Eleven
“MISS CHARLEENA,” MACON stammered. “Uh . . . this . . . is my friend that I talked to you about and you said it was okay to bring her here . . . and . . .”
Miss Charleena stood there looking at me. She had blonde hair that touched her shoulders, and she was wearing a thick silver watch. She had long, curly eyelashes. I figured I’d better say something.
“I’m Foster McFee,” I said. “I’ve never heard of you before, but my mama loves your movies.” Macon made a noise, but I kept on going. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look exactly like I thought an older actress would look. I’ve never once been close to anyone famous.” Miss Charleena studied my socks. Both my big toes were sticking out. “I’m kind of new to town, and I appreciate being able to meet you. It’s an honor.”
Macon scurried like a squirrel. “Miss Charleena, can I get you some tea and toast or some—”
She said, “Where are you from, Miss Foster McFee?”
“Memphis.”
“Elvis still alive and well?”
“Well, he’s dead, Miss Charleena, but his career keeps right on going.”
“We can only pray for that longevity.”
“Yes, ma’am. I do.”
The little white dogs ran through the doggy door and wagged their tails.
“Hi there, sweet things.” Miss Charleena patted them. She turned to Macon. “You go about your duties now.”
Macon looked like he was going to bust open. “I . . . I . . . I will.”
She walked slowly out of the room with the dogs following her. Her high heels made a click click sound.
“She doesn’t look like she’s dying to me,” I whispered to Macon.
From the other room I heard, “Don’t be so sure, darlin’.”
“Okay, Foster, first you have to be totally careful about what you say in this house because Miss Charleena is always listening.”
“I wish you’d told me that.”
“I’m telling you now.”
We were standing in what Macon called “The Great Hall” that had pictures and movie posters of Miss Charleena’s career. He pointed to a picture of Miss Charleena hanging off the side of a ship in a long dress.
“This was her breakout role. She played a doctor’s wife who got sick on a ship and died. She studied the frustration of being the wife of a doctor, with all the calls in the middle of the night and everything. She got letters from doctor’s wives who said she got it just right.”
“You mean dying?”
“I mean the whole thing—all the little movements and looks that an actor uses to create a character. She knows a lot about the world, Foster.”
I stopped at a picture of Miss Charleena in a white coat examining a little boy. “She won an Emmy and a Golden Globe for playing Dr. Melinda Hutter on Last Hope. She was much beloved.” He put his hand over his heart.
I smiled. “Do you have a crush on her?”
Macon’s face went raspberry. “No,” he sputtered, “of course not. I can’t believe you would say something like that!” He looked away. “I work for her and she’s a great actress and it’s nothing more than that, absolutely nothing. I can’t believe you would think that!”
That means yes.
Macon pointed stiffly to another picture. “And here’s one of her first roles. She was being chased by international criminals through the streets of Paris.” He stopped at a movie poster of Miss Charleena standing by an elephant, surrounded by kids. “This is when she played a teacher in India. It’s my favorite.” Macon studied the picture. “Not everyone understands her, but I do.”
I didn’t see Miss Charleena again that day.
I straightened things in her kitchen as Macon watered her garden. My brain was making lists of everything to tell Mama. I looked inside her cookie jar, even though I wasn’t supposed to touch anything. All she had were Ho Hos and Ding Dongs. I was not impressed. I had Foster’s Best Brownie Cookies with Toasted Walnuts back in the Bullet, but no one was dying for any details about my life.
Not yet, at least.
This kitchen was huge—she had a silver stove, a double refrigerator, a wide-mouth toaster, and a blue food processor. In a glass case were blue-and-white dishes. All the wood was white. Shiny pots hung by the oven—they looked like they’d never been used. She had a work island just like Sonny Kroll has in his kitchen. The windows were big, too, but all the curtains were closed.
Someday I’m going to have a kitchen like this where I’ll film my TV show. I’ll roll out of bed, have my hair and makeup done, and get down to making food that will touch hearts.
I looked around and giggled. “Today on Cooking with Foster,” I said quietly, “we’re going to be visiting kitchens of the stars. But you want to remember that these people put their pants on one leg at a time, just like you do. Of course, their pants cost a lot more than yours, so remember that, too.” I walked to the stove smiling just as Macon came in.
“I’ve got to feed the dogs, Foster, and then I’m done.”
“Take your time,” I told him. I could stay here forever. Macon chopped up chicken breast and bacon, which didn’t look half bad, and filled their little gold bowls. He motioned me out the door. I waved good-bye to the kitchen.
That’s it until next time on Cooking with Foster.
Macon and I walked down the hill, past a little stream, past a sign that I couldn’t read. When I’m famous, I’m going to have people around me who do the reading.
“It meant a lot to Miss Charleena that I brought you,” he said.
You could have fooled me. “Do famous people come to see her?”
“No one comes.” Macon kicked a stone out of the way. “She came here to get away from people.”
She did that, all right.
Macon stared through the trees to the prison below. The long, gray buildings looked creepy from above. “It opened two Christmases ago.”
“That’s a weird time to open a prison.”
“Some of the town ladies decorated a tree and put it at the front gate. They were celebrating how the prison promised to bring all these new jobs to town. That’s how I’m going to begin my movie—with a picture of the Christmas tree.” Macon threw a stone and scared a squirrel. “People shouldn’t make promises they can’t keep.”
I nodded.
“There’s one thousand four hundred and eleven inmates in that place, Foster.”
I thought about what it might be like with all those bad guys in one place. At my old school in Memphis, all the mean kids sat together in the lunchroom. Believe me, you didn’t go near that table.
We headed down the hill.
“I put up signs around town saying I needed to talk to people about my movie, and not one person called,” Macon said quietly.
We passed another sign I couldn’t read. “Was that one of your signs?”
He looked at me strangely. “That says, ‘Keep out—private property.’ ”
I walked faster. “I couldn’t see it.”
He caught up. “I just want people to take me seriously.”
“Macon, you’re the most serious boy on earth.”
His eyes lit up. “I was even a serious baby. I had serious pets like snails and lizards. Look, you can help me make my movie.”
“I don’t know anything about making movies.”
“You can be my assistant.”
“I don’t know how to—”
“Assistants go for coffee, but since I’m not drinking that yet, you can nod and take notes.”
I’m not good at taking notes. “That’s okay, Macon, I—”
“No, it’s perfect.” He grabbed my arm.
I tried to shake it free.
“It’s only for a little while until my financing comes in, Foster. Then you can be the associate producer.”
Twelve
PERSEVERANCE WILSON WAS sitting on the steps of the Church of God FOR SALE with her head bowed like she was praying.
“I don?
??t think we should interrupt,” I whispered, but Macon walked up to her anyway.
“Mrs. Wilson,” he began, “could I ask you a few questions about the prison?”
She looked up. “I have a complicated relationship with that place.”
“Take that down,” Macon told me. I didn’t write anything, but I did nod.
“I remember the dark day when the penitentiary opened,” she said. “We had all those buses of prisoners coming through. It was an eerie feeling, like our town was never going to be the same.”
I was doodling on the notepad to look busy, trying to remember everything she said. “People were stressed, alarms were going off, guards were driving around town wearing mirrored sunglasses so you couldn’t see their eyes.” She shook her head. “But I got to thinking—what do you do when something you don’t want and can’t push away comes into your life?
“My husband used to say, sometimes the best thing you can do is the last thing you want to do.” She laughed. “So we started the Helping Hands House.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Macon glared at me. I guess assistants aren’t supposed to ask questions.
She smoothed out her flowered skirt. “It’s just a rundown building, child, but we give families a place to stay for a few days when they come to visit their loved ones in prison. Some of them have to travel a long way, and it’s an expensive journey, so we do what we can.”
“That’s nice,” I said, and doodled some more as Garland ran up, sweaty and breathing hard, and looking really good for a sweaty, breathless person.
“Hey,” he said smiling.
“Hey.” I grinned back.
Macon moved between us. “We’re working here.”
Garland looked around. “What are you doing?”
Macon rose up on his toes. “Exploring injustice. It’s a major theme in documentary films.”
Garland bent over, panting. “Sounds good.”
“How’d the run feel today?” Percy asked him.
“Better. Except for the hill. I hate that hill.”
“See how far you can go with it,” she told him.
Garland smiled bright and drank some water. “You guys need help exploring injustice?”
Macon looked at my notepad and saw the doodle.
It was a good doodle, but . . .
“What is this?” he hollered.
My face got hot.
“I remember everything she said, Macon, it’s how I—”
“I didn’t ask you to remember! I asked you to write!”
Everyone was looking at me.
“You didn’t write down one word of that interview!”
“Kids, put a lid on this,” Perseverance Wilson warned.
“You’re fired,” Macon said to me.
“You can’t fire me. I quit!”
And I was out of there. I tore off down the road.
Maybe the shame couldn’t catch me.
Maybe if I ran fast enough, I wouldn’t cry.
But I couldn’t run faster than Garland. He caught up with me. “Hey, Foster. What just happened?”
I couldn’t look at him. “I can’t talk about it!”
“That’s okay, I just—”
It’s not okay! I ran down the road toward Fish Hardware and Mama.
I’m not stupid, I told myself. There’s all kinds of things I can do.
But enough of me must be stupid if I’m twelve years old and I can’t take notes.
My stomach muscles were cramping. I could see the hardware store ahead. I stopped running and walked toward it. The front window had paint cans, fishing poles, and an ugly hose.
A woman’s hand reached into the window. I recognized that hand. Now more of her was in the window; she was taking out the paint cans.
“Mama!” I shouted, but she couldn’t hear me. I knocked on the glass, and you should have seen her grin. Mama was always glad to see me.
She posed like she was a mannequin; then she picked up a paintbrush and held it up like she was the Statue of Liberty. I started laughing. Her eyes followed something coming up next to me.
“I’m sorry I fired you.” It was Macon.
I turned away. “You didn’t fire me. I quit.”
“I’m sorry I fired you so you had to quit.”
He looked at Mama posed in the window. “What’s your mother doing?”
“Working.”
Two men in gray uniforms were cleaning up the empty lot next door, picking up trash and putting it in bags. A man wearing mirrored sunglasses watched them.
“Those men are from the prison work release program,” Macon said.
The man in mirrored sunglasses shouted, “Duke, get those bags and we’ll be done.”
Duke got the bags and threw them in a Dumpster near where we were standing. A bird was singing in a tree. “Sing it sweet, bird,” Duke told it. “You’re free.”
A noise sounded like a distant siren. A large woman headed toward us.
“Oh, boy.” Macon cleared his throat. “Mrs. Dupree, how are you?”
“If the sound of that prison alarm isn’t a call to right living, then I don’t know what is. Just think what a life of crime can cost you. Locked up. No place to go. All your freedoms taken away.”
“I was thinking about that earlier, Mrs. Dupree.” Macon pushed me forward. “This is my friend Foster.”
“How do you do, dear?”
I’ve been better. “Fine, thank you, ma’am.”
Mama winked at me from the window. Mrs. Dupree stared at her. I winked back. “That’s my mama.”
“Really . . .”
“We’re new in town.”
Macon had a strange expression on his face. “Foster, Mrs. Dupree is the—”
“You must be looking forward to starting school, dear.”
“Oh, no ma’am. Not one bit.”
Macon made a noise deep in his throat.
Mrs. Dupree stopped short. All of her seemed gray—gray hair, gray face, gray eyes. She took another glance at Mama and hurried off.
Macon threw his arms in the air. “She’s the middle school principal, Foster!”
I closed my eyes. Principals should have to wear a bell around their necks to warn kids they’re coming!
We so cannot stay here.
I told Mama what happened and she laughed.
“We have to move,” I shouted.
She smiled. “There might be another solution.”
“I’m not going to that woman’s school!”
“Maybe it’s a good school.”
A voice from the back of Fish Hardware said, “It’s a pretty good school.”
I moved closer to Mama and whispered, “I’d have to dye my hair and wear a mask so she wouldn’t recognize me!”
“She’d recognize you.” Amy walked from the back carrying a screwdriver. “Look at this. It’s electric.” The screwdriver whirred. “No more wrist strain. It’s a must-have cool tool, don’t you think?” Another whirr. “I want to put it on sale this Saturday and have free coffee and cookies to bring people in.”
Mr. Fish popped his head up from an aisle. “In this economy no one is giving anything away free.”
“Daddy, we have to listen to our customers. They want more.”
“We sell hardware. Let them get their own coffee.” His head went back down.
Amy sighed and looked at me. “Sorry. You were saying you’d have to dye your hair and wear a mask so Mrs. Dupree wouldn’t recognize you.”
It sounded stupid when she said it.
Mama put her hand on my shoulder. “And I was about to say, I have every confidence Foster can handle whatever comes.”
Amy nodded.
Then Mama said we were staying here for the time being and I should feel free to make the best of it.
Amy nodded again.
Making the best of it was something Mama had been shoving down my throat since I could talk. She went back to clearing out the front window. Amy walked to
ward the back.
I had to do what I’d done in Memphis. There was no other way.
Thirteen
I’M HERE, WORLD, and I’ve got baked goods!
I stood outside Angry Wayne’s Bar and Grill holding tight to my Bake and Take. Inside this carrier were six chocolate chip muffins and six vanilla cupcakes.
A sleepy dog lay by the screen door. Two red-headed boys were chasing something in the parking lot, laughing. I was about to go in when I heard a man shout, “You want to get me good and riled?” Then something hit the wall and a buzzer went off.
I jumped back. “What was that?”
“Our poppa,” the taller red-headed boy said.
A man in a uniform, wearing mirrored sunglasses, walked out. He held the door open. “Going in?” he asked me.
I nodded and walked inside.
Three men and a lady sat at the counter; not one of them looked happy. Stuffed fish hung on the wall. They didn’t look happy either. There wasn’t much to this long, thin place. The sausages on the grill looked good, though.
“You know what they did now, Wayne?” one of the men asked.
A man with red hair was standing at the grill. “Can my heart take it, Clay?”
“The prison’s putting Tommy out of business. All those promises they were going to buy from him—just a pack of lies.”
Wayne’s face got pink and splotchy. He reached down, got a rubber ball, and threw it at a buzzer on the wall that buzzed loud. The ball dropped into a net below. “They can’t do that!”
“They’re doing it, boy.”
“They’re doing it,” the men and lady said.
I stepped forward, tried to have stage presence like Mama taught me. “Excuse me.”
They all turned to look. Angry Wayne flipped the sausages. “You lost?”
Sure feels that way, mister. I missed Marietta Morningstar and her little pink bake shop.
“I’m new in town and I’m a baker and I was wondering, sir, if I could help you in the kitchen. You wouldn’t have to pay me or anything. I’d just like to learn. I did this in Memphis.”
“Don’t hire children,” he said.