More Than Good Enough(42)

She shrugged. “Ain’t nothing to show.”

We spent the rest of the day in the backyard. I didn’t think about Mom ditching me, selling the house. I didn’t think about Dad getting so wasted he cracked his head on the bathroom sink and somehow managed to stumble outside, just a few feet away from the chickee hut he’d built when I was little.

“You learn by watching,” Cookie said.

That was the Eelaponke way—her term for Miccosukee. As we worked, she told me about the beginning, when Breathmaker pulled us from the clay and made all the animals on the earth. The panthers were supposed to crawl out first, but their heads wouldn’t fit.

“They couldn’t do it by themselves,” she explained. “So the bird clan helped them out.”

“Sounds like the panthers aren’t too big on peace.” I stepped off the ladder while Cookie held it with one hand.

“They have a place, same as everything,” she said, passing me a Coke. “The snakes and alligators, even the ants, they all have a place.”

I popped the tab and took a long sip. Coke always burned my throat going down. In the late afternoon heat, it tasted better than water. I stared off into the distance, where the Everglades unrolled like a tarp. Did the big cats still hang out in the sawgrass? Or were they hunted down and killed years ago?

“Ever see a panther?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said. “Just you.”

I wanted to ask more questions, but Cookie grabbed the wheelbarrow and pushed it back to the porch. As we packed up the beads, she told more stories about the animals and how the world got started.

“The panthers were Breathmaker’s favorite,” she said.

“So why didn’t he help them?” I asked.

“He was watching, all along.” Cookie patted my shoulder. “That thing in your pocket … ”

I slipped a hand inside and squeezed the gator tooth.

She gave me a slow smile. “Keep it.”

And I did.

Uncle Seth came home looking like hell. We hadn’t really talked since he called the cops, the night Dad went ballistic. At dinner, we made Indian burgers with fry bread. Probably the best thing I’ve eaten in my whole life. And trust me. Eating is one thing I’m good at. He showed me how to knead the bread. It’s all about letting it breathe. Man, I could eat that stuff every day. No joke.

“I’m staying here now,” I said.

Uncle Seth took off his straw hat and plunked it on my chair. He was still wearing the baggy patchwork that everybody called Big Shirts, so I knew he’d been putting on a show for the tourists. As he helped himself to a burger, I waited for the bomb to drop.

“That’s fine,” he said. “But this isn’t your dad’s place. There are rules.”

“Okay. I’m cool with that.” To be honest, I would’ve agreed to anything.

He gave me a little speech about alcohol, how it makes “too much heat” and burns your insides. I was half-listening, half-tuning him out, sort of astral projecting the whole time, but he had a point. I didn’t want to end up bleeding in the grass.

“You’re going to school,” he said. “And you’ll still work for me on weekends. Does that sound fair?”

I nodded.

Cookie fixed a plate and wrapped it in a paper towel. “Go ahead and take this over to your dad. He’s sick in spirit, not just his body, and that’s the way it is.”

Crossing the backyard, I thought about all the bullshit he’d put me through—the chalky smell of the blender in the morning, the bottles stacked in the sink like bowling pins, the epic humiliation in front of Pippa, and now this.

When I saw him passed out in bed, all my dark energy fizzled away. He was tucked under a beach towel, like he was only taking a siesta. An Ace bandage drooped off his forehead. Yeah, this was the man who brought me into the world. A freaking rock star.

The stereo was still playing with the sound off. What was he listening to last night? I hit eject and the CD tray slid out. The label, a swarm of magic marker, looked mucho familiar. Here’s why.

It was my own crazy handwriting.

The CD was a mix of classic rock songs I’d recorded for “inspiration.” Just me and my Gibson, channeling Jimi

Hendrix, the guitar hero who shared Dad’s name. That’s about all they shared, as far as I could tell.

In my freshman year at Southwinds, I did okay, but I wasn’t exactly an Honor Roll kid. The whole concept of school was a joke to me. Alone in my room, I’d listen to Dad’s vinyl. I tried to imitate the Jimi swagger, but it ended in failure. That’s when I started writing my own songs—so many, I ran out of CDs. I grabbed whatever I found around the house: Mom’s yoga tapes, The Magic of Muscle Singing. Yeah, I was a little obsessed.

When you give something, you’re supposed to get something back. I put the greasy plate of food on the dresser. The .357 Mag was under the bed, locked in a case the size of a lunchbox. I crouched on my hands and knees, grabbed the handle, and pulled.

“You play good. Might want to borrow an amp next time, boy. Improve your sound. Get yourself a 40-watt. Crank it up a little,” Dad mumbled at me.

“It’s not about playing loud,” I said, backing away from the bed. How he could just lie there, giving me shit like nothing had ever happened? I should’ve been used to it.