Burn Down the Ground Page 12

  “You’re gonna burn up the clutch!” she said.

  My face was hot from embarrassment and annoyance; my rapid heartbeat pounded my eardrums as I stomped around the car and got in the passenger seat with a big slam of my door, folding my arms tightly across my chest. Mom deftly got us moving again, trying to show me what she was doing with her feet. “See, this is how you do it. It’s not so hard.” I was too angry to look over and she drove us home in silence.

  Dad was surprised to see us return home so quickly. “What’s wrong?”

  I signed a big, fierce, “Mom!” and launched into an animated account of how scared she was. I screwed my face up, braced against an imaginary dashboard, and signed, “SLOW DOWN! TOO FAST!”

  Dad smiled, which ticked me off even more. I tramped away as he tried to stifle his laughs. Mom had been his backseat driver since 1966. He knew exactly what I meant.

  A few days later, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. “Come in!” I yelled, but nothing happened. That meant it was Dad knocking. A few seconds later, he slowly opened the door to make sure he wasn’t invading my privacy.

  “I’m going to Webb’s, you want Jack Crackers?” he asked, switching the word order of Cracker Jacks, since ASL has rules differing from English grammar about word order and sentence structure.

  “Yes, please.” I signed and went back to finishing my puzzle in Games magazine.

  He flashed my light and said, “Kipree!”

  I looked up and he asked with an impish grin, “You want to drive?”

  My eyes grew big and I signed, “YES!” as I leapt up, threw on my shoes, and ran out of the trailer with Dad following behind me. I walked toward the Bug and waited for Dad to catch up but he was standing by the Toyota.

  He swatted the air with a sour expression and pointed at the Toyota. “Better,” he signed.

  “Really?” I couldn’t believe that he would trust me with our brand-new truck. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. “Come on, let’s go.”

  I slid in the driver’s seat, so excited that I don’t recall adjusting the seat or mirror. I just cranked it up and drove.

  Perfectly.

  Dad was navigator and signed directions to me as I went. He trusted me so much that at one point he told me I was going too slowly and at another had me turn around on a bridge. He even had me drive into a ditch so I could practice getting myself out. He was an unlikely teacher, since he had wrecked every car we had ever owned. The irony was lost on me. I was thirteen and driving the Toyota!

  At Webb’s, I loaded up on “Jack Crackers,” he on cigarettes and beer, and I drove us home. At the trailer, I handed back his keys and he signed, “Don’t tell Mama. She’ll get mad. It’s our secret.”

  At the same time I got the job at the Yacht Club, Mom got us a gig running a roadside fireworks stand that was owned by my parents’ friend Donna. They’d met her at Johnny B. Dalton’s, the nightclub in Conroe where they went dancing and drinking most weekends. My father said she managed Dalton’s and another bar called Cooter’s off of Coon Hollow Road.

  “She’s real classy,” Dad signed. “She has really long painted fingernails, wears lots of gold and diamonds, and drives a C-A-D-I-L-L-A-C.” My father always equated sophistication in a woman with how she kept her fingernails manicured. Perhaps it was because hands were his tools of communication, but in any case, he seemed to fetishize them.

  “Donna said we could keep half of whatever money we make selling fireworks,” Mom said. “It’s all cash so no taxes have to be taken out.”

  Our first day at the stand, I met Donna. She was just as flashy as Dad had described. Every one of her fingers had big, shiny rings encrusted with diamonds, emeralds, or rubies. Some even had two. Her shirt was tight over her ample cleavage, enhanced with several gold chains and pendants. She was caked in heavy makeup that emphasized deep wrinkles, and her big, hair-sprayed do was dyed jet black, which I assumed was to cover up gray. I was sure she was at least fifteen years older than my parents.

  My mother and Donna made pleasant chitchat as I unpacked boxes of fireworks and stocked shelves. Donna gave us quick instructions on safety—we were surrounded by a half ton of explosives—and how to keep track of inventory.

  Donna had an expensive car and nice jewelry and ran so many businesses I assumed she must be loaded. But she was generous, too. After our first day of work, Donna gave me one of each kind of firework to take home. The cost of the fireworks was probably chump change to her but I was still floored by the gift. After Donna sped away in her sedan, Mom and I acted like we had just won the showcase on The Price Is Right.

  Even though there was more than a week until Independence Day, we invited friends over, built a bonfire, and set off our treasure trove one at a time. Some made scary whirrs and whistles and others screamed high into the air before exploding into a shower of sparkles. We collectively oohed and aahed over the beautiful gold, silver, red, white, and blue displays for what seemed like hours before we ran out.

  We sat around the campfire recounting our favorite fireworks when suddenly dozens of loud rapid pops like a machine gun detonated through the darkness. We ducked and cringed instinctually before realizing Dad had snuck a pack of Black Cats, ignited the whole brick, and tossed it in our trash can by the shed. The metal barrel amplified each blast, giving Dad’s eardrums an extra hard beating. Dad pretended each explosion was a bullet near his feet and danced around like he was stepping on hot coals. Watching him carry on like he was eight years old sent me laughing until my cheeks ached.

  Other than that first day at the stand, I never saw Donna again. But she had a cute son named Cash Price, with sandy blond hair that had golden highlights from driving his convertible Mercedes with the top down. Every day he stopped by the stand to check on things and collect our profits. When I saw him pull up, I would race to open his car door, and he always greeted me with a flash of his smile that made his eyes twinkle.

  Even though he was twenty-one, he treated me like I was an adult. He drove me to the general store for Dr Pepper and Cracker Jacks and we talked about our favorite films, TV shows, and music. One afternoon, I was particularly excited about a new movie, Gremlins.

  “Oh my God, Cash! You just have to see Gremlins. It’s this new movie and you just have to go see it. It was so good and Gizmo is sooooo cute.”

  Cash listened intently to my rants, asked questions, and promised he would go see it soon.

  Finally, he cut me off. “I gotta run to the other stands. Wanna come with me?”

  I looked back at Mom and asked, “Can I?”

  “Sure, but don’t be too long. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Cool! Hey, Cash, can we put the top down?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  We peeled away and the sun beat down on my shoulders and the wind whipped my hair and eyes.

  “If you sit on the trunk, it feels like you’re water-skiing. Here, you can wear my sunglasses so you can keep your eyes open,” he said, handing me his Ray-Bans, like the ones Tom Cruise wore in Risky Business. I climbed to the back and sat on the edge of the seat. We were going so fast it was hard to breathe without sucking in a blast of air. I lay back on the trunk as the clouds and trees flew by overhead. The motion of the car and the sun beating down made it feel like I was riding a speedboat.

  “Aw, man, I love this song,” Cash said, cranking up Phil Collins’s “Easy Lover” as loud as the radio would go. We drove from stand to stand and picked up the day’s take. Each time he hopped out he said, “I’ll be right back. You want anything?” I played cool, wearing his sunglasses and acting uninterested, hoping that the people at the stands, whoever they were, would think I was Cash’s girlfriend.

  One afternoon as I waited for Cash to arrive, I heard a piercing squeal of brakes. I looked up just as a car hit Pamie with a dull thump. Mom gasped and we both screamed. Pamie flew through the air, hit a tree, and landed at its roots. She was alive but we knew it was not for long. Her back was broken and her
body twisted. I raced back to the road to see the taillights of the car speeding away, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air.

  “COWARD!”

  “Kambri! Get away from the road. You don’t want to get hit, too!” Mom cried as she hovered over my dog’s body.

  “They just hit her and drove off!”

  I ran back to Pamie and crouched next to her and Mom. As we petted her softly I begged, “Don’t die, Pamie. Please don’t die. Please, please, please.”

  She took her last breath.

  When Cash got to the fireworks stand, he knew something was wrong. I didn’t run out to greet him, and I kept my head down and pulled my shirt up to cover my face so he wouldn’t see me crying. Mom told him what had happened. He said we could go home to bury her; he’d watch the stand for us.

  Dad picked a spot under the shade of a giant oak tree next to a wild holly bush and dug a hole for my beloved pet’s cold and stiff body. I couldn’t bear to watch her get covered in dirt, so I hid in my bedroom closet where no one could find me.

  The next day Mom woke me up and said I had to help her at the stand.

  “Dad calls off work all the time,” I cried.

  “July Fourth is just around the corner and we made a commitment to Donna.”

  I reluctantly complied. I figured Mom was sad, too, and if she was able to work, so could I. When Cash arrived to check on us, he was driving a shiny new red pickup truck and gave a great big wave. I was still self-conscious about crying the day before so I ran to hide in the bathroom in the portable offices next to the stand. Mom knocked on the door. “Kambri, Cash wants to see you,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Tell him I’m in the bathroom.”

  “Kambri, be nice. He has something he wants to give you.”

  I splashed cold water on my face and walked out to find Cash sitting in the driver’s seat of his new truck fiddling with the radio dial. When he saw me, he turned down the volume and said, “I’m sorry about Pamie.”

  “Thanks.” I chewed the inside of my lip and traced the dirt with the toe of my shoe, trying to fight back tears.

  “Here, I got you this.” He handed me a stuffed Gizmo doll from Gremlins. “It’s from that movie you like so much. Shake it.” My heart leapt for a split second.

  I shook Gizmo and it squeaked noises that sounded like the fuzzy creature in the movie. I cracked a smile.

  “So, do you like my truck?” He offered me a chance to sit in it.

  I climbed into the driver’s seat as he leaned on the window frame. I was playing with all the buttons when “Easy Lover” came on the radio. I turned it up for Cash.

  I knew all the words by heart and I sang along with Cash, who was grooving in place. When he and I locked eyes, we broke into big, shy grins but kept singing in unison. I had a fleeting hope that maybe he thought of me as the girl in the song, but I knew better. He was twenty-one and rich with two fancy cars and I was eight years his junior, rode around in a junky VW Bug with a dented roof and missing back windshield, and wore a training bra.

  Besides, who would want to be an “easy lover” anyway?

  After July Fourth, the stand was closed. Donna said we raked in more money than any of the other stands she owned, and she wanted us to work for her again at Christmas.

  I was thirteen, had two jobs, could drive a stick shift, and had my first crush. Flush with cash and determined to reinvent myself, I asked my mother to drive me to a shopping mall in Houston, where I spent my money on new clothes. I even got a haircut from a real stylist at a salon instead of from Mom in our kitchen. It was my first attempt at making a specific request for a new style since my Dorothy Hamill–turned–Moe Howard chop-job fiasco. This time I asked for a spiky Joan Jett mullet and got much better results.

  Back at the trailer, I modeled my new outfits for Dad, who took pictures with our new Kodak disc camera.

  “You look so pretty,” he signed.

  “See, Kambri, you just needed to have a little patience,” Mom added. “You’ll be a swan in no time.”

  HELLCAT UNDER A HOT TIN ROOF

  While I was busy working at the yacht club and the fireworks stand during the summer of 1984, David was hanging out with his friend Allen and a girl my age named Maria, who had just moved to Boars Head. On one of my days off, I found them smoking weed in our living room.

  Maria didn’t say much, but laughed at anything they said. She was a solid foot shorter than me but thick and stout, like she’d been hauling hay. She had exotic features: almond-shaped brown eyes, dark skin, and coarse onyx hair that made her stand out.

  Uninterested in whatever they were snickering about, I ignored them and retreated to my bedroom. This continued every day that week until one afternoon David called from his adjoining bedroom, “Hey, Kambri, come here.”

  I cracked open his door and was met with a cloud of pot smoke. “Come hang out with us,” he said with a smirk.

  “Here, you want a hit?” Allen squeaked, holding his breath through clenched teeth as he passed me the joint. “Shut the door; we got a hotbox going on.”

  I didn’t know how to inhale, so David offered to help. I sat on his waterbed, a gift for his sixteenth birthday, and he lifted up the ashtray so the rippling tide wouldn’t knock it over.

  “I’ll take a drag and then blow it in your face. You breathe in like normal and hold it for as long as you can.” David scooted closer, took a hit, cupped his hands around his mouth like a funnel, and slowly exhaled.

  I inhaled deeply but ended up coughing. It made my stomach clench and throat lurch like I might vomit, but I didn’t want to seem childish. David took another hit before passing it on to Maria. Like a pro, she pinched the roach between her thumb and index finger and brought it to her lips. Sucking in, she kept her eyes squinted to keep out the smoke.

  “So, what’re y’all doing?” I asked with another cough.

  “We’re just hanging out. What’re you doing?”

  I’d been working on my library, taking inventory of my books, assessing their current retail value. Important stuff.

  “Nothing,” I mumbled. “Just reading magazines.”

  “Yeah? Did you see the thing about Ozzy in Hit Parader?”

  David leapt up and said, “Oh, man, we gotta play them that tape! Go get it, Kambri.” Before the words were fully out of his mouth I was bounding toward my room to grab the cassette.

  At a recent Crews family reunion, I’d hunkered down in the back of our Toyota with my cousin Colleen. She was a year younger than me, and like many of the Crews, she lived a sheltered, Christian life. She was, quite frankly, a prude. I thought it my duty—nay, my honor—to educate her in the finer points of high culture, namely the genius known as David Lee Roth.

  “Isn’t he a fox?” I gushed, salivating over photos of Van Halen’s lead singer in my favorite magazines. Colleen had never laid eyes on a creature as fine looking as Diamond Dave. That sultry gaze, those pouty lips, and the leather pants slung low on his impossibly lithe limbs, so low we could almost … Well, it was obvious from the look on Colleen’s face that this was the greatest single moment of her life.

  Two weeks later, the postman delivered the package with the sermon on tape, addressed specifically to me. Colleen’s mother included a note warning me of the dangers of rock and roll.

  Narrated enthusiastically by the minister Jim Peters, What the Devil’s Wrong with Rock Music was a sixty-minute diatribe about the threats posed to our immortal souls. He cast a wide net; everyone from Ozzy Osbourne to the Rolling Stones was considered a harbinger of evil. Not even the Eagles, Mom’s favorite, were exempt. (The Hotel California? Satan’s house!) Every record in our collection apparently contained subliminal messages from the Dark Lord himself, which seemed an inefficient system of delivery. But Minister Peters was convincing. In fact, he was so persuasive that Aunt Cathy, who was born deaf and had never heard a single note of music in her life, believed all I had to do to hear the evil propaganda was to play an album in reve
rse.

  “The drummer’s beat,” the reverend hissed, “is meant to lure you in so you’re free to accept the message of Satan!” His sweat seemed to seep through the speakers. “Let me tell you the name of that song,” he pressed. “That song’s title is ‘Runnin’ ’ ”—he interrupted the title with a deep breath and a long pause—“ ‘with the DEVIL!’ ”

  We laughed so hard we could barely finish our joint.

  Maria had arrived on horseback, and Star, her rust-colored Arabian pony, was tied to a tree in our yard. I was bowled over when Maria asked me to ride with her to Webb’s, at least a four-mile trek from our trailer. She was only thirteen yet was permitted to ride a horse wherever and whenever she wanted. I thought that kind of freedom only came with a driver’s license and a car. This was revolutionary.

  After Maria climbed into the saddle, I stuck my foot in the stirrup and pulled myself up behind her on Star’s rump. As we headed down Boars Head at a slow clip, Maria dug out a fresh pack of Marlboro 100’s, smacked them on the fatty part of her palm, and unwrapped the cellophane. She extracted a cigarette, lit it, took a drag, and handed it over her shoulder to me.

  I stared at it, not believing how brazen she was to smoke in public. “What if somebody catches us?” I asked, searching for cars of people I might know.

  Maria remained cool, but to help me loosen up she suggested climbing down into the dry creek bed under the bridge Dad had built on Boars Head. Safely out of view, I took a drag from her cigarette, then blew the smoke out without inhaling.

  “You’re just wasting it,” Maria said. “Here, watch me.” She sucked the filter, showed me the smoke that was in her mouth, and breathed in. “Try again.”

  This time the smoke filled my lungs and I was overwhelmed by a tunnel of darkness. Just as quickly, the world was light again. I grabbed a tree to keep my balance.

  “Head rush? Cool. You’ll get used to it, though.”

  We finished the cigarette, climbed the embankment, remounted Star, and spent the next hour riding to Webb’s. I had been a customer at Webb’s since I was seven years old. I often bought Dad’s cigarettes while he waited in the car, so Mr. Webb didn’t question me when I asked for a pack of Marlboro 100’s even though Dad smoked Kools. Star carried us the five miles back to Maria’s trailer, where Maria introduced me to her parents, Sarah and Eugene Kingfisher. Although I was only thirteen, I towered over both of them. Maria’s short stature was undoubtedly hereditary.