Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(88)
“That fool Tinker?” Guy asked, never taking his eyes off Robinson.
“He’s a good man, Guy,” Jilo said, an odd flutter in her heart as the truth of what she said hit her. Everybody around knew they weren’t churchgoing people, but two weeks back Tinker had sent one of his employees by with a note for her, asking if she’d agree to let him take her boys to services for the holiday. She couldn’t find the heart to turn him down. “He’s no fool. Just kind.” Jilo stood and smoothed down her dress, trying to make the movement seem natural, unhurried, but still wanting to be ready to put herself between Guy and their son if need be. It only amounted to horseplay, what she’d witnessed so far, but Guy had started getting a little too rough with Robinson. Guy said it’d toughen the boy up, but Jilo had drawn a line, and she, by God, was going to see to it that Guy stayed on the safe side of it.
Guy leaned forward, turning Robinson in a circle, then flopped back against the chair. “Done been Easter three times since he was born. You’ve never worried about getting him religion before. At least not since I’ve been around.”
“This is the first year he’s old enough to understand. To remember.” Jilo stepped forward and took Robinson’s hand, pulling them both beyond striking distance. “I just want him to learn a bit of what’s decent,” she said. He’s seen enough of our kind of living. These last words went unspoken.
Robinson began tugging on her hand, trying to get her attention. When she looked down, he held up his arms to her. “Naw, baby, you’re getting too big for Mama to carry around.” He wasn’t. Not yet. Not really. But that’s what Guy had decided. He didn’t want her coddling Robinson. Turning him soft. “And I don’t want to wrinkle your nice suit.”
She looked out the door at Willy, dressed very much the same as Robinson, hovering near the end of the hall, doing his best to remain out of Guy’s line of sight. The older boy looked handsome, too, but it seemed odd to see him done up in a coat and tie. Like he was some kind of actor in costume, preparing to play a role for which he was ill-suited. With a nod, she signaled Willy to turn back and head to the kitchen. She looked at Guy. “I’m going to take him to the kitchen for a glass of milk before Mr. Poole arrives for the boys.” Guy didn’t seem to care. He didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair.
Robinson began jabbering about one thing or another, so she led him quickly down the hall before he managed to irritate his father. The second they were far enough for Guy not to witness the act, she swept her boy into her arms.
“You’re gonna be a good boy today for Uncle Tinker aren’t you?” she asked.
Robinson clasped his hands together and nodded, a big smile on his face. “I like Tinker.” Jilo knew Tinker was in the habit of treating the boys to candy or ice cream whenever he saw them together on West Broad Street, a habit that encouraged Willy to walk Robinson by Tinker’s business more often than he otherwise would.
A part of her felt she should set a clear boundary with Tinker, but she wanted both boys to see that there were kind, decent men out there. For Robinson to emulate, and Willy, well, she was beyond lying to herself anymore about that one, for Willy to love. She didn’t want either of them to leave her home thinking all men were like the ones she’d brought into their lives. Besides, treats had grown scarce around here now that she was supporting Guy’s habits—and those of his friends—with Mother Jilo’s earnings. And all this without a proper place to meet folk, now that she could no longer welcome them into the privacy of the haint-blue room. Deciding it was better to keep work and family apart, she’d followed in her nana’s footsteps, meeting folk in Colonial Cemetery rather than at home. She’d begun to understand what would have led her nana to setting up shop there toward the end of her life. She got fewer clients than she did before, but those willing to meet right where God and all the world could see tended also to be willing to pay a heck of a lot more for her services.
Yes, Mother Jilo earned plenty for the family. Plenty more than they should’ve needed. But Guy drank away a lot of it. And he spent a lot of it “entertaining.” She wondered how much of Mother Jilo’s hard-earned cash went up Guy’s nose, or into some whore’s veins.
“I like Tinker,” her boy repeated himself when she didn’t respond. Robinson was getting to be old enough that they could hold real conversations. Jilo felt proud to see him growing, but it worried her that he’d be able to pick up on the sharp words that passed between his father’s lips.
“I like him, too,” she said, whisking him into the kitchen. “But you need to show respect to your elders. You should call him Mr. Poole.”
“And that goes for you, too,” she said to Willy as she entered the kitchen.
Willy stood leaning against the counter, his neck craned toward the window, searching, Jilo surmised, for the first sign of Tinker’s arrival. “But,” Willy said, “he told us we should call him Tinker.”
“Mr. Poole is a kind and generous man. He may have said to call him Tinker, but I don’t care. You call him Mr. Poole.”
She pulled out a chair from the table and deposited Robinson into it. She took the pitcher of milk from the refrigerator and crossed to the cupboard to find a glass. “You want some?” she asked Willy, but he didn’t answer, even though she could feel the weight of his eyes on her. She turned back to see his lips all puckered tight like he’d tasted something sour. “And just what’s wrong with you? We made a deal, you wear that suit to church today, and I’ll . . .”