Veda: A Novel (15 page)

“Get the hell out of here,” Charlie said. He took a step forward and give the guy a shove. “I said get out of here.”

“Marlene, Darlene, tell him what you told me. What you said he did.”

“He showed us his peter,” Marlene spat out. “Didn’t he Darlene?” Darlene nodded.

Charlie’s face turned purple and the blood vessel on his right temple started pumpin like crazy. He grabbed ahold of the guy. I was afraid he was goin to kill him.

“Stop!” I yelled, pushin at Charlie. “Stop it. I think Marlene’s gittin even with me for makin her give back the sweater she stole.”

Charlie backed off, his breath raspy.

“What sweater?” The guy croaked, “Marlene? Did you take a sweater?”

“No. Rosalie gave it to me…”

I shook my head. “She took it and lied about it, and I made her give it back.”

“Marlene?” He undid his belt and pulled it from his pants. “Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth.” He grabbed Marlene by the arm and swung at her with the belt. The two of em went round and round in a circle. Him makin swipes at her, and her screamin and tryin to git out of his way. He was like a wild man. Both girls were cryin and beggin him to stop. Finally Marlene admitted to makin it all up. About Rosalie givin her the sweater and about Charlie showin his peter.

When they were gone, I set on the edge of the porch with my head in my hands. Bile burned the back of my throat. The girls said they lied, that Charlie hadn’t done it. But why did they say it in the first place? And why pick on him? Why not say I did somethin? Or Rosalie? My mind reeled. Months back there was talk in the neighborhood about a man. Somethin nasty. I didn’t know the details. I wondered if that was what put the idea in their heads. I mentioned it to Charlie, asked him if he had heard anythin. He took it wrong, said I had no cause to question him. Threatened to leave if I thought he was capable of such a thing.

A few days later Charlie told me he had a new job in California. It was so sudden. He hadn’t mentioned lookin for a different job. Hadn’t said nothin at all. I remembered his face, purple with rage, the night the girls accused him, and how mad he got when I asked if he’d heard anythin. I wondered if somethin else had happened.

“I thought you liked your job,” I said. “I thought you liked it here. You said you wanted to stay close to your boys.”

Charlie turned his back and didn’t answer.

“Does this have anythin to do with them girls?”

“Goddammit, Veda!” he shouted. “Let it go for Christ’s sake.” He grabbed his keys off the kitchen table and went out the door. I heard the car door slam and gravel spray against the side of the house.

I set down in the rocker with my arms wrapped tight across my stomach. I felt like all the air was knocked out of me. I was scared. Scared I’d blown it. Scared he wouldn’t come back. What if he didn’t? I had seven kids to raise. How would I support em? I couldn’t go back to Grants Pass, not after all that happened, and I didn’t have a chance in hell of findin a job. But even worse, what if he really had done what those girls said?

Rosalie come and put her arms around me. “It’ll be okay, Mom, don’t worry,” she said. She went to the kitchen and fixed soup for the kids. Then she got em ready for bed.

It was after eleven when I heard the car. I was still in the same chair, tired but too numb to git up and go to bed. My heart started to race. What would I say to him? What would he say? He come in like nothin was different. Laid some papers on the table and told me he had rented a U-Haul trailer. Said we should start packin up in the mornin. We went to bed, and I kept expectin him to say somethin, but he didn’t. My legs ached from tension. I felt cold, and I couldn’t sleep.

I pretended to be excited about Charlie’s new job. I told the kids it was always sunny and warm in California, that they’d be able to pick oranges right off the trees. They all pitched in to help, and by the end of the day we had ever’thin except the mattresses and a few blankets packed and loaded in the trailer.

We left the next mornin before daylight, and it took me a while to realize we were headed north instead of south. I kept quiet and waited, hopin Charlie was headin up to Grants Pass so we could say goodbye to Mama, but instead, he pulled into one of them auto courts along the Rogue River.

“This’ll be okay for a while, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean? Aren’t you supposed to be startin your new job?”

“Not for two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” I said, feelin panicky the way I used to when Raymond didn’t have work. “What’ll we do for money?”

He told me to relax, that he had it under control, but my mind raced on ahead. Why did we leave in such a hurry if he didn’t start for two weeks? Why didn’t we tell anybody we were goin? Maybe the twins’ dad had said somethin to Charlie’s boss. Maybe he got fired. But I couldn’t risk askin him, not after the way he blew up last time.

I unpacked a few things from the car, set the baby’s playpen up in front of the cabin, and tried to quiet my head. It was November and it was pretty by the river. The weather was perfect. Warm with just a little bit of crispness in the air. The ground was covered with bright orange and red leaves that crackled when you walked on em. I shut my eyes and tried to think about good things. I was in way too deep to rock the boat.

There wasn’t much to do. The auto court had a cleanin lady come in ever mornin to make up the beds and sweep the floors. For meals we made do with corn flakes, powdered milk, and baloney sandwiches. Durin the day me and Charlie set on lawn chairs drinkin coffee and watchin cars go by on the highway. The kids loved it there. Janie and Eddie took turns drivin the little pedal car the lady in the office brought over. Ruthie and the boys run around jumpin in piles of leaves and collectin pop bottles to trade at the store up the road for penny candy. Rosalie was too grown up to hunt for bottles, so she just set and read movie magazines and talked the other kids into sharin their candy. When Charlie said it was time to leave, none of us wanted to go.

We left real early again, while it was still dark, and got clear down to Yreka before the sun come up. Ever’thin beyond that point was as new to me as it was to the kids. It all looked so pretty. Mt. Shasta floated up in the clouds like a great big ice cream cone, Lake Shasta’s blue-green water was outlined with bright red dirt, and the trees were all dressed up in fall colors. I took a deep breath and blew it out slow.

Charlie looked over at me. “What?”

“Oh nothin,” I said. But what I’d done was let go of the heavy weight of trouble I been carryin.

We started seein Burma Shave signs along the side of the road.

To kiss a mug

That's like a cactus

Takes more nerve

Than it does practice

Burma-Shave

The red and white signs were far enough apart so we could read one, then the next, and the next, all of us takin stabs at what the punch line was goin to be.

On curves ahead

Remember sonny

That rabbit's foot

Didn't save the bunny

Burma-Shave

After a stretch there’d be another one.

Doesn't kiss you

Like she useter?

Perhaps she's seen

A smoother rooster!

Burma-Shave

We passed through one town after another. Anderson, Red Bluff, Corning. This part of California, the Central Valley Charlie called it, looked a whole lot different than southern Oregon. No mountains like around Cave Junction and Grants Pass. Just flat country for miles and miles. Lots of tall grass and orchards.

Charlie pulled off the road and stopped. “Look kids, these are olive trees.” He climbed out of the car and come back with a handful of olives, gave one to each of the kids. “Go ahead,” he said, “try em.” While they were spittin and clawin at their tongues, tryin to git the bitter taste out of their mouths, Charlie doubled over laughin. Then he told em olives needed to be cured in lye or salt water before they was fit to eat. His practical joke, comin after a long day squashed together in the back seat, made the kids cranky.

“Stop it.”

“You’re heavy.”

“Mom, make him scoot over.”

“She pinched me.”

I could tell they were gittin on Charlie’s nerves and the last thing I needed was for him to git mad. So I started to sing.

“California here I come, right back where I started from…” I kept it up till ever’body was singin with me, even Charlie.

.

32

W
HEN WE GOT TO WINSLOW
where Charlie’s new job was, we started lookin for a house to rent. Got a paper and circled all the ads. Soon as people seen how many kids we had, though, they all of a sudden had a policy not to allow children. Or else, the place wasn’t for rent after all, even though we had the newspaper ad right in our hands. I was upset, but Charlie wasn’t. “Just relax,” he said. “Let’s look around, see what else is here. We have mattresses and blankets, and if we have to, we can camp out for a few days.”

West of town, toward the foothills, we come across a two-story farmhouse settin all by itself in the middle of a field. It looked empty. Me and Charlie went up on the porch and peeked in the windows. There was a few pieces of furniture, a davenport, couple of chairs, but it didn’t look like anybody lived there.

“You folks need something?” A man come from around the back, wipin sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve.

Charlie told him we were lookin for a house to rent and wondered if this one was vacant.

“Well now, it’s vacant alright,” he said. “But I haven’t thought about renting it. The wife and I just moved out a month ago. Built a new place up closer to the main road. She wanted something smaller. Easier to take care of.”

Charlie introduced himself. Said he was here to start work at the creamery in town and needed a place for the family. “Would you consider renting it? We’ve been looking all day and haven’t found anything.” He waved his arm out toward the field. “What is that? Wheat?”

“No, it’s barley. All of this. By the way, the name’s Alvarez,” he said. “I’ll talk to the wife and let you know tomorrow. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

Charlie said he’d seen a auto court in town that he thought would do.

“Aw hell,” Mr. Alvarez said, “why don’t you just go ahead and move in now. Save you a night’s lodging fees. I’m sure my wife won’t mind.”

So we got the house. Mrs. Alvarez come down to meet us, and said if we wanted, we could use the furniture that they’d left.

It felt strange bein in that house with other peoples’ things. In one of the rooms, there was a bed all made up with sheets and blankets and a pretty taffeta comforter. There was books, and magazines, and knick-knacks, and a big freezer on the porch that was plugged in and full of food. Wonder Bread, hamburger buns, Twinkies, and those Hostess cupcakes with the white squiggles on top. I made the kids leave it alone, but Charlie laughed at me, said if the owners wanted it, they wouldn’t of left it there. I couldn’t believe anyone would leave perfectly good food and not be comin back for it. He told me to go and ask, but I never did. It felt too much like beggin.

We’d arrived with enough money to pay rent and turn on the gas and electric, but that was just about all we had. Before Christmas, Charlie got an advance on his pay, so we went out and bought a turkey, some oranges, and a few cheap toys for the kids. Then we drove up to the hills to cut a tree. It didn’t feel like Christmas, though. It was way too warm.

In January the kids started goin to the little country school a couple miles from the house. It was two separate little buildins, first through eighth grades, with the kids divided up—Rosalie, Bobby, and Ruthie went to one buildin and Janie and Sam to the other. It was a long walk, specially for Janie, but Charlie mocked em when they complained. Said he’d had to walk twelve miles to school when he was a kid. I didn’t believe him and I told him so, but it didn’t matter. He said a measly two miles was nothin, and that havin to walk built character. I suppose he was right, but I felt bad for the kids. Janie was just in first grade. Little and skinny, she lagged behind the other kids and they had to wait for her, or go back for her when she tripped and fell down. By the time they got to school, Janie’d usually be muddy or bleedin, her dress’d be ripped, her slip showed, and her socks’d be all the way down in her shoes.

I liked the big old house. The barn. The chickens. That was somethin else the owners left behind, chickens runnin all over the yard, in and out of the barn. They laid eggs any old place. I’d find em and use em, but I had to be careful ’cause they weren’t always fresh.

With Charlie at work and the kids at school, I’d be alone with just Eddie and baby Kathy. I felt good about things. I had a husband with a steady job, a roof over my head. I had my own washin machine and a radio. There was a disc jockey on a Sacramento station that I liked, Okie Paul Westmorland. He played country music. I’d put a load of clothes in the washin machine, pick up the baby, and dance all over the house.

On payday, Charlie’d come git me to go grocery shoppin, and on the way home we’d stop for pie and coffee. Just him and me. For a week or so we’d have plenty of food in the house, but by the end of the month we’d be down to beans and cornbread. We weren’t goin hungry by any means, but it was hard to come up with things for school lunches that didn’t embarrass the kids. They didn’t like havin to take a pint jar of beans or a slab of cold cornbread. They wanted sandwiches on regular bread, and treats, like the other kids had. Once in a while I’d git desperate and borrow somethin from the freezer on the porch. I felt bad about it, but I always meant to replace what I took.

That was the year I got bursitis in my shoulder. It hurt so bad I couldn’t hardly lift my arm. It made ever’thin hard. Cleanin. Laundry. I had a terrible time liftin the baby. I was in a lot of pain the day of Rosalie’s eighth grade graduation, but I wouldn’t of missed it for the world. I was so proud of her. She’d already went further in school than I had. I promised myself that all my kids would git the education I never had. Finish high school. Maybe even go to college.