sew his wild oats but like his daddy, didn’t care to stick around long enough to face the consequences or clean up the mess in his wake. His good looks and quick wit were mostly spent by his early forties, used up chasing women and the next adventure.

After Little Ricky had a baby with his on-again off-again girl, they called it quits for the last time. She left baby Amber with him, and despite her good intentions to sober up, the months passed, and her calls and visits faded into nothing. Little Ricky was, of course, completely unable to care for himself, let alone a new baby but Mrs. Allen had been right there to pick up the pieces.

Mrs. Allen raised her granddaughter the only way she knew how, the same way she’d raised her boys. She loved Amber but by the time she reached her teenage years, Mrs. Allen was in her mid-seventies and realizing why babies are born to the young. She had neither the heart nor the stamina to control Amber. By fourteen, she was just like her daddy – running wild.

“Mama…mama?” David held out a plate to her, but her thoughts charged ahead like a freight train at full speed.

“David, Amber needs me. She’s got no one else. And that baby…Lord-a-mercy. But Amber looked good this time, didn’t she?”

“Sure, Mama. She looked fine.”

“Yeah, she did. Her eyes looked good, and she talked real clear-like.”

David looked down. He didn’t want to have this conversation again, but she kept on.

“I think she means business this time. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, but that ratfink boyfriend of hers is dragging her down. But I think she’s serious this time around. She even said that –”

“Mama, let’s just have lunch.”

“She’s comin’ to church on Sunday, David. I’m steppin’ in for Sister Elsie on the piano, and Amber said she’s gonna be there, and bring the baby, and then comin’ for supper after, and I expect you and Tanya to be there with the kids. Amber said –”

“Jesus, Mama, how many times are you gonna fall for her bullshit? She comes around here sayin’ whatever it is you wanna hear just lookin’ for another dollar. She don’t stand a chance and neither does that baby. And you just play right along with her.” He flung the plate down on the table in front of his mother, droplets of broth jumping up on her shirt and chin.

“I don’t like that kinda talk. Amber is my grandbaby, and your niece, and I’ve never turned my back on none of my young’uns. She’s fixin’ to get her life in order and straighten up for that baby and we need to help her.”

“Mama, that baby is near two-year-old and she ain’t done nothin’ different than before. I wish things was different but they ain’t.”

Mrs. Allen looked up, wiping her chin with the tail end of her sewing apron, still tied around her waist. “Let’s have some of these dumplings before they get cold.”

***

Early Sunday morning, with her gray hair in a neat bun and in her best pleated skirt and patent-leather loafers, Mrs. Allen was buzzing around her kitchen ordering Tanya and her teenage granddaughters to stir, sift, and season. David stuck his head through the doorway. “Need anything, Mama?”

“Yes, can you find my good rolling pin in that cupboard above the sink? I’m fixin’ to roll out this biscuit dough and I can’t reach…Tanya, Lord sakes! That’s enough salt! You’re ‘bout to ruin those beans.”

“Let us finish up supper, you just finish gettin’ yourself ready for church.”

Mrs. Allen snorted. “Ha! And have these half-runners salted to death, or my honey ham burned up? Just get me that rollin’ pin and hurry it up. Brother Harlan can’t start preaching without the piano. And Tanya, make sure the girls aren’t in slacks. I won’t have it on the Lord’s Day. Amber’s meetin’ us at church, and I can’t be late.”

“Mama, don’t get your hopes up. You know how she does every time—”

Mrs. Allen waved her hand in dismissal, bustling out of the kitchen in search of her pearl brooch and muttering to herself about the near catastrophe every time she turned her back on the kettle for even a minute.

Forty minutes later, the family pulled up to the Full Gospel Deliverance Church. Mrs. Allen ushered in David, Tanya, and their three children – reintroducing them to various members of the congregation while scanning the wood-paneled sanctuary for any sign of Amber. Preacher Harlan spoke loudly from the pulpit. “Sister Allen, are you ready to get started?” Mrs. Allen took in one last hopeful sweep of the sanctuary, then headed up to the piano bench. “How about Bringing in the Sheaves to start?”

It wasn’t until the third verse of The Eastern Gate that Amber edged in through the double doors of the small sanctuary, taking a seat in the back pew. Mrs. Allen could hardly contain her excitement, even if Amber was wearing blue jeans in the House of the Lord. She figured He could overlook it just this once as a prodigal was about to return home.

***

Two and a half hours later, after Brother Harlan had finished his hellfire and brimstone warnings and several of the brothers and sisters had been baptized with the Holy Ghost, the family sat around the old oak dinette table at home, passing dishes of beans and ham and biscuits. There seemed to be a delicate truce between Amber and the rest of the family, a balance somewhere between the truth and what Mrs. Allen wanted the truth to be.

“So Amber, how’s what’s-his-name? Haven’t seen him around lately.”

“Shane is just fine, Uncle David.”

“Glad to hear that. Why didn’t he come along today? Not in the mood for church?”

“He had some things to do…some things to take care of.”

“Well, must be awful important if it means missing church and family supper…again. Did he find a job or somethin’?”

Mrs. Allen stood up and began to gather the dinner plates. “David, why don’t you bring in that oatmeal cake and slice it for us?”

“Well, actually, he’s sorta between things right now. Tryin’ to find something that he really likes.”

David leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin and letting a guffaw escape from his mouth. “Somethin’ he likes, huh? I woulda thought he’d a liked earnin’ a paycheck.”

“David, that oatmeal cake is gonna be stone cold. Quit gabbin’ and bring it in and my cake server.”

“And where are you and Tanya workin’ now? Last I heard, you all were supposed to be lookin’ for your own place.”

David pushed his chair back and stood up. “Excuse me Mama, but I’m just plum full. That dinner was delicious. I’m goin’ to the backyard to work on the mower, I’ll send one of the girls in with the cake.” He leaned over and kissed Mrs. Allen’s cheek, shooting Amber a sideways glance.

After she heard the back door open and close again behind David, Amber moved to the chair next to her grandmother. “That was a real good dinner Mamaw. Nobody makes biscuits like you do.”

“Thank you darlin’. Maybe next Sunday you can come early and I’ll show you how to roll ‘em out, nice and even. It’s real simple as long as you’ve got good yeast and stiff enough dough. You gotta let the dough raise overnight…Well, baby, why are you cryin’? What is it?” Amber continued sobbing, her grandmother trying to root out the cause. “Do you need rent money again? Is everythin’ ok with the baby? I was thinkin’ he woulda come with you today- “

“Mamaw, I’m pregnant.”

“What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hung heavy in the dead air. Mrs. Allen covered her mouth with her hand, trying to steady herself.

“Well, how far along are you?”

“Maybe ten or twelve weeks…I’m not, I’m not real sure.”

“You and Shane need to get married and make this right.”

Amber opened her mouth as if to speak but seemed to be having trouble finding her words.

“Y’all need to make this right. You can’t just keep livin’ in sin. We’ll make room for you both, and the babies. Your uncle Danny Ray may have some work at the shop for Shane. It’ll be alright, you’ll see. The important thing is to – “

“Mamaw, I haven’t seen Shane in over a month.”

***