Mary Wolf (2 page)

“You're white as a sheet! Your skin feels clammy.”

He lurches into the john and throws up. The girls are frozen on their bunks, watching.

“Mary!” Mama's scared. “We've got to go!” She doesn't know how to drive the RV, or even the Jeep chained behind it. Daddy wanted her to learn. “I can't! I just can't!” she'd cried. She's crying now.

I climb behind the steering wheel. “Put on your seat belts,” I tell the girls. “Fast.”

“I'm thirsty,” Polly says.

“Do it now!”

“You're mean, Mary!”

Through the windshield I can see the angry couple talking to the fat woman outside the office, their faces turned in our direction.

“Sit down, Mama.” I start the engine. Daddy comes out of the bathroom and lies down, flinging his arms across his face.

I drive slowly through the crowd of people and tables, circling the parking lot, away from the office, looking for an exit. An escape.

“Jesus, there's got to be another way out.”

“Mary, don't take the Lord's name in vain,” Mama murmurs beside me, her seat belt snug across her massive belly.

I spot another exit. There's a pickup in the way; people are loading a couch into the back.

“We've got to get out of here!” Mama cries. “Go around them!”

The Wolfs' Den is huge and hard to maneuver. I scrape past the pickup truck. The people glare.

“Go!” Mama says. “Go, Mary!”

Where?

It really doesn't matter, when you have no destination.

I pull into the traffic, my armpits prickling, my hands shaking on the steering wheel.

“Isn't it a good thing Daddy taught you how to drive,” Mama says.

“It's wonderful,” I say. “It's great.”

“Andrew,” she calls, “how you doing, hon?”

In the rearview mirror I see him wave, signaling that he's okay, keep going.

Keep going is the order of the day. Every day.

The traffic is heavy. I move over to the right, looking for a freeway entrance.

Mama dumps the money belt into her lap. “We did pretty good,” she says, counting. “I can't believe how cheap people are. They always want something for nothing.”

I get onto the freeway. We leave the city behind. Mama slips off her shoes.

“Ooh, that's better. My feet are so swollen.” She rubs her belly. “Put your hand here, Mary. You can feel the baby moving.”

“I'm busy now, Mama.” I drive and drive. My father sleeps. The kids are quiet. I clench my teeth, holding back the angry words. There's no telling what I'd say to my mother.

“Mary,” she says timidly, “I'm sorry, honey. In a city that size, who would've thought that would happen?”

“Yeah, what a coincidence. A million people and you manage to steal from your customers.”

“It won't happen again. It's never happened before.”

“That's not true. Remember Memphis?”

Probably not. She forgets. The cops asked a bunch of questions and Mama made up this story about kids, teenagers, selling her the stuff and she had no idea it was stolen. It wasn't her fault. It was all a mix-up. Do we look like the kind of people who would steal? We're just a normal family on vacation.

A vacation that never ends.

“We can't keep this up,” I say. “It's just a matter of time before we get nailed.”

“Nailed. Who taught you to talk like that? You certainly didn't learn that from Daddy or me.”

“Mama, can you get serious for one minute? We're coming to the end of the line here. I can feel it.”

“Are we in trouble?” Danielle sounds worried. She's ten years old and knows about jail.

“No, we're not,” Mama says. “Everything's fine.”

“But Mary said—”

“Don't worry, Danielle. Mama and I were just talking. Why don't you and the girls take a snooze? We'll be on the road for a while.”

We're in the country, driving through rolling green hills. We'll need a place to stay for the night. Where should we head? Where are we now?

“I need the map, Mama.”

She hands me Arkansas.

“No,” I say. “California.”

Mama turns on the radio and sings along. Then she says, “I almost forgot.” She pulls something from her pocket and says, “Close your eyes, Mary.”

“Mama, I'm driving.”

“Then hold out your hand. Come on, sweetie, hold it out.”

The girls aren't sleeping; they crowd close to see. Mama places something cool and smooth on my palm. It's the necklace of antique amber beads.

“Oooh!” the girls say. “Look, Mary! It's pretty.”

“I knew you liked it,” Mama says, “and today is a very special day.”

“It is?”

“It's the twenty-fifth of April! Your birthday!”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure! Happy birthday, darling. I'm going to make a cake when we stop for the night.”

“With candles?” Erica asks. “And ice cream, too?”

She and Polly sing the birthday song.

I'm surprised it's my birthday. The days roll by, one road leading to another. Flowers bloom beside the freeway. It's springtime again.

I'm sixteen years old today.

Two

Things are looking up. My father has a job. Soon we'll be able to rent a house and go to school again.

We've been staying in a trailer park outside Stockton. The sign on the gate welcomes overnighters, but most of these trailers are here to stay. They have dented tin skirts and flat tires. The cars that towed them have gone to the junkyard. The park is crowded. We were lucky to get a space.

Daddy's working at a big discount store downtown. He's the assistant manager of the camera department. Last night he was in a terrific mood. We laughed around the dinner table.

“There'll be medical benefits, too,” he promised, “as soon as I pass my three months' probation.”

“That's wonderful,” Mama said. “The girls could use checkups, and I want to get a doctor for the baby. And you've got to have somebody look at your stomach.”

“Here it is!” Daddy lifted his shirt. The girls giggled. He says the pain's just an ulcer, from stress.

“You should see this place; it's huge,” he said. “They've been looking for a man with my experience. Today Thrifty, tomorrow the world. I'm telling you, Wendy, I've got the magic again.” He and my mother smiled at each other and clinked their water glasses together.

Back home in Nebraska, Daddy sold insurance. He had his own office and twelve guys under him. Under him, that's what he always said. We had a two-story house with a big sloping lawn. I remember playing in a fan of silver water, the sprinkler shimmering back and forth.

We had so much money, Daddy bought the RV brand-new; parked it in the driveway and surprised us. Mama's hand went to her throat.

“Andrew, it's enormous! Are you sure we can afford it?”

He laughed and hugged her. “That's my department.”

Our last name is Wolf, so he made a sign that says T
HE
W
OLFS'
D
EN
and hung it in back, above the license plate. He bought the red Jeep to tow behind it. The motor home handles like a dinosaur and uses a lot of gas. We went camping every summer and took long trips. The back of the RV sprouted colorful stickers from all the amusement parks we visited.

Then things began to change, very slowly at first, like great puffy clouds moving in from the north. The economy was bad. Business fell off. People had no money for insurance. Daddy had to fire six of his salesmen. One day the head office called. Daddy's branch was closed and he was out of a job for the first time since he was eighteen years old.

“Don't worry,” he told Mama. “We have money in the savings, and I'll be working again before you know it.”

Every night the TV news showed long lines of people standing outside unemployment offices. Daddy mailed off résumés, filled out hundreds of applications, went on job interviews. Came home raging.

“I'm too old!” he roared. “Overqualified! I've got too much experience, that's what they said. They want kids fresh out of college, so they don't have to pay them. I'm telling you, Wendy, the world's gone crazy.”

It wasn't his fault. The recession was the problem, all the newspapers said so. We bundled them and sold them to recyclers, along with the aluminum cans we collected.

Mama's parents couldn't help; they'd lost their store and were living on Social Security. They live in Indiana. We hadn't visited often. They get on Mama's nerves. Daddy's family lived in town. Grandma and Grampa loaned us money. But after a while Daddy didn't want to see them. He was too ashamed. He fought with his sister. Aunt Belle said the recession was the Republicans' fault. No, Daddy said, it was the damn liberals. They were ruining the country. Everybody had their hands out. People would rather go on welfare than work.

“Bullshit,” Aunt Belle said at the dinner table. He told her to leave our house and not come back. It wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been drinking. He never drank before he lost his job.

The next day Daddy made an announcement: We were leaving on vacation in the RV, to see this great country of ours.

“It's the perfect opportunity,” he explained. “Once I'm working, we won't be able to get away.”

“But Andrew, how can we afford it?” Mama asked.

“You leave that to me. Quit worrying, honey.”

“We can't just take the girls out of school.”

“Why not? Think of the places they'll see! Washington, Gettysburg, the Grand Canyon! All of the places where history's been made. This will be a real education.”

It sounded so exciting, no one thought to ask when we'd be home again.

“You girls finish your breakfast. Then we'll have our lessons,” Mama says, struggling to make the beds. Her belly gets in the way. Mama and Daddy have the bed up front, with a folding screen for privacy. Our bunks are stacked in back, around the living room space. “Mary, you need to do the laundry. Don't forget to take the towels.”

“I thought we were registering for school today.”

“Not until we know where we'll be living. Daddy wants to rent a house in the best school district.”

Since we left Nebraska, I've been in school off and on. Last year I went for several months, when Daddy had a job in Colorado. The kids at the high school had known each other forever. They treated me as if I were from outer space.

But the teachers were nice and they really helped me. Luckily I'm smart and I catch on quickly. That's not enough; I need a good education. I want to be somebody in this world. I always loved school; the neat rows of desks, the books filled with important information. There were schedules and rules and regulations. I miss that.

“We should start right away. The girls are so far behind.”

“No they're not, Mary. They're doing fine. If you really want to help, get that laundry done.”

I think Mama will be lonely when we're back in school. And she needs my help to get things done, especially now that a baby's coming.

“Mama, do we have to study?”

Erica would rather watch cartoons. Mama likes to do that too. But Daddy says education is important; he's bought workbooks and pencils and an old encyclopedia set. At night he makes us watch public-television shows about dolphins and opera and the universe.

“No, we're going to study first,” Mama insists. Polly turns on the TV and Mama pretends not to notice. The girls' eyes drift toward the set. While I stuff dirty clothes into pillowcases, Mama has Erica read aloud from a library book we checked out in Arizona. Daddy says you can borrow library books anywhere in the country and put them in a mailbox when you're done. They're mailed back free, like motel keys, he says.

I wonder if that's true.

I cross the park to the Laundromat, past trailers, RVs, campers, even tents. Kids and dogs chase each other through the fog. At the office the manager's telling a man with a bad cough, “You play, you pay. I'm not running a resort.”

The Laundromat's deserted. That's when I like it best. In the afternoons it's full of tired women snapping at their kids: Sit still or I'll smack you.

I load the laundry into washers and feed in the quarters. Water gushes in. I add the soap. I forgot to bring a book. I'd run back and get one, but I did that once and the clothes disappeared.

There's not much to read here, mostly old
Watchtowers
. I sit in one of the plastic chairs and look through a real-estate magazine listing local homes for sale.

Watch out, I'm flying, I'm leaving my body, casting off reality like outgrown jeans that bare my ankles and pinch my belly. Look at these houses! Acres of living rooms, miles of skylights. Here's the perfect house for us: five bedrooms, three bathrooms. Three! The girls can have their own rooms and I'll take the guest house, out beside my “very own Olympic-sized pool”! The baby's due soon. She'll need a room. Maybe she could share with Polly. It might be a boy. Daddy says it doesn't matter, but I think deep down he wants a son. Most men do.

When Mama got pregnant, I hoped and prayed we could go back to Nebraska to have the baby. We could stay with Aunt Belle until Daddy found a job. She'd let us, but he'd never ask her. He writes long letters to Grandma and Grampa but he pretends Aunt Belle doesn't exist.

I send her secret postcards and call her collect, or drop in a few coins and talk to her answering machine. “Hi, it's me,” I say. “Not much is new. I just wanted you to know we're still alive.”

I've even called her at work. She's a nursing supervisor. I hate to bug her at the hospital.

“Don't be silly, Mary! I'm so glad you called! How are you, honey? Where are you?” she says. “We've all been so worried. How are the children? How's your mother doing?”