Sweetgirl (16 page)

“Me neither.”

“So, I'm going to bring this up now,” she said. “Because I don't know when else to do it.”

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“No uh-oh,” Starr said. “Just an idea.”

“All right,” I said.

“We've got to get back to Portland tomorrow,” she said. “I can't stand being away from Tanner and we've both missed too much work as is. I'm going to buy the tickets tonight and I
thought you might want to come with us. Just fly out and stay for a while and see if you might like it enough to move.”

I pushed some fries around my plate. I knew what she was going to offer before she opened her mouth to say it.

“We've got the guest room,” she said. “And Bobby just put in a second bathroom. So that could be yours.”

“I even promise not to shit in it,” he said.

“That's true,” Starr said. “I have him on record there.”

“We can cover a plane ticket,” he said. “And if you want we can come back in the summer for your little rice burner. We can drive it to Portland, or you could sell it for cash.”

“Our district has one of the top high schools in the state,” Starr said. “They get all kinds of awards. And the community college is right down the road. It's like two minutes from our house. Bobby and me have already talked about it and agreed to pay for your first few classes if you're interested. I thought I might take one myself. Maybe we could take one together.”

“Tell her about the other thing,” Bobby said.

“Oh,” Starr said, and snapped her fingers. “The college has this great wood shop program.”

“Woodworking,” Bobby said.

“Woodworking,” Starr said. “They run a little store out of the school where they make all their own furniture and sell it cheap. You'd be a shoo-in for that with all the work you've done for Jeff Pickering.”

I didn't like Bobby suggesting I sell the pickup, he should have known better than to raise that prospect, but the deal itself was
very, very good. I'd have to tell Starr I had dropped out of school, which would be an uncomfortable conversation, but I could get my GED out west and that would probably do—especially if I signed up for some of those college classes in the fall. I was interested in that community college. In that woodworking program.

I sipped from my milk shake and let myself imagine what life might be like in Portland. I thought about how nice it would be to spend a Friday night at the movies with Starr. To be there to watch Tanner grow. To live in a city a million miles from northern Michigan and to have a chance to go to college. To have my own bedroom. My own bathroom, for Christ's sake. I didn't like the rain, but I thought it had to be better than the cold and Starr never stopped talking about how nice the summer was.

I looked at Starr and for a moment I thought I was going to say yes. I thought I was going to say yes and then go ahead and tell her everything else while I was at it. Jenna. Shelton Potter. Carletta in the trailer and how this time I thought she was gone for good. I thought I was going to tell it all, but I didn't. I didn't tell Starr anything because all I could do was sit there and cry.

I cried because I wanted to go to Portland but knew that I could not. I couldn't go to Portland and I definitely couldn't tell Starr why. The second I said I thought Mama was dead she would be on the phone with Granger and more than anything I was not yet ready for Mama to be found. I was not yet ready to trade my fear for the stone hard weight of certainty.

I told Starr I'd e-mail her every day, even if I had to drive into work on my day off to do it. Starr said that sounded good, but her heart wasn't in it. She was devastated I wasn't coming and hurried to get into Bobby's truck before she broke down right there in the Elias Brothers parking lot.

“Chin up, kid,” Bobby said, and hugged me. “And our offer stands.”

Starr and Bobby split town and I tried to stay busy with work. I didn't know what else to do and Jeff was glad to give me the hours.

Pickering's Furniture was just off the highway on one of those dirt roads with no name. The stock was held in the main barn and tagged for sale, but all the work was done in the expansion Jeff built—an insulated workspace he'd had plumbed and heated.

I'd open early and watch the lights flicker on. I'd turn up the
heat, brew some coffee, take a fresh pad of sandpaper, and start right in. Mostly I sanded and stripped, but every once in a while Jeff gave me the sprayer and let me cut loose with some lacquer. It was hard work but it paid well and I could set my own hours.

I put in ten-hour days and then I'd drive around to avoid going home. I didn't like the house being empty, but mostly I was afraid of coming up Clark Street to find police cars in the drive. I could picture the neighbors all crowded on their porches, everybody on their phones while the sirens flashed blue and red off the snow. I could see Granger standing there by the door with his hat in hand.

Which wasn't to mention the fact that I still didn't have any idea where Jenna was. I was worried about her, too, and one night I drove over to the Baptist church, thinking her foster family might be the religious type. It was a Wednesday, so I knew there'd be Bible study, and I parked across the street to watch the people file in. I spent a month in foster care in the sixth grade and we went to Freedom Baptist twice a week, including every god-awful Wednesday night, when we'd all sit around tables and take turns reading from the Bible—which was exactly as much fun as it sounds.

I didn't see Jenna, but once I thought I did and even the possibility sent a shiver straight through me. It stirred me up so bad I sat there for another hour just to watch everybody file back out and make sure it wasn't her.

Afterward, I left the church and drove through town. It was as dark and hushed as usual. There was some snow falling through the streetlamps and I saw the orange flicker of a city plow, two
blocks up by Penn Park. I wondered what all the downstate and Chicago money was doing now—how were they passing the winter in their bustling and brightly lit cities?

I took another lap through town, smoked my last cigarette, then came home to find the Bonneville had magically reappeared in the drive.

The sight of Mama's car knocked the wind clear from my lungs, but I did not cry. I was too confused to cry. I was angry and I was relieved, but mostly I was shocked. I had been so sure she was gone, but there was the Bonneville and the living room lamp was lit.

I parked along the curb and had a thought like maybe Mama was clean. That she'd been drying out after what happened in the hills and that she'd been gone so long because she finally hit the mysterious bottom they talk about in the movies. The ground zero where great transformations take place.

I had her blanket in the glove. I'd taken it to Portis's funeral to give to Starr, but never did. I kept the blanket for the same reason I didn't tell Starr about anything that had happened, and I took it out now and held it in my hands. If Mama was clean then there would be no better welcome home than the blanket she probably thought she'd lost.

I knew it was foolish, pathetic even, but I folded the blanket in a neat square and stepped from the truck with honest-to-God hope in my heart. A car was coming up Clark Street and I looked down the block at Night Moves while I waited for it to pass. There
was blue light from the Open sign above the door and in the dark it cast a glow clear to the curb where somebody stood smoking. It might have been Gentry.

The car rattled by and I hurried across the street and up the front steps. I held the blanket to my chest and looked out at the falling snow. I thought Mama might have heard me and waited to see if she came to the door, but she did not.

Finally, I put my face to the panel window and there she was on the couch—pouring some vodka into a coffee mug and lighting a cigarette. She had some racket on the television, but she wasn't really watching. She was just staring off toward the dark middle of the room. Her knees were bouncing up and down as she knocked some ash off her cigarette and talked to herself, or whoever it was she imagined was with her inside. It might have been me.

I put my hand to the doorknob. It was cold against my palm and I did not turn it. I only held it there and remembered the way Mama had pulled in the trailer and how Jenna had wailed as she was stretched out between us. I remembered how desperate Mama had been and how she crumpled on the steps beneath me when it was over. I remembered how she had called out her pathetic threats.

I looked at Mama but I did not feel that old, familiar anger. I did not feel the rage or the sadness. Even the relief at her return was gone. The only thing I felt now was tired. I was pure exhausted.

I pulled my hand away, turned, and hurried down the porch steps. I ran for the truck, started her back up, and gassed it hard
down Clark Street. The sidewalk was empty outside of Night Moves and my tires shot slush as I drove fast through the blue light. I fled Mama the same way I did Shelton Potter—like my life depended on it.

I drove Clark through East Cutler and downtown, but when I came to the highway I did not turn toward the north hills. This time I stopped at the blinking red and headed south. I had no idea at all where I was going, but I drove fast and watched town fade into a soft, distant blur behind me.

I took MacDougal Road off the highway and lost myself on the back roads between Cutler and Porcupine County. In the black sky and gentle snow. I had the radio on country and Emmylou Harris was singing about a wrecking ball. Mama loved that song and as it played I found myself remembering the afternoons she used to take me to feed the swans at Spring Lake.

It was strange. I hadn't thought about those memories in years and all of a sudden there I was, walking into the little lake just off Highway 31. I was only a girl then but I could still feel the warm water and the sand beneath my feet as I waded to the edge of the shallows. I could see the bread crumbs we tossed and how the swans glided straight-necked through the reeds.

Mama had warned me not to, but once I ventured too close. I remembered the hissing and how it frightened me, how it froze me in the water. I remembered the quick jab of a beak, and how I screamed out just as Mama scooped me up and ran me back to shore, laughing.

“I told you, Sweetgirl,” she had said.

I remembered Mama straightening my hair after we retreated
to a faraway picnic table, and the way she'd smiled at me in the sun and asked did I want to skip the rest of the bread crumbs and go to McDonald's for an ice cream?

Mama loved me. I knew that she did. She loved me in a way not even Starr could, but it had been a long time, maybe as far back as that day at Spring Lake, that her love had not felt confused and undercut with sadness. This had always been the torment of Mama's love and it remained so now—it was both the sun that had borne me and the endless orbit I tread around its burning.

Emmylou sang and I went along with the words I knew. An angel and a ghost are two different things, but she sounded like both all at once and when she melted into the final chorus it stood my neck hairs on end.

Mama hadn't died. She hadn't even changed. I was the one who'd left her, and that was why I'd felt so torn up and afraid. I made my choice the moment I ripped Jenna from her arms, then cast her into the storm and locked the door against her. All along, I was the one who wasn't coming home.

I drove until I hit the dirt roads and the gravel drives, the far-flung Cutler where trailers sat behind chain-link fence and the yards were strewn with machine parts. I was on the county line now, driving the flatland where it's all cornfields and dairy farms. I passed the giant cross that stood along the edge of the road and then the dirt field where everybody goes to trip acid—where you can see the red pulse of the radio towers, and behind them the blinking lights from the airstrip in Harbor Springs.

The radio played and as one song bled into another there were moments I was certain I could hear Jenna cry. I heard her high-
pitched wail, like from when I changed her that first time in the cabin, and though I knew she was somewhere far away, hopefully in the care of good people, my heart still raced at the sound.

I shut the radio off and tried to focus solely on driving but then her crying would come back and I would have to shake my head to clear it. I would have to remind myself where I was and what I was doing. I would have to remind myself that I'd left her at the hospital over a week earlier.

I drove and drove. I drove and smoked cigarettes and by the time dawn broke I could see the snow set around me in high, rolling banks. The sky was like washed metal above the white and I looked out and wondered where Jenna was in all that wide-open space.

I drove until I saw something dart through the fields, something low and black and slanting hard for the truck. I slammed the brakes and fishtailed and I thought I was going to roll until the Nissan settled hard and flung me forward against the wheel. I lost my wind on the impact and then looked up to see Wolfdog standing there in the road. Her front paws were staggered as she leaned forward, her tongue lolling while her breath misted in a cloud.

This was how I came to leave Cutler. I left Mama at the house, found Wolfdog, and knew it was time. I knew it was past time.

I pushed the passenger door open, called for Wolfdog, and she trotted over and jumped in the cab. I put my hand out to pet her and she sighed and leaned in for a nuzzle.

“Hey girl,” I said.

She barked brightly and I put the truck in drive. I could smell the funky heat of her breath and her head was enormous right there beside me. Her face was flat beneath her straight-standing ears and her jaw was sharply angled until it disappeared into the snout. Her pupils were black and rimmed pale blue and there was a welcome in her eyes that just about tore me down.

We drove back for the highway, then through town. I stopped for gas and to get Wolfdog some food and it was full sunup by
the time I parked across the street from Granger's little house on Poplar Street.

He had a small square of a yard and a basketball hoop on the garage where the rim sat buried in snow. I could see him inside through the kitchen window, sitting at the table and picking through the paper. He was drinking coffee and looked up every so often to glance in the direction of the television—a big flat-screen I saw flickering through the living room curtains.

Wolfdog sat in the cab and twitched her ears. Then she shook out her fur and barked.

“All right,” I said. “I'm going.”

Granger came to the door in a Sheriff's Department T-shirt and gray sweatpants and he flinched a little when he saw it was me. Maybe he was expecting the Mormons.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he said.

“I come in peace,” I said.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, and nodded at the truck. “Is that Portis's beast out there in the cab?”

“Her name's Wolfdog.”

“The truth be known,” he said. “She's always looked more wolf than dog to me.”

“It varies,” I said.

“Well,” he said. “How about a cup of coffee then?”

Granger's wheels started turning right away. I asked if he knew anything about the baby they'd been talking about on the news and he shot me a look—his brow all narrow and staggered while he leaned against the kitchen counter. Then I saw the light come on, watched it bloom into a little half smile as he shook his
head. He came to the table with the coffeepot, poured me a cup, and topped off his own.

“What brought about this interest?” he said.

“Just a concerned citizen,” I said.

“Very concerned,” he said. “It would seem.”

He returned the coffee and then settled into his chair. He aimed the remote, shut the television off, and pushed his newspaper aside. He started packing a tin of chew.

“It's just that I'd be curious to know how she was,” I said.

“Is that right?”

“I guess what I'm wondering,” I said. “Is what happened to her afterward. You know, after she was left?”

He nodded, then scooped out a dip and tucked it in his lower lip.

“What I'm wondering,” he said, and jabbed down the dip with his tongue. “Is if whoever brought that baby in might also know something about what happened in the hills with all them dead bodies?”

“I don't know,” I said. “If you ever find them, you should ask.”

“Nobody's looking,” he said. “That's the thing. Michigan's got a safe haven law—means if you have a baby in harm's way, you can bring them in, drop them off, and not answer a goddamn question about anything. Legally you have every right to turn around and walk away. Case closed. They passed that law to try and keep babies out of Dumpsters.”

“It sounds like a good law then,” I said.

He shrugged.

“I don't know if it is or it isn't,” he said. “It's just the law.”

“That safe haven thing probably doesn't apply to dead bodies, though, does it?”

“No,” he said. “It does not.”

Granger leaned down and picked up an empty bottle of Faygo cola he must have had sitting on the floor by his chair. He spat and then set the bottle back down by his feet. Polite.

“So this baby,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “Because you were sort of wondering, as a concerned citizen.”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”

“It's pretty simple really,” he said. “The hospital called us after the drop-off and treated the baby. Then we called the judge. Judge shut off the Michigan State game, called an emergency hearing, and came down to the courthouse. Standard operating procedure. Judge ruled the baby be placed in temporary foster care until the adjudication and turned it over to Family Services.”

“Adjudication?”

“It's basically like a trial. They just call it something different.”

“When's that?”

“Has to happen within sixty days.”

“What about the mother?”

“Kayla Hawthorne? They found her wandering around the north hills when the storm cleared. She was high as hell and hysterical. Woke up to find her baby gone and took off to find her on foot. She was clutching a butcher knife for some fucking reason.”

Granger looked at me and must have noticed my surprise. I
couldn't believe he was telling me what he was, that he was calling people by their names and dealing in specifics.

“Everything I'm telling you right now,” he said. “Is public record. You can walk right down to the courthouse and ask to see the file.”

“Is that right?” I said.

“That's right,” he said.

“So where's Kayla Hawthorne now? Is she in jail?”

“Jail?” he said. “Hell no, she's not in jail. They don't put you in jail for being a shit mother and a drug addict. She's wherever she usually is, doing whatever it is she usually does.”

“So what's going to happen at the trial?”

“They're going to take the baby away and she'll probably be adopted by the foster family that has her now. Kayla could fight it, but she's already lost one and it would be a long shot. Then again, she might not even want to try and keep it. If she doesn't, she can call the court and they'll be over in zip-point-shit with the paperwork. Family Services wants that baby out of the home. That much I can tell you for sure.”

“That's good,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is good.”

“And the baby's okay?

“She had a hell of a fever, but it come down. She's got a clean bill of health, far as I know.”

“And what about the father?”

“What about him?” Granger said. “Your guess is as good as mine. Good as Kayla's probably. Now, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I said.

“What are you going to do? After all this mess?”

“Portland,” I said. “I think I'm going to Portland.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I said. “To move in with Starr.”

“As long as you're not running off with some dipshit you met on the Internet.”

“As you know,” I said. “I don't have the Internet.”

“You taking the truck?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And Wolfdog.”

“I won't worry about you out on the highway then,” he said. “Not with her riding shotgun. Just don't get pulled. I assume she isn't registered.”

“I won't get pulled,” I said.

“I got some gift certificates,” he said. “Meal deals at BK, if you want to take them for the road. I got a whole stack over there clipped to the fridge.”

“You trying to get rid of me or something?”

“No,” he said. “It's just that you got to get out while you can. This place has a way of sucking you in if you let it. Like quicksand.”

“I won't let it,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “Then take the damn gift certificates.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for helping with Portis and for everything else.”

“Protect and serve,” he said. “You know how it is.”

“Granger,” I said. “I do have one more favor to ask. If you wouldn't mind.”