Mo grabbed a quick peek at Sam as they bumped along the road to Walmart. The man was hanging onto his door handle like he was riding a bull in a rodeo.
Mo surrendered to speaking his thoughts. “Damn rains—each year they leave holes the size of soup pots scattered on the asphalt. Makes drivin’ unpredictable. You’re either swerving at the last minute, or your guts are bangin’ up against your lungs. Never mind the fact that the truck needs new shocks somethin’ bad.”
That Sam was a strange one. Mo could tell that he was smart, and he was good looking too. He had a strong jaw and perfect teeth, but he hardly smiled. The only time Mo saw those teeth was when he was chewing. Mo thought he should get Sam’s mind off the road, take his nerves down a notch. The truck’s radio hadn’t worked in years, so Mo was going to have to hold down both sides of the talking.
“The way I see it, either we get you a jacket and some warm clothes or we’re gonna be accused of freezin’ you to death. I once knew a man who fell asleep at the bus stop and lost seven of his toes to frostbite.” Mo thought that would get a response, but Sam said nothing.
“Well I didn’t know him really. I read about him in Reader’s Digest.” Mo stole a quick glance at Sam. “What’s with you? Ain’t nobody don’t pick up the bait of Readers Digest. One mention of the Digest and somebody usually brings up one of the hero stories, or the one about those folks that ate each other when their plane crashed, or how much they learned from stories like ‘I am Joe’s Eyeball.’” Mo was so busy filling the air with his one-sided conversation that he took his eyes off the road.
When the truck hit the pothole, he had to use all his strength to avoid losing control of the wheel. The steady flap of the tire turned his chatty demeanor to annoyance as he pulled to the side of the road.
“You hear that? We got a goddamn flat.”
Mo got out of the truck, walked around to the front passenger side, and kneeled down to survey the damage. The tire was blown out. He could see clear through to the rim. He stood up and rapped on the hood with his knuckles.
“Okay, gonna put you to work. I need the jack and the spare.”
Jacob stepped down from the truck. He looked like a turtle in protective mode. His head was retracted into his sweatshirt and his expression was vacant. Mo motioned with his head toward the back of the truck. Mechanically, Jacob searched the truck bed and bent to look underneath, but when he stood up, Mo could see he was no closer to a solution.
“You never changed a tire?” Mo didn’t wait for the response. “Okay, listen up—a man needs to know this kind of thing.”
Forty minutes later, the newly shod truck pulled into the Walmart parking lot. Both men had a hint of grease on their hands. As they entered the store, Mo pronounced their destination to the greeter. He could have asked a question, but Mo made a statement of fact. “Winter coats—men.”
The old man pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Back right corner.”
They wended their way through the store, big women’s clothing, groceries, sheets and towels, pet supplies, lawn mowers, televisions. Mo continued to fill the air between them.
“This store got everything a body could want…and if it don’t, the rest is at Sears. Those two stores and you’re set for life.” Without warning Mo stopped short at a circular display rack. Jacob almost walked right into him as Mo started rummaging through the jackets. He pointed Jacob to a second rounder with coats.
“You look over there,” Mo said. “You’re tall enough for a large, even if you are on the skinny side.”
Jacob examined each coat. He fingered the material—some were flannel and warm to the touch, some, cool and puffy. When he came to the sole wool coat in the rack, he stopped. It reminded him of his overcoat back in Brooklyn. He pulled the double-breasted pea coat and showed it to Mo.
Mo shook his head vigorously. “That wool don’t move,” he said as he held up a bright red ski jacket under Jacob’s neck. There was a brief moment of assessment and then swift judgment as Mo sucked a tooth. “Don’t like this either. You don’t look like somebody who’d be hittin’ the slopes.”
Mo returned the jacket to the rack, picked out a navy parka, and shoved it at him. “Try this one. Won’t show dirt.”
Jacob unzipped the jacket, put it on, and waited for the sound of Mo’s tooth-sucking verdict. “Not bad.” Next, Mo handed him a maroon hat and glove combo from a nearby display.
“Take this. You lose ninety percent of your body heat through your head. I read that in Reader’s Digest too.” Jacob turned over the price tag on the jacket: $49.95. How was he supposed to pay for this?
Mo answered the unspoken question. “I’ll lay out for you. You can work it off.”
Jacob’s “thank you” came out without any thought. It was more of a croak than a voice. He hadn’t used his voice in the longest time. For so long his responses had been locked inside, and now, without warning, the words slipped out. He wasn’t sure if he felt betrayed or relieved by the subconscious mutiny of his vocal cords. He wasn’t even sure if he had said anything at all.
Mo’s lifted eyebrows told him otherwise. He couldn’t hide the shock. His face danced into a smile. “Well how do you like that? He speaks!”
On the way home, Jacob, like a toddler learning how to walk, made forays into speaking. Mo would offer him a conversation starter, a finger held out to balance the lurching child until he was secure enough to venture on his own. Mo found that Jacob was most successful making small talk. In-depth questions about his past prompted a series of shrugs and silences.
Mo pulled up in front of First Baptist. He and Jacob sat in the truck and watched Langston playing basketball by himself in the parking lot. The boy was awkward, downright uncoordinated.
“Glad the boy is smart,” Mo chuckled. “‘Cause the NBA won’t be callin’.”
Mo tapped the horn to get Langston’s attention, and Jacob got out of the car in his new winter coat and hat.
Langston dribbled past him and made an unsuccessful attempt at a free throw. Jacob stopped to watch. The boy didn’t even hit the backboard.
Jacob remembered Yossi’s first attempts at basketball, also clumsy. His son always had his nose in a book, and Julia feared that he’d become a loner. She suggested that Jacob teach him some basketball skills so he could play with the other boys at recess and after school. Yossi’s dexterity was limited, but he studied everything about the sport, spouting statistics for players, percentages, and trades like an ESPN analyst.
“Shoot again,” Jacob offered as he walked past the boy.
Langston had gotten used to the silence of this strange man, so when he spoke, Langston stopped in his tracks and stared.
“Try again,” Jacob said.
“Hey, you can talk?”
Jacob nodded. “Bend your knees.”
Langston bent his legs and aimed. The ball arced, hit the rim, slowly circled, and then popped out.
“It almost worked!”
Mo honked his horn again, and Langston put the ball under his arm and headed home.
Jacob concentrated on each step as he walked to his basement room. There was something comforting about this space—its sparseness and simplicity. With his brand-new parka still on, he stood in front of the small mirror over the sink and examined his image. He stepped back and angled his body, trying to see as much of himself as possible. He was taken aback by his own reflection—he looked like a model in a department store advertisement. He looked so all-American. He could disappear into this stranger forever.
Jacob stepped toward the mirror, swiping the new wool beanie from his head. His hair was a clump of curls, overgrown and wild. He fixated on his own eyes, searching for a person he knew once existed. The face that looked back was bewildered.
Still in his jacket, Jacob lowered his body to the cot. Within moments, he was asleep.
Langston pushed the broccoli around his plate. Mo’s plate had nothing but gravy.
“Any more pork chops?” Mo asked.
Rosie got up to clear the table. “You’ve had enough. Last one is for Langston’s lunch tomorrow. Besides, the doctor said only five ounces of meat. Portion control, remember?”
Mo murmured under his breath. “Forgot I was livin’ with the food police.”
“Did you hear, Ma?” Langston asked. “Sam talked today!”
Rosie looked to Mo for explanation. “I managed to coax a few sentences out of him,” Mo admitted.
“What did he say?” Rosie asked.
“He said that the hot water don’t work outta the basement spigot.”
“I told you, the whole not-talking-thing was an act,” Rosie scolded.
“It’s not that simple.” He took a slice of bread and wiped up the gravy.
“Did he tell you who he is, where he’s from?”
Mo shook his head. He got up, stretched his back, and groaned. “Just because a man don’t spill his life story don’t mean he’s tryin’ to put one over on you. I’ll tell you this much—he’s a city boy. Even with all his handiness, he didn’t know how to change a flat tire.”
“I don’t trust him,” Rosie said.
“Be that as it may, don’t you go pesterin’ him with a whole bunch of your questions. Nosy Rosie has no place here.”
“I am not being Nosy Rosie,” she said defensively. “I have a right to know who’s living across the street.”
“You don’t know what he’s been through. Sometimes people are like broken saltines—cracked in pieces. You handle ’em too rough and you get nothin’ but dust.”
Langston interrupted. “Is there any dessert?”
Mo was happy to change the subject. “Now, that’s a good question.”
Later that evening, Langston was on Rosie’s computer downstairs in the kitchen, playing a game that reinforced multiplication tables. He was animated, talking back to the screen, “Nine times nine is…”
Mo wandered into the kitchen. “Eighty-one.”
“You sure?”
“Yup. There’s a trick to the nine tables. The right answer always adds up to nine. Nine times nine is eighty-one. Eight plus one is…”
“Nine!” Langston typed in the answer, and the computer rewarded him with a series of blips and bleeps.
Mo pulled the milk out of the refrigerator. “Good. Now I want you to look up something on the computer for me. Look up ‘memory loss’ on that Google thing of yours.”
“There—” Langston pointed to the screen. He started reading the webpage, but Mo pushed him out of the way.
“Go get ready for bed,” Mo grumbled as he focused on the screen. “Let me read that.”