Deacon Locke Went to Prom Read online

  But today she just sits there.

  “Jean?”

  I realize, to my shock, that tears are running down her face. I rush to join her on the couch.

  “Jean, what’s wrong?”

  She grabs a tissue and dabs at her eyes. “Oh, I was going through some old pictures, and got a little verklempt. Just being a foolish old woman.”

  I flail my arms in that helpless Kermit the Frog way, trying to think how to comfort her. She never cries! And now that she is, I feel like I’m just going to lose it.

  But as soon as she takes away the Kleenex, the episode has stopped. She manages a weak smile. I almost say something, but there’s a look in her eyes that tells me to drop it. I change the subject.

  “So what are these pictures of?”

  She hefts the album onto my knee. “These were taken my junior year of high school. I’d almost forgotten about them. Look, here’s your grandfather, just before he graduated.”

  I have to do a double take when I look at the photo. In every picture I’ve seen of my grandpa, he has a stiff, almost military bearing. Even my father described him as “a real hard-ass.” That’s why I’m a little shocked to see him at eighteen, leaning against a lamppost with his shirt off, flashing the “V for victory” sign.

  My God, his hair goes past his ears.

  “Wasn’t he handsome?” sighs Jean. “Oh, here’s another good one.”

  I’m shocked to see my grandfather with an eye swollen shut and a bandage around his head.

  Jean titters. “That was when he got in a little dustup with the Kznack brothers. Back then boys were not as . . . sensitive as they are now. They all three got into it at the homecoming game. Howard, God bless him, broke two of Aaron’s ribs.”

  This is a strange and dark corner of my family that I wasn’t aware of. “Why did . . . wait a minute. Aaron Kznack? Principal Kznack?”

  “I believe that’s where he ended up. Don’t worry, this was a long time ago.”

  My mind has difficulty processing this information. “Hang on. . . .”

  “Damn, your grandfather lived hard before the army. Oh, I’d forgotten about this. You know the Ford dealership on Logan Street? Well, there used to be a pond there. We would all go down there on the weekends and light a bonfire.”

  I examine the ragtag group of teens. There’s Grandpa, shirtless again, grinning at the camera. But he’s got his arm around some babe in a bikini top. Quite frankly, I’m surprised Jean chose to save this picture of him putting the moves on . . .

  I squint at the black-and-white photo.

  Oh, Jesus.

  “What’s wrong, Deacon? Did you think I was always this age?”

  “Yeah, kind of.” I focus in on teen Jean’s face. “You used to smoke cigarettes?”

  “That wasn’t tobacco.” Her face grows solemn. “Maybe you have a hard time believing that young woman was me, but it’s even harder for me to believe it, some days. And when you’re my age . . . When you go off to college next year, try to make some memories like this. Those times fly by quicker than you think.”

  “Hey, I think we’re going to be making some pretty kick-ass memories at prom next month.”

  Jean nods, but I can tell that’s not what she meant.

  I’m done with the pictures. I don’t wish to see my grandmother’s belly button. When I close the album, a bundle of envelopes, tied with a ribbon, slides out of the back of the book.

  “What’re these?”

  Jean picks them up and stares at them for a moment. They’re old and yellow, with unfamiliar stamps.

  “The letters Howard sent me when he was in the army. He wrote me every week, even when he was overseas.” Her voice cracks and I’m afraid she’s going to start crying again. Instead, she passes me the stack. “Here. You should read these. Letter writing is a lost art. You kids today, communicating God knows how on your electric doodads.”

  “Who am I going to send a letter to?”

  “You could write to your . . .” She trails off. I think she was going to suggest writing to my father. She doesn’t know I know this, but the birthday card she sent him came back “addressee unknown.” We have no idea where he is.

  Jean still cares.

  I take the letters from her, but to be honest, I really don’t plan on looking at them. Jean’s memory is spotty, and there’s no telling what Grandpa said in those things. The last thing I want to read is a memory of how my grandparents . . . best not to think about it.

  Jean stands and turns off the record player. Fifty years from now, will I be rambling on to my grandson about the way Fayetteville used to be? About Elijah and his screwdrivers, or the time Kelli and I cut class so I could help her prepare for the ACTs?

  I have to make some better memories, for the sake of my grandson.

  I think I’ll name him Kevin.

  NINE

  DANCE CLASS NUMBER THREE. THE GOOD NEWS IS that I’m kind of catching on to the whole rhythm-of-the-dance thing. Prom is in three weeks, and by that time, I may be actually able to not make an ass of myself.

  Jean, on the other hand . . . well, she tries. And she’s having a good time. I think if I can get her to let me lead, we’ll look darn good on the dance floor.

  Right now, she’s dancing with Johnny Reb, the Confederate veteran. Frankly, I don’t like the way he’s leaning into her. If he were a lot younger, I’d think he was trying to feel her up.

  Suddenly, he lets out a groan of pain and staggers against the wall. For a second, I think he got too handy and Jean kneed him in the balls. She looks just as surprised as everyone else, though.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine!” he snaps, clutching the small of his back, a look of abject agony on his face. “Happens all the time.”

  A half dozen women try to help him, but he shrugs them all off. He looks like he’s going to collapse. “I just need to walk it off! It’s okay.” He stumbles out of the room.

  “Deacon,” says Soraya, “go with him, please.”

  A chance to make a good impression. I find the old man leaning against a wall.

  He smiles at me weakly. “I have to remind myself that I’m not eighty anymore.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need to . . . sit?”

  Deacon Locke, MD.

  “It’s better standing. Go back to class. In a few minutes I’ll be in a better place.”

  I don’t like the sound of that, so I stay.

  “I hate it when this happens,” he says after a minute. “Doesn’t exactly make me look suave in front of the ladyfolk. Especially Barbara.”

  I guess I kind of chuckle.

  “Something funny, sonny? You don’t think I go to this class because I like dancing, do you?”

  This time I don’t hide my laugh.

  “I lost my wife, Miranda, couple of years ago. Finally decided I couldn’t take any more Price Is Right, so I started coming here. God, you think this would be easier the second time around.”

  So in another sixty years, I’ll still be just as awkward around girls. Great.

  “I keep trying to ask Barb to dinner, but she never commits. I can’t tell if she’s shy, or not interested, or just can’t hear me. You got any tips, boy?”

  Yeah. For the love of God, don’t ask me for advice about women. But I have to say something.

  “I know this guy at my school. He’ll, like, serenade a girl for you, for money. He’s good.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe. Next time you see him, ask if he’d come down a little on the price.”

  “I never told you his prices.”

  “Yeah, see if he can knock twenty dollars off. I’m feeling better. Let’s go back.”

  Class has ended and most of the students have left. Johnny follows Barbara out the door. I see Jean and Soraya sitting on a bench, chatting like old friends. So much for my chances of talking to Soraya alone.

  “And that wasn’t the last time!” chuckles my grandmother. “When Deacon was eight, he spent the summer with me again. And h
e had developed a real taste for prunes. I tried to tell him to go easy, but he—”

  “Jean, I think it’s about time to go!” I say, with all the subtlety of a drill instructor. She and Soraya look at me with giggly expressions. Jean smiles at me and leaves.

  I’m hit with indecision. Do I stay and talk to Soraya, or do I panic and run after Jean? Fortunately, Soraya makes the decision for me, by patting the seat next to her. Excited and slightly terrified, I join her.

  “I wanted to thank you for helping me get the car started the other day.”

  Brain: No problem, Soraya. My pleasure.

  Instead, I grin like a moron.

  I should say something. I should ask her if she’d like to go stargazing. Or go out for a soda. Or smack me in the stupid face.

  “Hey, Deacon, you feel like going for a walk?”

  “Sure.”

  Huh. That wasn’t so hard at all.

  We stop by Jean’s car to tell her I’ll make my own way home. And now . . . I’m walking with Soraya Shadee.

  It’s warming up. Spring is here, and the weather is perfect.

  I couldn’t care less. Did I mention that I’m walking with Soraya Shadee?

  She doesn’t tell me where we’re going, and I don’t ask. I’m afraid if I talk too much, I’ll kill the moment.

  We soon come to a park where I’ve never been before. It’s honestly seen better days. Lots of trash lying around, and the playground equipment is in poor shape. Soraya leads me to the other side of the sports field, where there’s a large, fenced-in enclosure with a sign that says Petting Zoo. In one paddock, there’s a pony, and I swear it’s the same animal from that one guy’s promposal. In another muddy pen I see two goats, a pig, and something furry sleeping in the dirt. A surly-looking man in overalls reads a newspaper. He looks up at us, nods at Soraya, and returns to the paper.

  Myself, I don’t much care for animals unless they’re cooked. But if this is what Soraya wants to do, then I’ll wade through any amount of animal filth.

  To my surprise, Soraya takes a leash and a large collar from her bag. She then opens the gate a bit and whistles. The pig looks up and trots over to her. She places the collar on its neck.

  “Uh, Soraya, I don’t think you’re supposed to—”

  She ignores me, clipping on the leash. The pig follows her out of the gate, which she closes behind it. The man in the overalls doesn’t stir.

  “C’mon, Deacon.”

  God, she’s pulling some kind of zany prank like on TV! In a few seconds the man’s going to notice us and we’re going to have to run off with the pig. The police will show up and I’ll have to call Jean to bail me out of jail. This is insanity.

  I, of course, follow Soraya without voicing my concerns. When we reach the middle of the playing field, Soraya turns to me.

  “Deacon, this is Mr. Oinky Pig.”

  “You two know each other?” I blurt out, before considering what a stupid thing that is to say.

  She giggles. “I raised him from a piglet. Unfortunately, he got too big to keep at home, so he lives at the petting zoo now. Don’t you, Mr. Oinky?”

  I examine the animal more closely. It’s huge, bristly, and I swear it’s looking at me with an intense, porcine dislike.

  “Go ahead and pet him.”

  I do not wish to pet the pig. I pet the pig anyway. It snaps at me. This amuses Soraya. She gestures at a food stand.

  “Want to buy us a snack?”

  I’m not sure if she means the both of us, or her and the pig, or all three of us. I end up buying three slices of cheese pizza from the not-very-clean stand. Soraya ties the pig to a fence, and we lean back against a tree.

  For a while, the only sound is Mr. Oinky Pig devouring his pizza. Just when I think I need to say something, Soraya crosses her legs, puts her elbows on her knees, and bends toward me.

  “So are you enjoying dance class?”

  What would Jason say? “I have a pretty good teacher.”

  She laughs. “Think you’ll take any other courses?”

  Not unless you’re in charge. “Nah, I’m just getting ready for prom.”

  Soraya blinks and sits up straighter. “Yes. Of course. Prom. I . . . I’m sure your, um, girlfriend will appreciate the effort.”

  I toss my crust to the pig. “Actually . . . I’m going to the dance with Jean.”

  I find it hard to look right at her when I admit this. It doesn’t help when she tilts her head nearly forty-five degrees, with a perplexed look on her face.

  “Okay, Deacon. I assume there’s a story here.”

  I suddenly feel stupid for mentioning my plans with Jean. It was one thing to tell Elijah, but . . . he’s not the one I’ve been thinking about every day for over a week.

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  She smiles. “Start at the beginning.”

  “My grandfather was in the Vietnam War.”

  She looks at me expectantly. “I’m going to need more backstory than that.”

  “Uh, okay. In 1954, the Viet Cong defeated the French forces at Dien Bien Phu. . . .”

  “Deacon!”

  “Long story short, Jean didn’t get to go to her own prom. And since I didn’t have a date, I thought we’d have fun.”

  Please don’t think this is weird, Soraya. Because if you do, I’m not going to think very highly of you. And that would suck.

  Slowly, slowly, Soraya’s face cracks into a smile. Not a full one, but sincere. “Okay, so you win the grandson-of-the-year award. But you know there are all kinds of dances for seniors. Are you sure you want to miss out on your big night?”

  Should I lie? Should I make up some story about how Kelli and I were a thing but we broke up last month? Should I say Jean has some serious health problems and might not be around much longer? Or pretend that I think prom is a stupid waste of time and I’m going with Jean for laughs?

  Soraya reaches up and grabs a lock of her hair. She slowly twirls it around her finger, while looking at me with that faint, probing smile. And I’m suddenly ashamed for even considering not telling her the truth.

  “Well, for starters, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  Is it just my imagination, or does her smile widen, just slightly?

  “And I figured if I was going to go, I didn’t want it to be with some friend of a friend. I mean, why spend hundreds of dollars to stand around awkwardly with a girl I have nothing in common with? I do that every day for free.”

  She thinks this is funny and laughs at me. She’s not mocking, and I find myself joining her.

  “At any rate, Jean’s pretty special. I know this is going to sound weird, but she’s the only good friend I’ve ever had.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating.”

  I shake my head. “Before I moved to Fayetteville a couple of years ago, I’d never gone to one school for more than a semester. Before I stopped being the new kid, we’d move again.”

  “Military family? Hey, what’s so funny?”

  “Sorry. The idea of my father in the army. No. My mother died of cancer when I was about four. I barely remember her. My father . . . he liked to call himself an entrepreneur. One month he’d be selling used cars in Charlotte. A few weeks later, we’d be in Denver, trying to get into the legalized pot business. I missed my eighth-grade graduation because I was helping him raid this demolition site for copper wiring. And I was probably the only fifth grader who knew how to call a bondsman. When I was a sophomore, I think he ended up owing the wrong people a lot of money, and he moved to Amsterdam. He was going to take me, but Jean talked him out of it.”

  Soraya bites her lip, then reaches over, places her hand on my knee, and squeezes. Then she just leaves it there. Her hand on my knee. She’s touching me on purpose.

  I think it would ruin the afternoon if I suddenly passed out, so I steer the conversation to the least sexy subject I can think of.

  “So Jean and I have lived together ever since. She’s a lot of fun, when she’s
not trying to paint. She taught me how to throw a baseball, drive, and cook.” I’m very bad at all those things, but I don’t mention it. “I’m moving out in a few months, I guess. I just wanted Jean and me to have a fun time before I leave. Next I’ll be at the U of A and we won’t see each other as much.”

  “Hey, I’m going there too! Are you going to live in the dorms?”

  My mouth finds it difficult to function as I process the idea of going to the same college as Soraya. “Yes.”

  Soraya, without removing her hand, scoots closer to me. “That’ll be fun. And you can visit Jean on the weekends.”

  “Maybe. But I have a feeling one of us will be out hitting the bars every Friday night. And I’ll be studying.” And probably hanging around your dorm like a pathetic puppy.

  Soraya closes her eyes and smiles. “You’re lucky to have Jean in your life. My only grandmother is still in Lebanon. I was named after her.”

  I’m glad she told me. I’d been wondering about her heritage, but there’s no polite way to ask something like that. “I was named after my father. His name was Deacon.”

  “You’re funny.”

  Fortunately, she’s mistaken my awkward, compulsive talking for humor. But I think we’ll both be better off if she takes the conversational helm again. “So how about you? When’s your school’s prom?”

  She takes her hand off my knee. I manage to swallow my whimper.

  “My school doesn’t have dances. I . . .” She looks away. Then she looks right back at me. “I go to the Islamic school.”

  She’s looking at me intently, as if I’m supposed to say something. “That’s over by the university, right? That building with all the moons on it?”

  “Right.” Still looking at me.

  “So what’s it like?”

  “My school? It’s okay, I guess. My parents, they came here years ago. They’re as American as you get, but they didn’t want me to forget my heritage. The thing is, most of the other kids are the children of graduate students or other people just in town for jobs. But when you live here your whole life, it’s . . .” She trails off. “Sorry, Deacon. Didn’t mean to get all whiny.”

  “No. Please, go on.” I want her to keep talking. I want her to tell me her problems. It makes me feel special that she’d share things with me. And maybe . . . I dunno, maybe I could help.