Birmingham, 35 Miles by James Braziel

Author:James Braziel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780553904710
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2009-01-21T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

Porch Stories, 2026

March 8

My dearest Jen,

The weather has been good for a whole week and Pearl has wanted to go outside. She always gets that way in spring—playful, like you were. Yesterday, when we started out, the city siren—————————————————home. Everyone has————————————————when the siren goes off. According to Bobbie, the military———————————————————————————————————————————————————but that is the only bad news, if it’s true. And since it happened over a mile from the apartment, I feel safer. Bobbie found this place before the army compound was set up.—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————though it is still difficult———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————. Then the town closes off, each apartment its own fortress or————, Bobbie calls it. And Pearl stays quiet under the bureau all day. Today I’ll try to get her out again. Hopefully the siren won’t go off————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————.

I’m glad the money I sent got through Birmingham in the last letter. I wish I had something more good to tell.

Affectionately,

Mom

My father was the thick one. “Low to the ground like a pig,” my Uncle Wayne used to say, though my father wasn’t that short. Uncle Wayne, it was true, was a tall, lanky light pole, his shoulders always hunched over, his body needing to prop up on things: the side of buildings, truck beds and truck cabs, cars, sometimes even me. My build was somewhere between the two, and when I was young, I thought they both were my father. No wonder. We spent so much time with Uncle Wayne.

He had never married and was one hell of a great cook. My father warmed stuff in the oven, boiled dried bricks of things into edible shreds, but several times a week, we went to Wayne’s, or he came to our place to make real food.

What I remember most was him in the kitchen, every kitchen, and me creeping to the tiled edge or wood or carpet, depending on the house, just to glimpse the chop-chopping I heard, the roiling noise from silver pots, my father calling me back from the scent of onion and salt and basil, sometimes even fresh basil that grew sweet and sharp with each step I dared to take.

“Mathew, get in here and read,” my father would yell. “Let your Uncle Wayne alone.” Sometimes I’d catch him glaring and snarling—books were important and not to be discarded, not even for good smells from the kitchen.

Uncle Wayne fired back, “He ain’t bothering nothing, brother.” And I would catch a glimpse of his eyes breaking from all the boiling to look me over with his long chin jutting out like a sandbar in the river, those months when the river flooded, that short-straight hair of his blond and bushed up and full of the same clay as my father’s but without the same strides and lines—Uncle Wayne’s hair did have a few sparkles, but they were more random and carefree, a patch of tangled points.

After a while, Uncle Wayne would wink. “Now go do what your father says before he gets us both.” With that, there was no one to turn to, and I’d trudge to my chair, banished.

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