Mary Wolf (19 page)

Authors: Cynthia D. Grant

BOOK: Mary Wolf

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My mind reeled away from the words she was saying. Daddy's dead. He's never coming back. And I will always be the one who killed him.

“Mary, don't you see that he gave you no choice? He'd already shot your mother.”

“I didn't want to kill him.”

“I know that, Mary.”

“I could've shot him in the arm or leg.”

But I'm no expert shot, no TV policewoman who could've blown the gun out of his hand. He would've grabbed his wrist and cursed, then come to his senses. Mary, what would I do without you? he would've said.

“This pattern had been developing for years. You were the caretaker and your parents were the children. What they did was wrong. They acted very irresponsibly. Your father's to blame for what happened to him, not you.”

He didn't mean to change. It's like tires wearing out. The friction from the road scrapes the rubber thin. Then the tire hits a nail or rock and explodes. It's not the tire's fault.

Forgive me, Daddy.

The psychiatrist wanted to put me on tranquilizers, but I refused. It's hard enough to keep my mind from drifting, back to happy times, even at River's End, my father kissing Mama, tickling Andy's feet; back along those miles of nameless roads, until we're safely home in Nebraska. Daddy gave me my first bike on my sixth birthday, a shiny two-wheeler. It was silver and blue. He jumped through the sprinkler with his hat and clothes on, as if his suit and briefcase weren't important; as if making me laugh was all that mattered.

There was another article in the newspaper today; an interview with the county worker who took Daddy's application.

“He wouldn't answer the questions. He became irrational,” said Bob Briggs, intake supervisor. “When I tried to explain that we needed more information, he wouldn't listen. He became very angry. If he'd had a gun then, he would have killed me.”

Letters to the editor, calling for tighter gun controls.

Letters arguing that guns don't kill people; people do.

An editorial questioning the welfare system, under the headline:
Could this tragedy have been prevented?

I will ask myself that question every day of my life.

Grandma called a while ago. She said there were several messages for me on Aunt Belle's phone machine, from someone named Roger Wilson. She said he says he's sorry and he hopes I'm okay; that he'll be in touch again; he's working in Chico.

It took me a moment to realize this was Rocky. He'd never told me his last name.

Grandma said Danielle wanted to talk, and put her on.

I was afraid to hear what she had to say, afraid she'd hate me for killing her father.

“How's it going?” Danielle said.

“Okay. How are you guys doing?”

“All right, I guess. The little kids don't get what's happened. Grandma's told them, but I don't think they understand. I mean, you know, about Daddy.”

They have all their lives to try to understand. Maybe someday I will, too.

“How's Andy doing?”

“Fine. Grandma's giving him that mooshy baby food in those little jars. You should smell that stuff. It's disgusting.”

“How's it seem to be back there?”

“Okay. Pretty weird. They painted our house. It's a puky blue. How's Mama doing?”

“All right, I guess. We saw her the other day. She was pretty doped up. They're going to let her out in a couple of weeks.”

“I know. Grampa's going back to get her.” After a pause Danielle said, “I just wanted to tell you I'm not mad at you. You know, about what happened.”

“That's good, Danielle.”

“I mean, you couldn't help it. He tried to kill Mama.”

I closed my eyes but the picture's in my mind, engraved in my brain forever; the terrible look of surprise on his face. Then he's falling, falling through time and space, to a place beyond everything but memory.

“I didn't know what to do,” I said. “I was afraid he might hurt Andy.”

“I know. He just, I don't know, he changed. Why'd he change like that, Mary?”

“Lots of reasons. It's complicated. We'll talk about it when I get home.”

“Well, anyway, that's all I wanted to say. I'll see you soon. Here's Grampa.”

Before we flew home, I asked Aunt Belle to take me back to River's End.

“I don't think that's such a good idea,” she said. She was afraid I couldn't handle it.

“Nothing could be worse than what's happened,” I said. I needed to see it one last time.

The beach was closed to campers. All the people were gone. It hadn't been cleaned up yet. There was trash everywhere; shoes, toys, broken bottles, cans, disposable diapers, cars without tires, tires without cars, and the Wolfs' Den, stranded like a shipwreck.

Its blistered sides were tattooed with graffiti. Every window had been smashed; the wind whistled through them. Glass glittered on the sand all around it.

The door was unlocked. It was gutted inside. Dave helped Aunt Belle store everything we wanted to save. The rest had been stripped; empty drawers and cupboards gaped. There was a hole in the dashboard where the tape deck was missing. Even the coat hangers had been taken.

I was looking for something that was long gone.

Aunt Belle came to the door. She said, “Mary, let's go.”

It feels odd to be back in Nebraska. It doesn't feel like home; it's like someplace new. I've seen a few people we used to know. Everybody knows what I did. Some people pity me, some people fear me, I can see it in their eyes. Nobody really knows me.

Aunt Belle says I have to go on with my life and leave the past behind. She says that's what Daddy would have wanted. She wants me to see a counselor, and I will. But the only real answers are in my heart. That's where I talk with my father.

Daddy, wherever you are, I hope you can see us. I hope you know we're going to be all right. I wish so much that things had turned out different. I'll wish that for the rest of my life.

Sometimes I'm so mad at you, I don't know what to do. If I could see you, I'd scream in your face: What's the matter with you? Why couldn't you change? Why couldn't you stop running away? You would've found a job and we'd all be together.

Maybe someday I'll be able to forgive you.

I know you don't blame me, that you'd want me to be happy; to have a good education, a career I enjoy, a home and a family of my own. That's down the road. That's what I want too.

I'm going to work hard to have a good life, Daddy.

Next week I'm starting school just like you promised.

About the Author

Cynthia D. Grant has published twelve young adult fiction novels since 1980. In 1991 she won the first PEN/Norma Klein Award, for “an emerging voice among American writers of children's fiction.” Over the years, Grant has received numerous other distinctions. Unfortunately, her Massachusetts upbringing prohibits her from showing off. She lives in the mountains outside Cloverdale, California, and has one husband, Eric Neel; two sons, Morgan Heatley-Grant and Forest Neel-Grant; two cats, Kelsey, an orange tom, and Billie, a barn catâbarracuda mix; and Mike the Wonder Dog, who packs two-hundred-plus pounds of personality into a seven-pound body.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Liz Connor

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1357-4

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com