“If I were any better, I’d have a serious paparazzi problem.”
I laugh before I can catch myself.
“I’ll have you know that minstrels will yet write songs about us,” he says.
His voice is muffled by the swelling in his face. He sounds like Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
. I think he’s
trying
to sound like Brando, but I can guess how desperate he is, and how he’s trying to make me feel better. I want to cry. I want to give him a hug that might make us both feel better, but I’m afraid he’ll fall down if I try it.
“Sit down,” I say.
He’s swaying like a drunk.
“Please,” I say.
I reach for him but he puts his hands at the small of his back and staggers in front of me like a stoned general inspecting his command. He’s trying to smile but he has to be in pain. Something hurts inside him and I can see the pain-waves pass through his expression. For a second, his eyes get so far away that I almost move close to catch him, but then it passes.
“I’m okay. I’m still here, baby. Don’t give up. Don’t you ever give up,” he says.
“Not me. And not you, either.”
“Not ever.”
“It’s just not going to happen.”
“No way, no how.”
Part of me is broken, too, but I can’t let him see it. Not now. Not ever. I give him a hard look instead, the one that means I’m in a fighting mood. He’s seen it plenty of times before, and when he sees it now, he lets that thing into his eyes—the flash of light that shows pride and love and the opening of his competitive streak, all at once. It’s a classic Dad look. I don’t know how much it hurts him to beam those waves at me, but I’m happy to see them.
“Do you see me standing here?” I say. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Melanie the Strong, high priestess of peace and the vegetarian way.”
“You bet I am.”
“Defender of all shadow-casting life, wielder of the supernatural powers bestowed upon those who eat meatless chickens.”
He can still piss me off and crack me up at the same time. I smile with my eyes. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do that. Dad must’ve let all the air out of his lungs, because he takes a deep breath. He winces and mouths the word “Dammit.” It doesn’t take a doctor to see that he has at least one broken rib.
We stand close. The door of the shack is open and one of the boys is watching us, so Dad doesn’t stoop to a public display of affection. But he nods, and it’s the same Dad nod I’ve seen all my life.
I give him sips of water and he sleeps most of the day. The boys give us a can of Dinty Moore stew and I save it for as long as I can. I let it sit untouched until the thought of it drives me crazy. I use a little military can opener to get the top off and I let the food warm next to the propane heater, taking my time to heighten the anticipation. It smells rich and salty, and I can’t wait too long, for fear that one of the boys will come and take it.
The food bubbles and I hold the can in a filthy gray rag that might’ve been a bright red color when it was new. I stir, then I use a plastic spoon to pick out a selection of the veggies, steaming from the can, into a plastic thermos cup. I slurp them down as Dad sleeps, or pretends to sleep, I can never tell with Dad. I eat celery and carrots and pieces of potatoes and the tender shreds of beef that I accidentally-on-purpose allow to stick to the vegetables. It’s a warm slice of heaven, and I can’t help but enjoy myself, no matter how stupid and pathetic it seems under the circumstances.
I eat a third of the stew, then I lift the can with the dirty rag and tap it on the floor near Dad. He opens his eyes. He groans before he can stop himself, and then he struggles into a sitting position. I hold out the can. He takes my spoon and reaches in and takes a piece of the meat and puts it in his mouth. He tries to chew but he grimaces and it takes him a long time to get it down. He dips out some of the gravy, but that’s about all he can get down. He pretends to belch, thanks me, asks me if I’m okay, then he sleeps the sun into the ground.
* * *
When he wakes up in the morning he starts a slow stretching routine that makes him look like a giant sloth. His face is blank, but he’s not fooling me about the pain. He staggers for a while at quarter speed, trying to pace. He’s stiff but then he either limbers up or he simply puts the pain out of his mind. I think it’s probably only by force of will that he manages to walk in slow motion up a row of Fords and around the Chevy and back. He has a lousy walking form. It’s very early and most of the boys are still asleep, except the two who are standing guard. The guards watch him. One of them giggles and points, and the other one doesn’t laugh in return.
Most of the boys sleep late, but eventually Bill Junior takes Dad away. He’s gone for three hours. I have no idea what Dad is telling them, but it has to be bullshit. I hope he talks them into doing something that will get them caught or killed, and I don’t feel very bad about hoping it.
While Dad is away, I take some clothes from a pile of looted stuff. A kid named Benwah is guarding me, but he doesn’t say anything. I can tell he wants to do something to me, but he doesn’t dare. So I have a flannel shirt and a pair of pants for Dad, and a pair of overalls for me. The overalls have about twenty buttons, and I like them because they won’t be easy to take off.
Dad comes back at about 4 p.m. It’s getting really cold, and a wind is blowing. The boys don’t give us anything to eat. I lead Dad toward the shack, but some of the boys are in there, warming themselves. Benwah is their spokesman. He tells me that since I’m not putting out anymore, we can’t stay in the shack anymore.
We sit on a stack of old tires outside. It’s a cold night and the clouds are boiling. They look like they’re about to drop snow. They’re still a weird color, and I know they’re up to something, but I’m not a weather expert, so I could be wrong.
When it starts to get dark, Bill Junior walks past us, strolling across the dirty junkyard gravel like it’s the deck of a ship. I ask him if we can sleep in one of the wrecked cars. He says, “Knock yourself out.” He’s standing with his chest out, trying to be all studly, but he must know I’m not buying it.
“Take care of your old man,” he says. He says it in a soft way, and he could be showing me that he’s a normal human being, or he could be trying to trick me into thinking he cares. I wonder if he has a living father. I’m sure that if he does, they don’t talk much. I try to care about him, but I’m not Jesus Christ or anything.
The car I choose for us is an old yellow Ford taxi with wide bench seats. It was rear-ended, but the passenger compartment is in pretty good shape. We get in and cover ourselves with the clothes I took. They’re still damp, but the car warms with our body heat, and it’s not too uncomfortable. Dad tries to sleep in the front seat and I try to sleep in the back. The vinyl upholstery smells like all the butts that sat in the taxi and it’s cold, but then the night goes all soft and quiet and warm, and I sleep hard.
I’m having one of those dreams that let me have full control. We’re in Hawaii, all of us on the beach. I know it’s a dream, right at the beginning, but I manage to hold on to it until it becomes more real. We’re laughing. We’re stretched out on lounge chairs, letting the sun warm our skin. I think we might be drunk, but it’s warm and the sea rolls in and out and smoke from a Hawaiian barbecue is wafting over to us. Then we’re sitting at a table and half-naked men are bringing the food. Barbecued pork with pineapple sauce for the omnivores. Grilled veggie kabobs for me, with caramelized onions and zucchini and cherry tomatoes and papaya, all glazed with a sweet Polynesian sauce.
I lift my hands to the food, then I lift a kabob out to Mom and Dad and Scotty, like I’m giving a toast, and then I’m holding a mai tai glass. We lift our glasses to each other. I get the drinking straw into my lips, but it’s not like most of my dreams because I actually get to take a big pull. It’s pure heaven, the sweet punch flowing into me like love, confidence, peace. I get goose bumps and I’m laughing, but then there’s an earthquake. The island is heaving and rolling like it’s on springs and Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a shake. It’s dark; we’re in a smashed-up taxi and he’s telling me to be quiet.
It smells like something’s burning. The car windows are covered with snow. Dad must’ve been outside in it, because his hair is full of snowflakes. I can’t see anything outside but blankness. The snow has us insulated and I’m warmer than I’ve been in weeks. I remember how Dad used to wake us up when we were visiting Portland at Christmastime and we had a rare snowfall. He and Mom would wake Scotty and me and make us hot chocolate and we’d watch the snow fall, the four of us watching as the clean blanket put itself together over the mud and the gray stalks of Gramma’s flowerbed, and flocked the dark stands of Douglas firs. We’d watch the magic of it, the way it added the light of excitement to the night, then we’d go back to bed happy and warm.
But we’re in a stinking taxi now and I’m not into the magic of snow. Something smells burned, and I don’t know what it is. I try to huddle again beneath my covers, but Dad keeps shaking my shoulder until I have no choice but to sit up.
“Get bundled. Let’s go.”
He opens the driver’s side door. Giant flakes wobble from the dark sky. The smell of burning gets stronger. I think there’s something wrong with the snow. There’s no wind and it’s falling like frozen volcanic ash. I roll down a window but there isn’t any sign of the boys. They’re huddled in their motel rooms, no doubt. I don’t feel their eyes watching me and it crosses my mind that maybe a snowstorm makes guys less sure of themselves, at least at first. Maybe a big change in the weather distracts them from their confidence, because it shows them that they’re not in complete control of the universe.
My lungs go tight. The outside air swirls into the car, and it’s colder than any air I’ve ever breathed. I don’t have to mention that we’ll probably die if we go out in this. Dad has to know it, but he tosses clothes into the backseat and I put them on in layers, pantyhose and sweatpants and a sweatshirt and then the overalls with twenty buttons. He throws me another sweatshirt, and it has a green marijuana leaf on the front, and then he hands me a big coat. We have enough layers to maybe give us a chance. Dad must’ve stolen the stuff from the boys. With the stuff I took earlier, it just might be enough to keep me from freezing.
I put the clothes on in the order Dad throws them. It’s no accident that everything fits me just fine. Dad always seems to be able to solve problems, just when everyone else is giving up. Sometimes I wonder if he waits on purpose for people to start giving up before he steps in to solve problems.
Anyhow, I’m bundled like a mummy in clothes that smell like other people, bad living people and good dead people, but I feel almost safe. Dad gets dressed and the taxi shakes on its springs when he moves. The boys didn’t take our boots, so we put them on over two layers of filthy socks. I have no idea where Dad found the socks. I’ve been looking for a decent pair ever since I got here. Gloves are even more rare, but Dad gives me a pair of those fancy women’s gloves they sell at Christmastime. He pulls a pair of wool socks over his hands and we get out and make for the freeway.
Dad holds my hand as we stumble through the junkyard. It’s a maze of wrecks, and it’s full of sleeping monsters, but somehow we manage to pass through the front gate. We take the cold alley to a road that leads to the highway. I can’t see the alley, but only remember it, and I paste that memory on top of the snowblind nothingness around us, so I can at least pretend to know where we’re going. The snow covers the land, and we’re covered with it, too. It smells like barbecued crap, but it softens our footsteps and makes us invisible. Dad is walking all hunched over, but he’s setting a good pace, and we’re free and invisible and blind on the open plain.
It feels weird to be warm and surrounded by people who aren’t trying to kill us. But they also aren’t trying very hard to convince us that they’re happy to see us, either. They watch us drink our drinks. They smile, but nobody talks to us. A really hot girl lowers her head and looks at me through the tops of her eyes. Her eyes aren’t green or brown or green-blue or gray-blue. They’re deep blue-blue, the color of Crater Lake in wintertime. It’s my favorite color. She’s wearing a hippie sundress kind of thing with no bra. She’s long-legged and barefoot and her calves are curved in a way that has my complete attention. She’s tapping her foot against the floor and the beat she’s keeping causes her goodies to jiggle under the sundress. I could look at her all day long, but I look at her face and there’s something in her expression, a warning maybe. The people go back to talking about whatever they were talking about before, but it seems kind of fake. I’m trying not to look at the hippie girl when Pastor Jim takes my mug and adds another shot of whiskey and leans forward.
“You and your mother look pretty used up. It’s no picnic out there, is it?”
“It’s pretty bad.”
“Glad you found us?”
“Sure.”
Pastor Jim leans even closer and talks in a low voice.
“Any sign of the government?”
“Only the bombers that fly over.”
He nods and moves out of my personal space. Mom is shivering even though the stove is putting out some serious BTUs. She drains her mug.
“We’re from Sacramento,” she says. “Originally.”