Twenty-Four Seconds from Now…

Chapter 7 And Twenty-Four Months Before That…

I was at my grandfather’s funeral. Crying. His wallet had been given to me by my grandmother just before the ceremony started. She said he wanted me to have it. Cards, photos, receipts, a few bucks, and whatever else was in it. It felt heavy in my back pocket, too full for a kid my age.

Earl Wednesday died on October 23 after suffering a heart attack in the shop that he owned and worked at for over fifty years, where he provided upwards of ten thousand homes with door knockers. He was a loving husband to Sharletta Wednesday, a committed father to Brina Benton, and the grandfather of Natalie and Neon Benton, whom he spoiled. His hobbies were sleeping; enjoying terrible-smelling, slow-burning cigars; purposely wrinkling his clothes; talking trash; and watching movies with his grandson. His favorite actor was Denzel Washington. His favorite movie snack… French fries.

The obituary said more, but that was my favorite part. After reading it, Reverend Creeks gave a sermon about love and respect, which my grandfather stood for, but also how his work as a beloved and disciplined door-knocker maker was finally over.

“Yes, what a noble job to be a maker of door knockers on this earth,” the reverend said, dabbing sweat from his forehead. “To encourage people to knock and wait before entering the dwelling places of friends, family, and strangers is nothing short of the Lord’s work. But in heaven…”

The organ player began to play.

“Oh, in heaven…” Reverend Creeks tightened his own spring. He clapped his hands together. “I said, in heaven…” More organ, and more moaning from the congregation. My grandmother stood up, put her hand in the air as if trying to high-five the reverend. Or Jesus. Or Grandy. “In heaven, those big, pearly gates don’t need no knocker! That doorway to forever don’t need nothing built from a brass mold! You know why?”

“Why?” We all threw it back at him.

“I said, you know why?”

“Why?!” we said louder.

“Because God broke the mold!” Lightning on the organ. Thunder in the pews. My grandmother looked like she was going to start jumping up and down, which I was scared about because her knees and hips, though good for walking, might not have been so good for jumping. The preacher preached on. “No, I’m happy to say brother Earl’s job is all done, because there’s no need to knock when God’s door is always wide open. God was just waiting on Earl Wednesday to get on over that hump, to arrive!”

More everything. Organ. Handclaps. Stomps. Tambourine. Amen, amen, amen. Nat put her arm around me and squeezed tight.

After the funeral, Nat would continue to hold me as we all piled into cars and paraded through town, down to the cemetery so that we could say our final goodbyes before they lowered Grandy’s casket into the ground. For me, there was a strangeness to the permanence of it all. That my grandfather’s body would go into the dirt and there was no digging it back up. And even if I tried, which I, of course, wouldn’t, but even if I did, he wouldn’t be in there. Not as I knew him. Nature would’ve already changed him.

I didn’t want to see the lowering or even be that close to the casket. So Nat stood off to the side with me, her arm still draped over my shoulder. Though we couldn’t see Gammy’s and our parents’ faces from where we were standing, we could still tell Gammy was struggling. Broken. She rested her head on my mother’s shoulder, and my father had his log of an arm stretched across the backs of them both.

If this were a movie, then this would be when it would begin to rain. The black umbrellas would appear, blooming like flowers of gloom. And the black sheep of the family would be standing far away from everyone else, looking on, taking swigs from a pint bottle. But I wasn’t no black sheep. I was just a fifteen-year-old boy, standing back, wondering who I’d argue with about whether or not Denzel should do more romances.

My grandfather thought so. He believed this with every fiber of his being, which seems like such a silly argument to have to that extent. But he did. All the time. With me.

“Listen, I know he’s good at action films,” Grandy would say. “I mean, the man done played every military officer there is to play. And I know he’s good at drama. You name it, a jazz musician, an attorney, a basketball player, and even a detective, he’s good. But I don’t know if you can really be great if you can’t… do… romance.”

Grandy had this way of saying a thing as if it were true because he’d said it. And he’d keep a cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth, which, for some reason, always added to the image of him being an expert.

“I disagree,” I’d say, straight up and down.

“That’s because you ain’t lived long enough!” Grandy would bark. And then he’d tell me his own story. A story I’d heard enough times to recite. “You know what I was doing before I took over my daddy’s business with all this door-knocker mess? I was in the army. Got in at eighteen and got shipped straight off to war. And when people would shoot in my direction, I had brothers with me, my comrades, who would cover my back and handle what I didn’t see coming. Now, you could argue that they saved my life. Maybe. But they definitely saved my body.” He’d take a pull on his cigar, let the smoke ghost from his mouth before continuing. “And when I got back all traumatized and triggered, my daddy gave me an opportunity to train to be a door-knocker maker. It was hard work. Long days. And was never nothing I saw myself doing despite my father owning the business. On top of that, it seemed to take me forever to get the hang of it. But when I did, it provided me an opportunity to make money and support myself. Some might argue that door knockers saved my life. Maybe. But it certainly saved my mind.” He’d take another puff. A shorter one. Like a kiss. “But when I met your grandmother in that laundromat all them years ago, and we started dating, oh, Nee… I ain’t never been more sure that her love saved my life.”

“But how?” I always asked. “What makes you think that?”

“Because it was the only time I ain’t have to act like anyone other than myself,” he said, pinching a stray bit of tobacco off his tongue. “And that’s why I want to see Denzel do more romance. See if he could bring that to the people. I know he knows it. Been in love for decades. Matter fact… I got just the role for him. He could play me!”

Was what I was thinking about, trying not to watch what everyone else was watching.

Or when we’d go to the gas station to get five dollars’ worth of gas, five dollars he’d pull from that old sweat-worn wallet bursting at the seams. And another buck or two to buy a few boxes of matches for his cigars. This was always when I’d catch him looking at some woman, admiring her beauty. I remember once he watched a woman walk halfway down the block and wouldn’t even close his wallet until he couldn’t see her anymore, as if he were waiting for her to double back and ask him for money. And when she was far enough, he closed it and returned the leather hunk to his back pocket and put his eyes on me.

“Pretty, right?” he asked, patting my shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, well, one of these days your daddy’s probably gon’ tell you some stupid shit about sowing your oats. His daddy taught him that, and his daddy before that. Shit, my daddy definitely said it a time or two to me when I was your age.”

“And what does that mean?” I asked, refraining from asking if it had anything to do with oatmeal or farming, both of which I ain’t care nothing about.

“Getting all you can, and canning all you get,” Grandy said, gruff.

“O… kay, and what does that mean?” Seriously, why do grandfathers speak in riddles?

“It means when you finally get you some, go get you some more. And some more. And some more. Until you’ve had enough running around, and you’re ready to settle down,” Grandy explained, shaking the matchbox like palm peanuts. We were standing outside the truck, waiting for the gas pump to click. “But… that’s bullshit.”

“So, I shouldn’t do that?” Click.

“I’m not saying what you should or shouldn’t do, grandson. It’s your life. I’m just telling you, the desire for more don’t die.” Grandy pointed to the pump with his chin. I pulled it from the tank, set it in its holster. We both got back in the truck. “You know, I’ve been eating birthday cake my whole damn life, and every single birthday party, I want another piece. Whether it’s my birthday or yours.” He laughed, pulling out of the station. “So I’d be a fool to wait for the urge to go away before I start monitoring my sugar. Gotta exercise some self-control. Understand?”

Was what I was also thinking about.

Or when he’d pick me up from school in the eighth grade, and I’d go into his glove compartment and pull out his cologne and spritz myself because I wanted to smell like him. A combination of spice and something else. Maybe wood. Maybe smoke, but not the cigar smoke. Some other kind of better-smelling smoke. And one day I went looking for it and the bottle was gone, replaced by a washcloth and a bar of soap.

“Soap and water is undefeated,” he said. “But like everything in life, you gotta know how to use ’em.”

“I know how to wash, Grandy. I just like to—”

“Your mother told me you ain’t getting to it.” He coughed the words at me.

I sucked my teeth, annoyed, thinking Ma told him about how a few nights before, she’d scrubbed my neck with cotton balls to show me my own dirt.

“Me and her already did this, though. I’m good now.”

“I hear you,” Grandy said, which meant he either hadn’t heard, or had and didn’t care. “But do you know how to wash your ass?”

“Come on, Grandy. I just said I know how to wash.”

“Okay, okay. I’m just saying, not only is cleanliness next to godliness, uncleanliness is next to no one.”

Was what I was thinking about. At the grave site. While my feet crunched under the fallen leaves, the sound of cracking seemed like an appropriate soundtrack. While my grandmother and mother wept. While Reverend Creeks read Scripture and said the Lord’s Prayer. While a few soldiers presented Gammy with a folded American flag.

Until the sound of a barking dog unfolded the moment.

I turned to my right—no dog there. Then to my left, trying to figure out which direction the bark was coming from, and why it seemed to be getting closer, and why there was a voice following the bark, someone calling after the dog.

“Jeremy! Jeremy, stop! Stop, Jeremy!” And before I knew it, he was right on me. A little thing, no bigger than a shoe, darting through the cemetery, over the hills of tombstones, straight toward me.

And I did what I’d always done when it came to dogs. Ran.

First around the canopy where my grandfather and family were. But the dog followed, woofing like a coughing old man, my family jolted out of their mourning, disrupted by the mayhem. Then I jetted across the field, trying not to step on any fresh plots or flowers as the dog continued to chase me. The girl running behind us, calling for it but also screaming for me to stop running. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. But what I did do was circle back and lead the dog right toward her.

“Get him! Get him! Get him!” I cried, dashing past her in a blur. And she did. Scooped the dog into her arms as I ran a few more paces before realizing I was safe.

I folded over, my body doing its best to snatch air.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl cried out, her feet coming into my sight line. Because I was still hunched over, staring at the ground, the grass void of blades, everything green watercolor. “I’m so, so sorry,” she repeated.

I nodded. Straightened up. Rested my arms on top of my head. My dress shirt had come loose from my pants. The waxy laces of my church shoes untied.

“I was trying to put the leash on him, but he broke away. Jumped right out the car,” she explained. And then I looked at her. And could finally see her. Sweatpants. T-shirt. Ponytail. Perfect.

“It’s okay,” I managed to get out. “Forreal, it’s fine.”

“I’m… um… gonna go apologize to your family,” she said, looking embarrassed. At first I wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but when we got a little closer to the casket and canopy, Gammy and Ma and Nat and everyone else were all laughing.

“Boy, if that ain’t a sign from your granddaddy, I don’t know what is.” Gammy cackled.

“A sign of… what?” I asked, my body still leveling out.

“A sign to tell us to get going. And keep going. You know he never liked no whole bunch of sadness,” she said. “So, young lady and Mr. Pup, thank you.”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Ma asked, one arm rubbing Gammy’s back.

“Aria. And this troublemaker is Jeremy.”

“Well, Aria, I’m Mrs. Benton, and this near victim is my son, Neon.”

“Hi,” I said, suddenly wishing this were my funeral.

“Hey.” Aria extended her hand, but the moment I went to shake it, Jeremy barked.

“Oh, shush,” Aria said, bouncing the dog like a baby. “He’s okay. He’s okay.” I took my hand back. Put it in my pocket.

“You live over here, Aria?” Gammy chimed in.

“No, I live in Kingman Park. But my dad had to come over this way to pick up a… a door knocker or something. Some kind of thing for the door. But the place was closed.”

My grandmother’s eyes wet up. So did my mother’s. Then Ma scratched her head.

“A door knocker?” my mother asked. “What kinda door knocker, sweetie?”

“It’s a… whole note.”

* * *

Because my grandfather prided himself on good customer service and my mother prides herself on it even more, once the funeral was over and everything was wrapped up, Ma went into the shop, pulled Mr. Wright’s name from her records, called him and apologized for not being open when he came by for his door knocker—Mr. Wednesday passed away—and told him that to make up for the inconvenience, she would have it delivered. She offered me up as messenger. He agreed. And the following Saturday I found myself on the bus with a brass whole note, which I had no idea about, wrapped in tissue paper and boxed up beautifully.

When I finally made it to Kingman Park, I took my time admiring the houses, all of which were very different than the ones in Paradise Hill. If Paradise Hill was a little bit of everything, Kingman Park was a lot of bit of the same thing. And that thing, was perfection. Grass two inches high. Clean, fancy cars in the driveway. Welcome mats that said WELCOME. Hedges. Not bushes, hedges.

I’d check the address occasionally. Then check the house numbers, each house looking like the last house, which looked like the last house, which looked like the last.

Until.

873 Kingman Park Drive. I double-checked. Triple-checked. This was the house. It was green. Well, half-green. A man stood on a ladder, painting over the green with yellow.

“Excuse me,” I called out. But the man didn’t hear me over the sounds coming from inside the house. A duet of trumpet and arf. So I came closer to the ladder. “Excuse me!”

“Oh!” he said, startled. “You scared me. How you doing, young man?”

“I’m fine. Um… I’m looking for Mr.…” I checked the paper. “Mr. Wright.”

“Maestro,” he said, pointing to himself. “And you found him.”

Maestro eased down the ladder.

“I came to deliver your order from Wednesday’s Door Knockers,” I explained.

“Ah, I’ve been waiting for this,” he said, his feet now on the ground. “By the way, my condolences. Your grandfather was a good man.” He set the paintbrush on the ground across the top of the paint can and took the box. He threw the lid on the grass, then began peeling back the tissue paper, and the music (and the barking) got louder. Because the front door had been opened.

Aria came from the house dressed in overalls. In her hand, a paintbrush.

“Hey,” she said, making her way over to where me and her father stood.

“Aria, you know…”

“Neon.”

“Neon,” Maestro said, holding up the untissued door knocker. Then he thought about it. “Neon?”

“Yes sir. Neon,” I confirmed.

“I met him the other day when Jeremy got loose,” Aria said. “Again, I’m so, so sorry. That was… wild.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s cool. I wasn’t scared or nothing like that. Just caught off guard, y’know?”

Aria looked at me. Looked. Looked. Looked. Then made a sound like she was holding in a sneeze. But it wasn’t a sneeze. It was a laugh.

“I’m serious,” I said. And I was. Maybe not honest, but definitely serious. Aria just nodded, clearly afraid that if she opened her mouth, a howl would come out.

“Okay, okay,” Aria finally said, still holding back. I waited for her to say something else, but she didn’t. At least not immediately. Instead, she just tucked her brush in her pocket, picked up her father’s, and started dabbing the lower parts of the house. Maestro had taken the door knocker inside. Hadn’t returned just yet.

“You know this would’ve been much easier if y’all painted over the green with white first, right?” I learned that from my dad. He paints the inside walls of the bingo hall once a year. Doing it this way was going to take forever. They would need a bunch of coats for the green to not bleed through.

She looked at me like I’d said something wrong. And for a moment, I thought maybe I had.

“Here,” she said, handing me the second paintbrush. The one she had tucked down in the pocket of her overalls.

“What you want me to do with this?” I asked.

“Come on, you gotta paint better than you fib.”

“Paint?” I thought she was joking. I mean, my father painted, but I’d never painted a day in my life.

“Or… leave,” Aria said, and I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. She pointed to the house. “I’m not trying to be rude, but we’re obviously in the middle of something, and there’s a ton left to do.”

I nodded. And stayed. First time for everything.

In the process of making the green house yellow is when I learned that me and Aria went to the same school and that we were in the same grade, but she was in all the genius classes, which was why I never saw her. I learned that she wasn’t an athlete or in any of the social clubs, or in student government, or nothing like that. Just an overachieving academic who seemed to not give a shit about being one. School was easy for her. Almost like it was just something to do.

I also learned why they, and now we, were painting the house in the first place.

“My little sister likes yellow at the moment. So… we painting it yellow for now,” Aria said with a shrug.

“That’s it? That’s the only reason?”

“Yep. That’s it,” she said. But that was because she hadn’t known me yet. Later, as in much later, Aria told me that even though it was true that her little sister sometimes got stuck on colors and sounds—the whole hearing-colors thing—the other reason they always went along with the house painting was because her father was always trying to figure out ways to spend time outside the house to explain why things were the way they were inside. Why her mother was the way her mother was. How betrayal could make you scared, especially for your children. But, like I said, that came later. For now it was just small talk.

“Who playing that music?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure it’s my turn for a question.” Aria dipped the brush in the yellow paint, pressed it against the edge of the can to skim the excess. “Your name really Neon?”

“Why, you don’t like it?”

“Hmm, I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, I don’t like it. I mean, I like it more now than I did when I was younger. But… I don’t know. My mother says it’s because she always wanted me to know I can glow in the dark,” I explained.

“Damn. I wasn’t expecting that. That, I like.”

“But that ain’t the real reason. Or the only reason. The other thing about my name is that my dad wanted to name me Neon because his name’s Deon and his father’s name was Leon. So… I got stuck with Neon, which I guess ain’t as bad as it could’ve been.”

“Yeah, you could’ve been Peon.” Aria smiled.

“Exactly.”

We went on painting until my mother pulled up unexpectedly because it had gotten late and I hadn’t called. Ma asked Aria about Jeremy, then spoke to Maestro for a bit, showed him where the door knocker should be positioned on their front door.

“Why y’all call this eye a whole note?” I asked, minding grown folks’ business.

Aria hissed with amusement. I had no idea what I’d said, but I suddenly knew it was stupid. “Aww. That’s… cute.”

She didn’t say it mean. There was more surprise in her cute, as if somehow her eyes had reset, and I was suddenly… cute. Like, cute in that way.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” Aria piped up, turning toward her father, the sarcasm underneath each word aimed at him.

“Good question, young man,” Maestro said. “A whole note is a musical note that lasts for four counts. Like this.” He hummed and tapped his foot four times to demonstrate. “It represents the four of us in this house. A family. Whole.”

To that, Aria folded her arms. Didn’t say nothing, just hugged herself.

“Oh, that’s cool. Sorry.” I tried to tamp my embarrassment.

“Don’t be. It was a mistake. And I think there’s melody in mistakes.” Maestro turned to the door knocker, bounced his shoulder. “I mean, it does look kinda like an eye. And I like that too.”

Maestro and my mother shook hands, and she summoned me to the car. Me and Aria said goodbye but didn’t exchange numbers or nothing. And even though we went to the same school, I didn’t see her again for months.

Until February.

* * *

The only reason I joined the wrestling team was because of this kid named Curtis Whitestone. He… “encouraged” me, even though it didn’t feel like encouragement at the time. See, Curtis was a junior, built like a video game villain. And before he beat the brakes off me at the end of my freshman year, I thought he was cool. I thought we were cool. But Curtis ain’t think it was cool that his mother gave all her money to my father every night, trying to hit bingo, which led to them being behind on rent.

But I ain’t know about that until he told me. And when he told me, I felt bad. And when he told me to get his money back, I told him I couldn’t. Too bad. And when he told me that since I couldn’t get his money back, he’d have to beat the brakes off me, I told him nothing. And when he told me to meet him at Paradise Hill Park after school, I told him I’d be there. Like I was bad. Even though I wasn’t. And I didn’t want to go. But did, with Nat. And tried to look bad.

It was all bad.

So to not feel that kind of bad again, the first thing I did at the beginning of sophomore year was join the wrestling team. Not because I wanted to learn how to defend myself—though that was part of it—but because I wanted people to know I was on the wrestling team and that I was engaged in combat daily. And that I had teammates who were much better than me, one becoming one of my closest friends. Savion. And all this was enough for people like Curtis Whitestone to not try me again, no matter how much money his mother lost.

Three months into the season, which was the following February and also happened to be four months after meeting Aria and never seeing her again, I had a wrestling match. We were up against Fosterbridge High, a school known for wrestling, unlike our school, which was known mainly for basketball and Savion, who was ranked fourth in the country. My match was against a kid named… I don’t remember his first name, but I remember his last name was Washington, because there’s no way I could ever forget a Washington. I was wrestling in the 160-pound weight class (was having a growth spurt), but the Washington kid’s 160 looked much different than mine. I stepped out on the mat, made sure my headgear was tight, got in my stance, shook his hand. And. Whistle! And. I was on my back before I could blink. He shot, took my legs out, and as I fought to keep my shoulder blades off the mat, I glanced into the crowd and saw… her. Aria. She’d come in with Savion’s friend Brandon and was holding a greasy box of food.

She sat down on the bleachers. Looked at me, then didn’t.

The whistle blew. I made it out of the first round, barely, but wouldn’t make it through the second. Not uncommon for me.

After the meet I looked for her. Searched the stands and snaked through the crowd but couldn’t find her until I went outside. She was hugging Brandon and congratulating Savion as they left.

“Hey.” I stopped her just before she turned to head out.

“Oh! Hey,” she said, patting me on the arm. “Good game.”

“It was a match.”

“Right. Good match.” She gave me an ironic thumbs-up.

I smirked. “I guess.”

“No, I’m kidding, it wasn’t a good match or a good game. You got your ass beat pretty bad out there, kid,” she said, joking. “But it should be noted, for the record, you didn’t look terrible losing.” She extended what was left of the box of food. In it, a few chicken tenders, and a handful of cold fries.

“Thanks,” I said, clawing at the fries, her sense of humor making the cold and gummy consistency bearable. “How’s…”

“Jeremy?” She smiled.

“Yeah, Jeremy,” I replied. “Your furry brother.”

“Oh, you know, mostly bark and very little bite.”

“A little bite is sometimes enough,” I said. Secretly, I was trying not to get too gassed off that one good line, because if I did, there wouldn’t be a follow-up. I’d be one and done, thrown off my square by being surprised by my own charisma.

“That’s true,” Aria said, closing the box. She looked to the left as if she were looking for someone. Waiting for someone.

“Um… how’s the house?” I asked, trying not to lose her.

“Still yellow,” she said. “For now.”

“For now?”

“Yeah. The other day, my little sister said she thinks it might sound better pink. So me and my dad are gearing up for that.”

I couldn’t imagine a pink house. Especially in that neighborhood. And I was so baffled at the thought of a pink house that I totally missed that she’d said sound better pink. But the thought of the pink house made me grin. Maybe because someone chose something different. Something interesting. Something bold. Something special.

And with a movie and ice-cream date in mind, I asked, “You think you might need an extra hand?”

Aria looked me in the eyes.

“Maybe.”

And she meant that maybe. Because even though I helped her paint the house, our first date—the movie and ice cream—didn’t happen for another three months.

We saw Purple Rain. And ate butter pecan.

* * *

If this were a movie, this would be the beginning of a roller-coaster relationship. There would be scenes of us at the park, laid out, reading, flowers in full bloom all around. Or walking down dampened streets at night, arm in arm, cheek to cheek. We’d cook together, which would always lead to food fights, just messy enough to be cute. I’d leave love notes for her everywhere. And she would do the same, misting them with her perfume, kissing them to leave her lip print at the bottom, where’d she’d sign her name with a heart above the i.

If this were a movie, all this would happen thirty minutes before I cheated on her. Maybe at a… Halloween party. One of the ones where the cops don’t break it up. And she’d slap me. And storm out the house, and I’d run after her with a bedsheet wrapped around my waist. I’d call her phone a million times until her sister answered and told me she didn’t want to talk to me. So I’d show up at her house and be threatened by her father. But when I was leaving, I’d notice her in the window.

If this were a movie, of course, we’d be an hour in by this point, and she would’ve moved on. There would be a new boy in her life who everyone liked but her. And I would pick a fight with him. And she would break it up, and be even more disappointed in me. She’d call me selfish and unfair. And she’d be right. And the girl at the party, the one I cheated on Aria with, would wonder why I just wouldn’t get with her. Why I wouldn’t commit to the fling. And so I do. Until I don’t. And that’s a weird conversation.

If this were a movie, this is when the subplot would take over. And I’d be consumed and distracted with something else. Maybe I move out of town. Maybe my mother falls sick. Maybe I change my mind again and decide to marry the other girl, the one from the party, and we’d start a family. And it would be beautiful. Until one day I’d bump into Aria at a coffee shop, or a yoga studio, or the gym, or the swim class our kids attend, or the grocery store, and decide that we can’t blow our lives up and try again. For ten minutes. And then we’d blow our lives up and try again.

If this were a movie, Denzel Washington would not be in it.

But this ain’t no movie.

This was real life. And the beginning of a special, regular story where two people meet and help each other make something beautiful, at the risk of making a mess.

No, this ain’t no movie. This is a mirror. This me. This her. This us.

This is real.