Mary Wolf (3 page)

She got upset when I told her Mama's pregnant.

“He has no business dragging her all over the country. And you kids should be in school. It's outrageous.”

The last time she and Daddy talked, she called him a criminal, robbing his children of a home and education. She threatened to report him to the authorities.

That was a mistake. Now he won't let us mention her name. Anyway, there's no one to report us to. We're always moving someplace else.

The wash is done and I stuff it in the dryers. A girl comes in with a little child. His feet are bare and the floor is filthy. He's eating an enormous candy bar.

The girl gets her clothes going then sits down near me. When I glance up, she smiles. She's not much older than I am. Her face is thin and pointy but pretty.

“You new here?” she asks.

“A couple of weeks.”

“It's not too bad. They keep the place pretty clean. Want a cigarette?”

“Thanks.” My parents don't know I've started smoking. I do it sometimes. I don't know why.

“We've been here about a year,” she says. “We're leaving soon. Going to Reno. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“My old man's a trucker. He's got something lined up. What's your old man do?”

“He used to sell insurance but now he works at Thrifty.”

“That's great. How many kids you got?”

“Well, none, actually.”

“Oh, sorry.” She laughs. “I seen all the dryers. I guess I jumped to conclusions.”

“I've got sisters.”

“You got a car? The reason I ask is, I got to get into town. I've got an appointment at Social Services. You been down there yet?”

“No.”

“You should. You could get stamps, maybe.”

“Stamps?”

“Food stamps. Every little bit helps, that's for sure.”

My father would never agree to that. He doesn't believe in taking charity. He says too many people want something for nothing. He says that's what's wrong with this country.

“My dad's got a job now. We'll be okay.”

“That's great.” She watches her son play with a cigarette butt. “Put that down, Jerry. It's dirty, honey.” He stuffs it in his mouth and pretends to puff.

“My old man tried to get work around here, but shoot, the minorities got it all locked up. Don't get me wrong, I'm not prejudiced or nothing, but that's not right. This was our country first.” She laughs. “Now I sound just like my old man. You should hear him when he gets started! He can only get back here twice a month. But he thinks he's found a steady thing in Reno. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“It's great, all the casinos. My girlfriend's going to get me a job as a change girl. She says they got day care, too. Course, I'm pregnant again but it's not like I show yet. I'm still so skinny. You're pretty skinny, too. How tall are you, anyway?”

“Five nine.”

“That's tall for a girl. You're lucky you're not a little shrimp like me. People look down on you, in more ways than one. Can I look at that thing if you're done with it?” She holds out her hand for the real-estate magazine.

I fold the warm clothes. My stomach is growling. There was only dry cereal for breakfast. When Daddy gets his first paycheck, we're going to have a feast. We'll barbecue steaks and have corn on the cob, and apple pie with vanilla ice cream and a wedge of cheddar cheese for Daddy. He says the sharpness of the cheese makes the apples taste extra sweet.

The Jeep's parked outside the RV. It's not supposed to be there. Maybe Daddy came home for lunch. He hasn't done that before, but there's probably some good reason, like maybe he has terrific news. Maybe they've promoted him to manager already. They probably said, “Andrew, we can't afford to lose a man with your experience. So we're giving you a promotion and a big fat raise. And we're starting your medical insurance today so your wife can get a doctor for the baby.”

I can hear Daddy shouting from thirty feet away.

Inside, the kids stare at the TV, eyes large with alarm, their faces blank. They try to be invisible when my father's angry.

Bits of sentences spray out of his mouth.

“Thinks he can talk to me like that! Snot-nosed kid! Don't have to take that! I told that punk—”

Weeping, my mother clutches her stomach as if she were comforting the child inside.

“Daddy, what's wrong?”

“Get ready. We're leaving.”

“Right now? What happened? Did you get fired again?”

The look he gives me is like a blow.

“‘Again'? Did I get fired ‘again'? Oh, yes, I get fired all the time, don't I?”

“No, but—”

“I used to manage an office! A multimillion-dollar operation! And that punk, that shit, talks to me like that! In front of customers! They were laughing at me!”

I can read the look that Mama gives me. She wants me to ask what she's afraid to ask. When I do, she'll look reproachful, like: Mary, how could you?

“Did you get your money?”

“No, I didn't get my money. Do you think I'm going to crawl back and beg for my paycheck? How much is a man's dignity worth these days, Mary? Two, three hundred dollars a week?”

“But you earned that money!”

“That's right! I earned it. Not you, not your mother. Me! Are you in charge now? Are you running this family?”

“It's your money! We need it!”

“Not one more word!”

“How much is your pride going to cost this family?”

Mama cries, “Andrew, don't!”

He turns to her. “Did you think I was going to hit her, Wendy? Have I ever in my life hit one of my children? Have I ever raised a hand to you? All I'm trying to do is take care of my family. You know that, don't you? Don't you understand, Wendy?”

He collapses beside her. They're hugging and sobbing.

The little girls glare. Not at them; at me.

Erica says, “Mary, you're mean.”

My brain feels like it's exploding. I want to scream. I want to slap my parents and shout:
Wake up!

But my family thinks it's cruel to wake the dreamer from the dream.

So I start packing.

Three

Look at the Wolfs' Den from a distance and you think: That thing must've cost a fortune. It did. Those people must have a lot of money. They don't. Not anymore.

Look closer and see that the skylights leak. Dried puddles stain the ceiling. The fenders are dented, the paint is peeling, the curtains have shattered from the heat of the sun. A crack sneaks relentlessly across the windshield. Eventually it will have to be replaced.

The tires are my big concern right now. The tread's almost gone. That's dangerous; if they blow out, you can lose control. So many cars have lousy tires. I notice tires everywhere we go, in gas stations, parking lots, truck stops.

Yesterday I showed Daddy the right rear radial, where the steel belt's poking through the rubber.

He frowned. “It's just that one tire. The others are fine.”

“No they're not. Take a look.”

He didn't want to look. “There are thousands of miles left on those tires, Mary. I'll get the back one patched.”

“They won't patch it. It's shot.”

“Since when did you become an expert on tires?”

Since two years ago, when I started changing them. The first time I helped him, Mama protested, “Andrew, you shouldn't make her do that. That's boy stuff.”

“Girls get flat tires too, Wendy. It wouldn't hurt you to learn to do this. The more you know, the less you have to fear. Remember that, Mary,” Daddy said. “Use this wrench.”

This morning he and Mama unhitched the Jeep and drove into town to buy some food and pick up a copy of the local paper so Daddy could look through the want ads. We were staying in an RV park in the hills. The town was spread across the valley below. Daddy checked out the park before he signed in. He says you can tell a lot from the bathrooms.

As soon as they left, I turned off the TV.

“I want to watch the Flintstones!” Erica howls.

“Not till we're done studying.”

“They'll be over by then!”

“I want Mommy!” Polly says.

“She'll be back.”

“Maybe not.”

“Knock it off, Danielle,” I say. “Don't tease her.”

“I'm not. I'm just saying things happen sometimes.”

“Something's going to happen to you right now if you don't shut up.”

“You're not the boss of me.”

“Yes I am. I'm in charge when they're gone. Erica, finish your toast.”

“I can't. It's mushy.”

“Then throw it away.”

“I'm still hungry.”

“No you're not. Polly, don't wipe your nose on your arm. Get some toilet paper out of the bathroom.”

I clear the table and pass around paper and pencils and give Polly crayons and a coloring book.

“We're going to miss
The Brady Bunch
,” Erica mutters.

“
Brady Bunch
!” Polly echoes.

“Listen to me, you girls. One of these days you'll be in school and have to do what the teacher tells you. And you won't get to sit around and watch TV. We'll do some math first. Is everybody ready? Now, pretend Mama has ten dollars and milk is two dollars a gallon. How many gallons can Mama buy?”

How many imaginary loaves of bread? How many tires can you buy with no money? The girls groan and gnaw their pencils.

“Pretend Mama has twenty dollars and she's going to buy some candy.”

“What kind?” Erica says.

“I don't know. Tootsie Pops.”

“I want Mars bars.”

“Pretend she's buying any kind you want! The point is, each bag of candy costs three dollars. How many bags can Mama buy and how much change will she have left?”

“Is there tax?” Danielle asks.

“No.”

“I want candy!” Polly says.

“Shut up, you baby.”

“Don't tell her to shut up, Danielle. Just do your work.”

The refrigerator hums while the girls scribble. The seal is old and should be replaced. Outside, the sky is clogged with clouds. The trailers and RVs look shabby and wet.

Sometimes, when I'm driving, I pretend we're pioneers, crossing the frontier in a Conestoga wagon, heading toward a new life and a homestead of our own, with flowers and fruit trees and a vegetable garden, and a house as firmly rooted as an ancient oak.

I make Danielle and Erica read aloud. Then it's time for their music lesson. I open my guitar case and the girls crowd around as if it were a treasure chest. It is; my guitar is my most precious possession. Aunt Belle gave it to me for my tenth birthday. She taught me how to strum and finger chords.

“Let me play, Mary.”

“No, Polly. You're too little.”

“No, I'm not. I want to play!”

“Don't be a baby.”

“She is a baby, Danielle. Just shut up and sing.”

“How can I sing if I shut up?”

“I want to watch
Flipper
,” Erica says. “Mama always lets us watch it.”

“Well, Mama's not here. Pretty soon you girls will be back in school. Someday you'll have to go to college and get jobs.”

“Daddy says there aren't any jobs.”

“There are jobs, Erica, it's just hard to find them. But Daddy's smart and he can do it. Now we're going to sing some songs.”

“What's the point of singing songs? You can't get a job singing.”

“Yes you can, Danielle. There's lots of famous singers. Some people sing in the opera.”

“I hate that stuff. La la la la la!”

“Who cares?” I say. “Who cares about the opera? Maybe you'll deliver singing telegrams! The point is, you can't live in an RV all your life. There are so many things you need to know.”

And so many things I can't teach them. They don't understand that they won't always be kids. Tomorrow's someplace they've never been.

I play songs for the girls and they sing along. I show them how to gently pluck the strings. The guitar speaks for me. It's my heart singing. Daddy always says, “Why's it sound so sad?”

I replace the strings regularly; the best middle-weight gauge. I do what it takes to get them. Beg money from Mama. Sell aluminum cans. It takes so many to make a pound. Mama says put a pebble in each one to weigh it down but Daddy says no, that's cheating. Mama says, “Andrew, you know they cheat us! You know they're taking our money!”

I love all kinds of music; blues and country and rock. You can get tapes cheap, used or bootleg, at flea markets. When I drive the RV, I command the tape deck. I do most of the driving lately; Daddy's stomach's been bothering him. I crank up the volume and play along, accompanying the band on my invisible guitar; onstage, ripping out a riff. A star. Until Daddy says, “Turn that down.”

“Okay,” I tell the girls, “now you're going to write a story.”

“A story!” Danielle snorts. “I don't even like to read.”

“Well, you better like to read, because you're going to be doing a lot of it.”

“No I'm not. I hate books.”

“What about signs? Like signs on the freeway? What about
TV Guide
? You want to know when the Flintstones are on, don't you?”

“I want to watch the Flintstones,” Erica whines.

“Not till we're done. Now pick up your pencils. Not you, Polly. You can color in your book.”

“I want to write too!”

“Okay, here's some paper.”

“Oh boy, I can't wait to read her story.”

“Danielle, will you give me a break? You're really being a jerk today.”

“Look who's talking. You think you're so big.”

“Don't be rude,” Erica says, “or I'll tell Daddy.”

“Tattletale. Blabbermouth.”