Eleanor (7 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

H
alloween was on Wednesday, half a week away. Eleanor spent the weekend playing cards with her mother, cleaning the house, doing homework, and worrying herself sick thinking about what Russell would do to David. Of course it had been David they were talking about. David they'd ambush on Halloween. David they'd hurt.

She could warn him, but that would only postpone things. She couldn't walk him home every night. Even if she did, she couldn't protect him, only use her senses to steer him along a safer path. “Safe” was relative with people like Russell Liddle and Greg Finlay. Eventually they'd catch David and let loose their fury on him. The longer it went unspent, the greater it would be. It didn't matter if David never actually did anything to any of them. That never mattered. They'd blame him for things he couldn't imagine, strike out at him for their fears, their delusions, their own misfortunes and shortcomings. It would be wicked and brutal and savage, and even if he survived it, David would never be the same, and the attackers would never be made to account.

Tabitha sensed Eleanor's mood and tried to draw her out, but Tabitha went in and out of focus under the pain pills and was easily deflected. That weekend was a particularly bad one for her, and Eleanor put her mother to bed early each night after she fell asleep in her chair, cards cupped in her fingers. Eleanor told her mother that she was still upset about the incident in the hall with Barbara, but she suspected her mother was not so easily deceived and knew something else was troubling her daughter.

By Monday, Eleanor had a plan. It was foolish, dangerous, expensive, and it probably wouldn't work, but she could think of nothing better. The only other plan that rivaled her crazy one was a confession to the police about what she'd overheard. But in so small a town, as precarious as she felt her existence in Jamesford to be, she dispelled it.

The school was abuzz about the rodeo's outcome. Jamesford High had won overall first place with individual trophies coming for marksmanship, female barrels, and male calf roping. It was the best Jamesford had done in a decade, and Principal Curtz arranged for a special cake at lunch in celebration.

Mrs. Hart made a point of congratulating David in her class and made him stand up. Eleanor felt Russell's hatred across the room as the other students gave David another round of applause. He'd been the only sophomore to trophy. Eleanor heard Russell grumbling about his cheating, but he said it low enough that only his closest neighbors, part of his gang, could hear it.

Eleanor made herself sit with David at lunch. Her usual table was filled with David's friends, and she had trouble getting a chair. When she did, she had to force herself to remain calm. Barbara was practically sitting in the same seat as David, rubbing against his shoulder like an animal marking territory.

Eleanor choked back an urge to scream and patiently waited for the group to thin. She ignored Barbara's inane prattle when David tried to tell a story about his dad giving him the gun when he shipped out last spring. She was interested in the story of David's father and wanted to strangle Barbara with her color-coordinated shoe laces.

While she waited, Eleanor ate heartily. Eleanor took seconds on her lunch and thirds on the cake. Miss Church, the cafeteria leader, was surprised to see her eat so much and made only a half-joking comment about Eleanor's skinny legs needing some girth before her hips filled out. Eleanor ignored her.

Back at the table, David finally had a chance to eat his own lunch. The conversation had kept him occupied, and his chicken was cold. He counted Eleanor's empty plates.

“I haven't seen you eat this much since, well, since ever,” said David.

“Growth spurt,” she said, relaxing now that Barbara had gone to smoke or puke or drop off the planet somewhere. “You going to eat your cookie?”

He gave it to her.

“So you can come trick-or-treating with Wendy and me if you want,” he said. Eleanor had questioned him as subtly as she could about his Halloween plans. David had promised his mother to take Wendy out that night. He was worried about the cold front that had moved in and the argument he was sure to have with Wendy when he tried to have her put a coat over her princess costume.

“No, I've got to stay home and answer the door,” she said. “Tabitha isn't feeling well.”

“Maybe we'll drop by,” he said.

“That's a long way to go for a piece of taffy,” she said. “Wendy will hate the walk.”

David shrugged.

Tuesday, Eleanor checked the balance on her government food card. Tabitha's military pension money covered the expensive medicine and paid the rent, the electrical, and the heating. By signing a paper that absolved the military for her cancer, Tabitha received a generous pension, but for food, they relied on regular government assistance.

There was not enough money on the card for all she needed, so Eleanor examined their bank account and budgeted out forty-five real dollars to her cause. It might not be enough, but it was all she could comfortably take.

Eleanor put her mother to bed early that night and retired to her loft to try on clothes.

She hadn't any that would suit the occasion. They were all too plain and serviceable. Nothing would make anyone take a second look at her. Tonight, Eleanor needed to get attention. She turned to makeup.

Eleanor had never used makeup before, but Tabitha had, and she'd seen her mother spend an hour in front of a mirror with brushes and pencils and transform herself into a healthy middle-aged woman from a pain-wracked skeleton.

Tabitha lay still in her bed, the pharmaceuticals giving her hours of untainted peace before slowly wearing off in the small hours to wake her in search of another pill. From her mother's dresser, Eleanor collected the things she thought she'd need, eyeliner, lipstick, foundation, and blush, and took them to the bathroom.

After an hour in front of the mirror, Eleanor realized she did not have the slightest idea what she was doing. Tabitha's coloring was different that hers, and unless she made some physical change, the colors in her available pallet would only make her look like a clown. She washed everything off and settled for mascara, eyeliner and the reddest lipstick she could find. Then she wiped off the lipstick.

Half past one, she left the house in a falling snow in her clean dress, warmest coat, and shoes that made walking hard. Her school backpack had been emptied of books and hung loose over her shoulder.

Cowboy Bob's Truck Stop was a beacon at the end of town. Following the flashing neon-light of its ever-burning sign, Eleanor plodded along empty side streets as far as she could, and then joined the highway when she had no other choice but that or a frozen snow-covered field.

Cowboy Bob's at night transformed from a humble mega-store gas station into a night club. Music poured from the restaurant and couples in boots and greasy baseball caps danced with thumbs in their belt loops and whooped to the jukebox. The parking lot was filled like a stable of resting trucks, their orange driving lights outlining their shapes, their diesel engines idling to warm the sleeping drivers inside.

Eleanor burst through the glass doors and past the airlock, snow in her hair, her bare legs red and shivering.

A woman Eleanor recognized from town sat behind the register, watching a small television under the counter. Seeing Eleanor, she raised an eyebrow. Eleanor nodded a greeting and ducked behind an aisle. When the clerk returned to her show, Eleanor walked into the café.

She slipped into a booth at the back and surveyed the room. She recognized more local faces. A woman of easy reputation danced with two truckers. She spun in circles to face each in turn, her hair swirling loops around her head. She was drunk. Another woman sat with a young man at a booth. They shared the bench, along with a pitcher of beer and a plate of French fries.

Eleanor watched the single men in the café as they ate cheeseburgers, drank beer, or stole sips from a secret silver flask. Soon Eleanor focused on one of them. He was a large man, six foot two or more. He had a round belly, stubble on his chin, and arms made large from wrestling steering wheels. He had a kind face and a wedding ring on his left hand. He sipped a cheap beer while watching the dancers. Soon she saw his eyes stare into the distance as fatigue crept into him.

When he refused another beer, Eleanor got up and took the long way around to his table, as unnoticed as possible in the dimmed lights.

Eleanor had thought to make herself look older, but when the makeup had failed to do anything more than make her look stupid, she'd changed her plan. She shuffled up to the table and into the man's vision. His eyes fell on her, focused, and he jumped. His mind had been a million miles away.

“Hello,” Eleanor said softly.

“Hello,” said the man cautiously. Eleanor could smell soap and shampoo on the man. He'd just showered, and his hair in the back had not yet dried. “Can I help you?” he said.

“Um,” began Eleanor. It was easy for her to act vulnerable and awkward. Too easy in fact. She re-thought her plan and then said, “Um, maybe.”

“You got problems?” he asked. Eleanor nodded.

“Sit down,” said the trucker. “You want something?”

Eleanor sat down and shook her head hesitantly. The trucker signaled the waitress.

“You like cheeseburgers?” he asked Eleanor. “That's pretty much all you can get for a meal right now.” Eleanor shrugged.

“Bring us a cheeseburger,” he told the waitress. “And a hot chocolate.”

Eleanor stared at the floor. “Thanks, mister,” she said.

“My name's Dwight Lomas. What's yours?”

She'd planned to be Marilyn Flowers, but it no longer fit for her character. “Susie Parker,” she said and instantly regretted it. It was a dumb name, but once she said it, what could she do?

“How old are you, Susie?”

“Thirteen,” she said counting on his knowing that girls mature faster than boys. She'd have said eleven if she thought he'd have believed it.

“Are you lost?”

“No, I live in Jamesford,” she said. “I just needed a place to go. You know, just for tonight. Until my dad sobers up.”

“Oh,” he said. Eleanor let the moment hang. The jukebox switched to a slow tune and the booth couple got up together to dance.

The waitress appeared with Eleanor's food. She was about to say something, when Eleanor cast her a look that stopped her, and she went away without a sound.

“Eat up, Susie,” Dwight said. “I'm full.”

“I can't pay you for this,” she said.

“Did I ask you to? Just eat. I have a girl almost your age. If she ever needed a cheeseburger, I hope there'd be someone there to buy her one. I'm paying it forward.”

Eleanor bit into the sandwich ferociously, half forgetting to chew.

“Slow down there,” said Dwight.

“I didn't get dinner,” Eleanor said, her mouth full of food. “Or lunch or breakfast. Daddy's been in a state.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“No,” she said. “I ran out when he got the belt. I didn't break nothing. He did.” She stuffed fries into her mouth and drained her chocolate. “He gets this way sometimes. Melancholy. He'll be better after he sleeps.”

“He gets melancholy a lot?” he asked.

“No. This time each year. It's when Mommy died.” She was putting it on a little thick, basing herself on Shirley Temple and Tiny Tim without the optimism. She had to keep herself from lisping.

Eleanor finished the food and looked up at Dwight. He had a scar on his neck and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes that didn't go away, a receding hairline dyed brown over occasional grey roots. Eleanor smiled her warmest, most thankful grin, and studied him carefully. As they chatted, Eleanor took in every detail she could see, the calluses on his hands, the freckles and blemishes, scratches and scabs. She counted fillings when he talked and noticed the slight discoloration of an incisor.

It was three a.m., and the café was emptying out. Dwight stifled a yawn.

“Thanks, Dwight,” Eleanor said. “Thanks for the burger, and I hope you have a good safe trip back to Portland. You better get some sleep. I'll just wait here awhile, and when the sun comes up, I'll head home. Daddy should be good and sleepy by then.”

“You could stay in my cab,” he said. He blushed and looked around the café, terrified that someone would have heard him. “I mean, I have a bed . . .” He groaned.

“I've slept in a truck before,” Eleanor said. “It's nice.”

“I don't want you thinking I want to take advantage of you or anything,” Dwight said. “I can sleep in the passenger seat. It's plenty comfy.”

“I've slept in one of those, too,” she said. “I'll take that. If you're sure, I'd like that. They threw me out last time and called the police on my daddy. I had to make my own macaroni and cheese for a week while he was in jail.”

Dwight shook his head. “No problem at all,” he said.

Eleanor smiled. She was afraid to go, but she sensed no guile in him, only an embarrassed kindness that could land him in jail. She'd be safe with him if she was careful.

“Which truck is yours?” she asked. “I'll go out first and meet you there.”

Dwight raised a suspicious eyebrow and Eleanor knew she'd been too worldly just then. Her schoolgirl demeanor had cracked as she showed too much interest in getting to his truck. Dwight's suspicions were aroused.

“I don't want nobody telling my daddy I was here. And I don't want to get you in trouble. You're being so nice to me. I always find nice people here. Truckers are the kindest folks I know. I wish my dad was a trucker. I'm going to marry one.”

She'd gone too far again.

“Would you let your daughter marry a trucker?” she asked.

“What? I, ah, I really haven't thought of it. It's a good job, but not great for families. As long as he wasn't a long-haul trucker, I guess it'd be okay.”