Adam Johnson - Fortune Smiles - Stories

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The UPS yard is almost empty, its skeleton crew of drivers out on the road. Nonc docks the van so they can clean and fuel it before heading out again. Geronimo grabs the hose, and as Nonc sweeps the crawfish out onto the pavement, the boy sprays them into the storm drain. He seems to relish the way they skitter against the beam of water, but when they’ve all finally disappeared, when they’ve slipped through the grate for good, he looks lost.

UPS lets Nonc keep all his food and milk in the refrigerated cargo bay, so he can bootstrap up a few PB&J sandwiches and reload the sippy cups between runs. UPS is the coolest company that way — they let Nonc take the van at night, the way a cop brings home a squad car, and they look the other way about Geronimo riding shotgun. As long as you don’t fuck up and get your name in the paper, Brown is on your side. One driver got drunk and ran his van into a ditch. UPS just towed it out, no questions. Got him some counseling, sent him back on the road.

Nonc downloads a new manifest to the DIAD, which diagrams the optimal route — right away, he sees that one of the stops is his own address, or his old one, the place on Kirkman Avenue he was evicted from. He heads there first. On his street, a pair of white oaks have blown down, letting a new light fall on the fourplex, so that he almost doesn’t recognize it when he pulls up. All four doors have been kicked in, and on the porch, some crows are taking turns poking their heads in a cereal box.

When he came home last year to find the door padlocked, the sheriff’s tag said all his possessions would be auctioned to pay the back rent. But Nonc enters to see his old TV on its stand, his couch blooming with mold, his table and chair dusted with broken glass. The rest of the stuff isn’t his — the dishes on the floor, the broken picture frames, the bicycle on its back by the door. The mixture of his possessions with a stranger’s isn’t as weird as the fact that these things used to mean something to him. When did he find time to sit on this couch? Did he once know the names of TV shows? He feels like the person who owned that couch is just as much of a stranger as the person whose family photos litter the floor.

That’s when Nonc looks at the package and sees that it is addressed to himself, Randall Richard, from his father. Nonc picks up a piece of glass and slits open the box. Inside is a note, one of his father’s unmistakable notes: “Aside from killing me, California has been okay. These are my effects. They asked what I wanted done with them, and I didn’t know.”

Nonc turns the note over to see if there’s more, but there isn’t. Inside are his father’s clothes, his pants, shirt, belt and ball cap. Nonc’s pretty okay with the man’s death, but the notion that he’ll never get dressed again, that he’s to die in a gown, seems strange and impossible. There’s also a wallet. Tooled into the leather is “Nonc,” short for n’oncle, a Cajun term for uncle that’s used for close family friends. It’s what he called his father when he was a boy, before he started calling him Harlan. It occurs to Nonc that he never called his father Dad, and now, weirdly, neither does his own son.

Inside the wallet are a Costco membership card, some cash and a handwritten list of Internet casinos with ID numbers and passwords. There is a California driver’s license with an address in L.A. that Nonc could map with his DIAD, and there’s an ancient laminated doctor’s note stating that he is a mute. Nonc picks up a key chain, a large one with all manner of car keys, Toyota, Ford, Hyundai. One of the keys is for a boat, a Grady-White, which are the best. And there’s a packet of white hankies, which his father used to clean his trach tube. All this stuff is just sitting on Nonc’s lap. He feels like he’s rifling through it, like his dad might walk in at any moment and catch him. He feels like his father died long ago, and these are relics. He brushes it all onto the couch, the keys, the cash, the LSU ball cap. He stands and takes a last look around. He tries to separate the different owners of all this stuff, tries to put them together. He tries to close the door behind him, but it is broken.

—

To get a break from Geronimo, Nonc and Relle attend A.A. meetings at the Presbyterian church, where an old maw-maw provides free child care. For two hours a night, they get to drink coffee and listen to other people’s problems. Tonight Nonc arrives first, and after dropping off the boy, he grabs a piece of king cake and sits in the half-empty circle. Churches are always acting like they have something incredible going on — white envelopes for your money, toddlers in three-piece suits, cops in gloves directing Sunday traffic — but their basements are all the same: folding chairs, old appliances, bins of dead folks’ clothes.

The regulars start arriving. Even though it’s “anonymous,” Lake Charles isn’t such a big town, and Nonc has knocked on just about every door. Linda Tasso shows up, the oldest daughter of the mayor. She manages to find a new rock bottom every week, goes on and on about it. Jim Arceneaux brings this giant truck-stop thermos of iced tea. He used to run a reptile zoo out by the interstate, snakes and gators galore; he sobered up when they slapped him with animal cruelty charges after they caught him adopting too many kittens and puppies from the pound. Some folks from New Orleans show up — you can spot them right away, that look of wearing someone else’s clothes, those faraway eyes.

Finally, Relle strolls in — she’s got a chocolate and maroon tracksuit on, and she takes a chair across the circle from Nonc. She slouches in her seat, which pulls the fabric of her pants tight enough that you can see the shadow of her pussy. The girl has really taken a shine to A.A. meetings, and not just because it’s the only time they’re free of the boy. She seems to love the idea that normal-looking people, people with careers and houses, are actually, according to their own testimony, weak and susceptible. Relle was the one pretty girl in high school who was never popular, so she loves standing in their group at break, being among the chitchat, bumming cigarettes, laughing when they start to laugh. And then there’s that moment when the break is over and everyone heads back inside for the second hour, that moment when she takes Nonc’s hand and leads him into the van.

She’s even become a talker at the meetings. She loves to discuss the state of their relationship, out loud, in front of witnesses. Tonight she starts right in. One of the evacuees from New Orleans stands up. “My name is James B.,” he says, “and I am an alcoholic,” and then Relle is off and running. But Nonc’s still staring at James B., who’s wearing a brand-new Chuck E. Cheese T-shirt, and the crispness of the white makes the rest of him look battered, like some shit has truly befallen him.

“My boyfriend,” Relle says, and looks toward the ceiling, as if nobody knows who that might be. “My boyfriend’s real strong, but so is his problem. There are struggles ahead, and he can’t see them. A funeral’s on the horizon, travel. I’m trying to help him. I’m offering my hand, but I’m afraid he’s not going to take it.”

Bill Maque, the guy who runs Game and Fish, says, “Tell your boyfriend that he needs to find a meeting before he travels. Trust me, they need to be expecting him.”

“A funeral,” Linda Tasso volunteers, “send in the shrinks, that’s a guaranteed spiral.”

Nonc’s job is to figure out what “problem” Relle is really talking about. Last night she said, “Nobody should have to handle two people’s problems,” which was code for the position Marnie had put them in, and hell or high water, that girl had to be found. But Nonc can’t tell if tonight’s problem has something to do with Marnie or the paternity test, both of which could result in major developments. Your baby’s mama is dead? Your baby’s not your baby? Those things are as irreversible as a kid thrown from a bridge, and if Nonc knows anything, it’s that you want to minimize developments in life — a few are going to happen, sure, but you don’t go looking for them, and you sure as shit don’t cause them.