When they let Mother out of jail we threw a bail bond party at Joe Brewer’s apartment. Mr. Gaylord Lewis had gone into court and told the judge that he would watch out for my mother until trial. And since Mr. Lewis was so big and important with football and money and God, the judge couldn’t say no.
At the party, when Mr. Gaylord Lewis strode over to sit beside me, I sprang off Joe Brewer’s spindly couch. Strode is the only word for the way that man walked. I would have been glad to have him sit beside me, but I was afraid, with all his weight, that the couch would flip up like a seesaw and hurl me across the room.
Aunt Eleanor was in the kitchen stirring a big pot of spaghetti sauce and meatballs made with one of Mr. Gaylord Lewis’s own cows, born right there on his ranch. Everybody seemed to like that fact, but I was concerned that he might be eating one of his pets. I had those concerns about eating pork, what with Bunny and all. Seems to me that meat is best bought in stores, without thinking too much about how it got there.
Speaking of pork, Sister Joan came down from the hills after the bond hearing and she brought Bunny. She knew all about sneaking my pig into Joe Brewer’s building, which didn’t allow pets. She held Bunny up under her habit and marched right in. I wondered about that; Bunny had put on a few pounds but Sister Joan has strong arm muscles. “People don’t stop and frisk nuns,” she said. I didn’t know what frisk was, but everybody else laughed, so I laughed along too.
We had everybody together for our party. Mr. Gaylord Lewis, who made it all possible. Mother and Bunny. Sister Aunt Eleanor Rose, Joe Brewer, Frank, Sister Joan, and me. Everybody but the Catfish, and I don’t think it is heartless to say that his presence would have ruined the party. He’d had a fast trial and gone straight to jail, did not pass go, did not collect $200. What with him having the gun in his hand and shooting up the place, wasn’t much his attorney could do for him. Good riddance, troublemaker. I could go the rest of my life without seeing his silly face.
“You want to hold my pig?” I asked Mr. Gaylord Lewis. I didn’t want him to think me rude for jumping off the couch just as he was coming to sit beside me. He took Bunny in his big lap and scratched. “Good pig,” he said. “Look at those eyes. He’s going to grow into a fine big pig. You might win a blue ribbon at the state fair with this one.”
I hadn’t thought of Bunny being a prize-winning pig. That might be fun if he wanted to do it later. What struck me, though, was him telling me that Bunny was going to be one of those huge hogs at the fair. He was already on his way. Now he’d never fit in that stupid toy Cadillac back in Hot Springs. I wondered if that circus family had gotten another tiny pig to torture.
Mother was in the shower at Joe Brewer’s and she’d been in there a long time. I didn’t blame her. Aunt Eleanor told me, after the fact, that people in jail take cold showers in groups. I’d just as soon stay dirty.
Frank and Sister Joan laughed together in nearby chairs. Frank was telling Red Eye Truck Stop stories. Sister Joan is one of those people whose feet fly out forward when they laugh. Joe Brewer stood out on his terrace with the doors open, looking over the city lights.
The building still made me dizzy. I wasn’t about to walk out on a terrace of a swaying building.
Mother stepped back into the room with us, her beautiful hair wet and freshly combed. She had on the dress she’d been wearing when they arrested her, the one with the pink flowers. The sandals too. The same shoe that got knocked off at the IQ Zoo so long ago. I realized that she didn’t have any other clothes.
Over pet cow spaghetti, I asked if Mother could get the rest of her stuff out of the Catfish’s car. Joe Brewer said no, the car and everything in it was “being held as evidence.”
“My stuff isn’t evidence. I want it back.”
“The state usually keeps it all,” Joe Brewer said.
“Why? What do they need with our stuff?” I wanted my Wordly Wizard workbooks, at least.
“Why is not something you ask the bureaucrats,” Mr. Gaylord Lewis said. I’d learned that Mr. Gaylord Lewis was a benefactor and that was a good thing, but I didn’t know the word bureaucrats. Didn’t sound good, the way he said it.
Sister Joan marched out of the kitchen with a bakery cake. She placed it on the table in front of Mother, the guest of honor, I suppose. For just a split second I thought that she might light a candle and have us sing Happy Birthday, but that’s not the kind of party it was. On top of the cake, the baker had written in blue icing, PRAISE THE LORD.
Amen, everybody said, and I was glad to praise the Lord, but it seemed that we should be praising Mr. Gaylord Lewis. He was the one with power and money, and he came down out of the hills to free my mother. I guess you could say that the Lord sent us Mr. Gaylord Lewis, and I was glad of it.