Freaky Fast Frankie Joe (2 page)

Great
. Maybe this will be an adventure after all.

“You had lunch?” he asks.

“Yes sir.”

Cake and punch—a
lot
of cake and punch.

“Good, that'll save us some time. Buckle up.”

We leave the Lone Star Trailer Park and wind our way through Laredo's streets, littered with trash and lined with low adobe buildings the color of dirt. The van's wheels churn up clouds of dust that have blown in from Mexico, which is only a stone's throw to the south.

Before long we've left Laredo in its brown-paper-bag colored dust. It becomes clear pretty quick that my dad isn't much of a talker. I'm not, either, so it's okay with me. I'd rather look out the window. Maybe I'll see some of the places that Mr. O'Hare has talked about.

A few miles down the road, I see a sign that says
AUSTIN
—it's the capital of Texas. I'm excited because I want to
tell Mr. O'Hare that I saw the capitol building . . . but we keep driving, bypassing the city.

Sagebrush green . . . cactus green. As the country goes by, I remember my promise to Mr. Lopez to look for new colors. I decide he would know these already. Besides, he likes bright colors, and these are anything but.

The van begins to feel quiet—too quiet. “Wanna listen to the radio?”

“Tried that coming down. Poor reception.” He glances at my suitcase in the back of the van. “Didn't you bring any books to read . . . maybe some puzzles?”

I shake my head no. I have the book Mrs. Jones gave me, but it's a memento. So is Mr. O'Hare's. Besides, I don't like to read and I never do puzzles.

“You can be navigator then.” He nods at a stack of road maps on the console.

“You used all these maps?”

“I get them free from Triple A.”

The map for Texas is lying open. He's marked the route with a yellow highlighter, so there isn't any real navigating to do. I look at the other maps. Oklahoma. Missouri. Illinois. More yellow highlighter. I go back to looking at the country rolling by.

We pick up cheeseburgers and drinks at a McDonald's near the Dallas/Fort Worth junction—a chocolate shake
for me and a large iced tea for my dad. I can see tall buildings sticking up to the east, but we keep driving north.

“Crops look pretty good here,” he says, between chewing.

“Huh?”

“The alfalfa and sugar beets, winter wheat.” He points to crops in the fields we're passing. “They look pretty good.”

“I guess,” I say, looking out the window.

Alfalfa green . . . sugar-beet green . . . winter-wheat green. I wonder if Mr. Lopez would like any of these colors.

Nah
, too dull.

We stay on I-35 all the way through Texas. I'm bored—nothing but green. I'm not much of a talker, but I almost ache to have a conversation with someone—anyone.

“So what am I gonna do while you're at work?” I'm thinking about the rock-hound book that Mr. O'Hare gave me, wondering if meteors fell out of the sky over Illinois.

“You'll go to school, of course. I called your school counselor yesterday morning, asked her to send your records on. I expect they'll be waiting when we get there.”

“I gotta go to school in Illinois.” It's more a statement than a question.

“Well, sure.” He gives me a look. “Why wouldn't you?”

Well . . .” I suck the spit from the gap between my front teeth. “I was hoping I could just skip this year since I won't be staying permanently. You know, pick up when I get back home.”

I hate school, and Mom doesn't seem to set much store by it, either.

“Doesn't matter how long you'll be staying,” he says, eyeing me again. “Those are the rules.”

“Um,” I mumble, my mind racing. “I thought Mom was the only one who could get my records.”

“Took care of the legalities yesterday morning, too. Signed papers making me your temporary legal guardian.”

I'm out of arguments.

“School started a couple of weeks ago. Shouldn't take you long to catch up, if that's what you're worried about.”

I go back to looking at country that's fenced off in green rectangles and squares. I'd rather explore the brush country back of the trailer park, which goes on for miles and miles. It's space too big to be fenced in.

“Iced tea—heavy on the ice,” he says into the speaker.

“And a chocolate milk shake and an order of fries.”

We've stopped at a lot of McDonald's since we left
Laredo, and he always orders the same thing because he's “parched.” Iced tea, heavy on the ice.

“I'll be pulling off at a Walmart outside Oklahoma City,” he says while we wait for our order. “It's a safe place to catch a few hours' sleep.” He nods toward the McDonald's. “Better hit the restroom; last stop tonight.”

“Yes sir.” When I get back to the van, I hear him talking on his cell phone. He's telling someone when to expect him home.

Home? I become curious.

“Who's that you called?”

“My family . . . my wife and sons—my
other
sons. Haven't been able to reach them until now.”

“You have other sons?”

“Four. Didn't your mom tell you?”

Four! I'm speechless.

“Buckle up,” he says.

Ten miles farther on, we pull off at a Walmart and park beneath one of their big halogen lights. There's nothing but a pool of black beyond the light, so I can't even see the skyline of Oklahoma City.

“You take the backseat,” he says. “I'll take the front.”

I stretch out on the backseat, but I can't stop the questions from squirming around in my head. Finally they worm their way out.

“What am I supposed to call her? Your new wife, I mean.”

He takes his time answering. “Her name is Lizzie. But she probably won't mind if you call her Mom. That's what the boys call her.”

“I'll call her Lizzie.” Mom is what I call
my
mother. “What are the boys' names—my stepbrothers?”

“Well, actually they are your half brothers. Matthew's the oldest—next to you, that is. We call him Matt for short. Then there's Mark, Luke, and John—mostly he's called Little Johnny.”

“You mean, like in the Bible?”

“It's a tradition in Lizzie's family. They're into names that withstand the test of time, not goofy names. No one's gonna forget what the Huckaby boys' names are, that's for sure.”

Goofy names. I wonder if he thinks Frankie Joe is goofy. Why he didn't give me a name that would withstand the test of time? All at once, I realize I don't even know
his
name.

“So, what's your name? I mean, all Mom ever called you was FJ—when she spoke of you at all, that is.”

“It's Franklin. Franklin Joseph Huckaby, same as yours.” He's quiet for a couple of minutes. “It was your mom's idea to name you that, and . . .” He pauses. “Even as a baby, you had my hair, my eyes, so . . .” He glances away, then back at me. “So you've got my name. If you want, you can call me Dad.”

“I see,” I say, but I don't really. I'm wondering why my name wasn't his idea. “Thanks, but I'll call you FJ.”

He remains quiet for several more minutes. “I tried to keep in touch, but . . . well, I got busy with things.”

I translate “things” to mean his new wife and four other sons.

“And there's something else . . .” His voice sounds funny, like he's choking on a french fry. “Lizzie's the only wife I ever had.
Legal
wife, that is.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It, uh, it means your mom and I never got married.”

I understand. His other sons are legitimate, and I'm not.

“But we used my name on your birth certificate,” he says. “So legally, your name is Huckaby.” He looks at me. “Okay?”

I say okay, but I don't feel better. I stare out the window at dark space lit up by an eerie white light, feeling like I've been kidnapped. Then I remember that it won't be for long—only ten months. Just until Mom gets out of jail.

“Are we there yet?” I rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Not by a long shot.”

A sign alongside the road tells me we are now on I-44. A different Triple-A map is lying open on the console, and I discover we're in Missouri, west of St. Louis.

FJ pulls into a drive-through at the next McDonald's. “Hop out and wash up. I'll get breakfast sandwiches to go.”

When I get back, he folds up the Missouri map and hands me another one. “We'll be crossing into Illinois soon.”

Back on the road, I see corn growing—really tall corn—and something else I don't recognize. “What's that stuff?” I point to bushy plants growing in arrow-straight rows that alternate with the cornfields.

“That? Why, that's soybeans. Corn and soybeans are the major crops here. They pay the bills.”

I stare at him.

“I work as a grain inspector for the state,” he explains. “Farmers have to comply with laws to make sure what they grow is safe for consumption and other uses. I visit farms, inspect grain for quality, and analyze it for chemical content. Round here, that
grain
is corn and soybeans.”

“So . . . you're pretty important, huh?”

“Well, it's an important job. Making sure grain doesn't contain bacteria and disease is a big responsibility.” He nods out the window. “Corn and soybeans are what puts the food on our table.”

I look out the window again, imagining corn and soybeans on the table. Sometimes I make bean burritos for Mom's supper. Refried beans rolled up in a corn tortilla that I warm up in a skillet.

“You like burritos?”

“Burritos?” He pauses. “Not really, least not as a regular diet. Why?”

“Oh, nothing.” I'm disappointed because I want him to like burritos, too. Then I decide that it's okay if he doesn't, because Mom does. I decide to fix her bean burritos the minute she gets back home.

We exit I-39 North and weave our way down narrow asphalt roads that run alongside big white farmhouses and huge red barns and tall metal silos painted blue.

Silo blue . . . barn red. Finally! Colors Mr. Lopez will like. I can hardly wait to describe them to him.

A few minutes later, we pass a sign pointing the way to Chicago. “Aren't we going through Chicago?”

Mr. O'Hare has told me about Chicago. It's called the Windy City, and the street vendors sell Chicago dogs—hot dogs with tomatoes and dill pickles on them.

“Bypassed it.” He points toward the east. “Chicago's that way, on Lake Michigan.”

Great
. I missed Chicago, too.

Out the window, I see herds of cows penned up next to red barns. Not skin-and-bone cows like those in Texas—huge black-and-white cows. Some with spots all over like dalmatian dogs; some with white stripes around their middles like Oreo cookies.

“That's dairy cattle,” FJ says as I crane my neck looking at them. “Some farmers still keep a few on their farms. Most dairies are run different these days, though. Cows are kept in big barns, never let outside. Lights are kept burning all night to improve milk production. Did you know that? That light improves milk production? At night the barns look like flying saucers that have landed in the middle of the cornfields.”

Cool
. Things are looking up.

“How far is it to those barns? Close enough to bike?”

He gives me a look. “That would be trespassing. Besides, can't go disturbing the cows—could affect milk production.”

My adventure is feeling like a roller-coaster ride.

“Well, here we are,” he says, tapping a spot on the map. He slows down as we pass a sign that says
CLEARVIEW
. “We are now five miles from the Wisconsin state line. Wisconsin's known as the Dairy State. They make a lot of butter and cheese up there.”

Clearview is circled on the Illinois map, and I can see that it's right at the top of the state. We've almost driven across the entire country, from bottom to top.

Just past the town sign is another one that says
BUSINESSES IN CLEARVIEW
. I glance at the dozen-or-so names on the sign. There isn't a McDonald's or DQ or Taco Bell or movie theater listed. Not even a Walmart. In fact, I don't recognize the name of a single one of the businesses on the sign.

“Where's the McDonald's?” I ask, feeling panicky.

He laughs. “Don't have one.”

“Dairy Queen?”

Another laugh. “Have to drive twenty-five miles east or west to find a McDonald's or a DQ.”

Twenty-five miles? Why would anyone want to live in such a place?

He reads my mind. “Clearview is close to my work. And it's a good place to raise kids. First-class school district, good things for kids to do. You know, like Scouts and 4-H.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble.

“That's the school you'll go to.” He points to a sprawling yellow-brick building. “There's three wings for the different grades. Primary, Middle School—that's fifth through eighth—and High School. The primary and middle-school principal's name is Mr. Arnt. We'll get you registered tomorrow.”

I look at the side streets that run off the main one, hoping to see something that looks familiar. The two-story homes on the side streets have porches that stretch around the front and sides of the house. There isn't a dirt clod or scrap of trash anywhere.

FJ turns off the main street and drives a couple of blocks. Not as much as a candy-bar wrapper clutters the gutter in front of the two-story house with green shutters where he parks the van. On the front porch, I see shiny, new-looking bikes lined up and remember the money he supposedly sent for my birthday.