Moose and Goose

Chapter Seventy-nine

"I thought we were gonna drink a little and talk," he says with a questioning undertone, trailing off in speech. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he watches her hug her chest. "I understand wanting a moment to think. I work long hours, and when I get home, I go straight to bed."

"That explains your smell." Walter emits a closed-mouth chuckle, hanging his head and watching his boots. "What, you waiting on your shoes to take you on home?"

"What if I take you out to eat," he suggests, and she rolls her eyes then folds her arms under her chest. "What? I know a fancy little place that lets our folk through the front door."

"I got three kids," she blurts out, hoping it'll drive him away like the others. The crickets and owls take over for them when they let the silence suffocate them.

"Oh," Walter's voice trails off, and he lowers his head in thought. She begins to turn to her yard but stops when he says, "Well if they're polite, I can get us into a show."

8:57 pm

Young Stacey, Wayne, and Michael are sitting oldest to youngest on Sheryl's left, leaving Walter in the aisle seat. They're at the top of the theatre, overlooking the white viewers alongside their black peers.

"So, where you from," Walter asks Sheryl in a low voice, and she turns her head to him on her right. "You talk all smooth, but you got a northern brogue."

"Funny you should say, I was thinking the same about you." He lets out a light chuckle, and she smiles. "I'm Georgia bred and New York raised. Maybe that's why I sound funny to you."

"I don't think you sound funny. Different, very, but I can get used to it." Sheryl twists her mouth to the side and glances at Michael under her arm.

"So, where you from?" She looks at Walter again, and he lifts his hands, motioning around them.

"Montgomery. Never been no 'nother place besides here," he softly confesses to avoid disturbing those watching the film — White Christmas — but someone sitting rows behind them shushes him.

He and Sheryl peek into the darkness behind them, searching for the faceless person then they smile at each other.

"Guess we'd best be quiet," she mumbles over a suppressed laugh, and he lowers his eyebrows humorously.

"Guess they'd best calm down," he playfully argues. "This picture ain't that interesting."

"Then why'd you choose it?" Another person to their left practically hisses over their finger, angrily hushing them. Sheryl cranes her head to look past Stacey, and she opens her mouth to speak, closing it back when Michael wraps his arms around her. He lays his head on her chest, and she hugs him closer.

"It's the only show I figured your kids would enjoy." Sheryl looks at him as he responds. "Frankly, I'm not much of a theater man."

"Why not? Don't you have kids," she asks, and he quickly shakes his head with his lips pursed and his eyebrows drawn together. He hums no.

"I just got me and my ol' guard dog," he says, relaxing his mouth. He watches Michael doze off at the sound of his mother's slow heartbeat against her burgundy dress. "Never found the time to settle down. Booze and partying kept that out of my head, then I met you."

"Listen, whatever problems you got, I'm not in the business of fixing them. I got these three to worry about, and I don't need nothing else," she defends herself, staring sternly into his gentle eyes. He raises his hands.

"I understand, and I wouldn't put that on you. Let me finish," he says in the form of a question. She takes a breath, and when he sees her shoulders relax, he slowly lowers his hands. "I saw you working with every kind of white folk around, and I don't know. I was angry. A woman like you shouldn't have to take no talk like you did earlier."

"Save your breath. I'm used to it." Sheryl tosses her gloved right hand at him dismissively. "Don't matter how much we boycott busses, we'll never change nothing."

"Keep talking like that, and you'll be right." She listens to him, her lips parted. "Honestly, I don't believe we'll change anything either – that's where the youth come in. They say children are the future, blessed with a purity that puts them closer to God. All we got to do is educate them with what we know and watch them – with more time on this Earth than us – change it for the ones after them. Who knows, we might even share a bathroom with white folks someday."

"What you say your name is," she asks him, and he answers. "Well, Walter, answer me something: if you could choose, what would you do for the rest of your life? Be a blacksmith, elevator attendant, what?"

"Honestly, I wouldn't do a thing but be there for my kids," he tells her, and her expression sinks. She notices how genuine he is when he speaks, and to her, it's off-putting. She's used to liars and swindlers, men looking for one thing, then leaving when they get it, but staring into his eyes, she doesn't see any of it. "I can't quite think of a man who'd work himself to the bone if he had a say."

***

"He didn't have much, but he loved the four of us dearly," Sheryl wraps up her story, tears flying down her face. Judith watches her wipe them off. "I didn't believe anything could change America's understanding of Black people until Stacey rioted on the very campus you did. Before then, sometimes now, I wonder how life would've turned out if I had married someone else. Someone my parents picked out for me like they did my sisters."

"Why didn't you," Judith asks, her teeth chattering. Her skin that's submerged in the cold milk and oats are withered, which Judy noticed before speaking.

"Because money doesn't buy true love." Sheryl wipes her tears with the back of her hands and sniffles, staring at the tissue folded in her hands. "Choosing David, your father and I only wanted what was best for you. Being with him wasn't easy at times. Some months I would spend working and tending to the house, practically doing what I was doing before but with another mouth to feed."

"So you figured as long as I ignore him beating me and making me feel dependent on him, it would be okay so long as I marry him for his money," Judith asks, and Sheryl rolls her misty eyes onto her daughter's mirror above the sink.

"Judy, I've apologized for that," she begins to say, but Judith scoffs.

"No, you didn't," she interrupts her. "In fact, you never wanna talk about it. Even when I'd come home with scratches, bruises, visibly hurting when I walked, you and Dad would ignore it."

"I'm not apologizing again over something stupid." Sheryl jumps to her feet, and Judith stares at the ceiling, disbelief and sadness hidden under her stoic exterior. "I'm gonna check on Vera, then get breakfast started. Dry yourself off and join us when you're doing sulking."