Wreath

by Judy Christie

  Travel to destination. (Walk? How far? How long?)

  Set up home. (Supplies?)

  Buy CHEAP food. (Don’t spend much money!!!!!)

  Scope out high school. (How to enroll?)

  Get a job????? Where??? (Make list of skills.)

  Go to college.

  Make lots of money!!!!!$$$$$

  And, today, her latest entry:

  Avoid notice!

  She glanced at the list of supplies she would require, studied her list of mean and interfering people who might decide they knew what was best for her, read over a short list of job skills.

  Exhausted, she daydreamed about the books she wanted to read and the places she planned to travel, starting with New Orleans and ending with Nova Scotia, a place she had read about in Louisiana history in eighth grade, and Prince Edward Island, where one of her favorite books was set.

  As Wreath started to close the little notebook, an unfamiliar entry near the back jumped off the page at her, and her heart leapt into her throat.

  Lo, I AM WITH You ALWAYS, it said.

  Lo, I am with you always?

  The words were printed precisely, in small block letters. The phrase sounded vaguely familiar, but the sight of it unsettled Wreath. Frankie must have made the entry, although it didn’t look like her handwriting, and Wreath couldn’t figure out how or when her mother had gotten her hands on the journal.

  The wind blew.

  “Mama?” she whispered.

  Chapter 4

  Wreath’s first glimpse of a rusted van thrilled her as she clawed her way through a wall of green vines. An ancient school bus and a half-dozen cars sat near the van, along with a storage shed, similar to where she had hidden her belongings in Lucky, and three or four abandoned mobile homes, their doors standing open and insulation hanging from the ceilings.

  But the place was creepier—much creepier—than she had imagined, not nearly like the quaint fairy home she had fantasized about. She picked up a tree branch for protection. “Hello,” she called out in a low voice. “Anyone home?”

  Relieved and terrified when no one answered, the combination of emotions burned most of her spurt of energy. The light faded quickly in the dense undergrowth, and she squinted to check the time on her cheap plastic watch. It was close to seven, and night noises were cranking up.

  She hadn’t realized it got dark so fast. She slapped at an invisible mosquito that buzzed in her ear.

  Wreath tried to talk herself into feeling safe here in the abandoned junkyard she had chosen for her home. This jumbled mess offered excellent protection from prying eyes. Only birds, insects, and frogs punctuated the quiet.

  She could fix up a spot here to stay until she graduated in a year. This was her plan.

  The idea evaporated as an owl hooted in the distance.

  “What was I thinking?” she groaned out loud and wondered what the easiest way to get in touch with welfare people would be. She pulled out the piece of paper with the words Foster Care on it, written in her mother’s handwriting.

  She walked up the broken stairs of one of the trailers, and a cat shot out from inside and brushed against her leg, causing her to scream.

  No one appeared at the shrill sound. She was alone in this place, with the exception of who knew what kind of varmints.

  She was alone in the world.

  The collection of beat-up cars went on and on, scattered here and there, right up to a swampy area. The size of the junkyard swallowed Wreath up.

  From the road, it looked like a few cars and then trees, but it was huge. A mass of metal, everything was rusted, dented, crumpled, or moldy. The discards spread across what she guessed were quite a few acres, but she couldn’t remember how big an acre actually was. She loved books and drawing, but didn’t particularly care for math. Was an acre something you studied in math? She couldn’t remember.

  Wreath had finished her junior year only a week and a half ago, but the details disappeared in her tiredness, and she didn’t try to snatch them back. Her thoughts resembled the cars, piled up and rusty.

  Only days ago she had been in charge at home, caring for Frankie, making sure food got cooked and clothes washed. She had taken care of her mother in one way or another most of her life, but she wasn’t as grown up as she had thought.

  She was only sixteen. She wouldn’t even be seventeen for six months.

  This new life was already an on-the-run fiasco.

  No, Wreath had vowed to her mother she’d get an education. She’d earn money. She didn’t want to live in a run-down rent house with skuzzy people the rest of her life. She’d make her senior year work out somehow.

  Big Fun hadn’t been that bad. Their old neighbor liked Wreath. Some of the cousins hadn’t been so bad when she was little. If not, someone else would take her in.

  Take her in.

  Wreath hated the way that sounded, like she was a stray dog waiting to be adopted at the pound, but she wouldn’t be a burden.

  She was smart and strong and knew how to do all sorts of things around the house. Her mama used to say Wreath had always been a little adult, even though she was younger than most in her class.

  Only one year stood between her and freedom.

  She would rely on others until she graduated, and then she wouldn’t need anybody—not foster parents who’d feel sorry for her, not nice people like that woman Clarice or the old lady next door in Lucky.

  NEW PLAN, she wrote in big letters in the notebook and made another list:

  Scrap old plan.

  Make safe place to sleep tonight.

  Call foster care office.

  Her stomach growled.

  Buy a hamburger, no matter how much it costs.

  Tomorrow she could go into Landry and figure out how to get in touch with someone who could tell her what to do. She’d live like a normal girl—find someone to stay with, get a part-time job, go to school, graduate from high school, and grow up. She’d find a way to pay for college and make lots of money. She’d wear pretty clothes and have a handsome husband and sweet children who had lots of toys and books and were never left alone.

  Never.

  They would stay in one place, and she’d always be there for them. But tonight?

  She could try to find Clarice’s house and admit she needed help. But the path back to where she had been dropped off had been a long walk in daylight. It’d be safer to stay put. Start fresh tomorrow.

  She’d been on her own for only five days, and she already felt stuck.

  That’s what she was. Stuck.

  She was stuck in this weird place that had seemed so perfect. Or she was stuck with living with someone she didn’t like.

  What kind of dream world had she been living in? She missed Frankie so much. She wanted to lie down and sleep.

  Wreath tried to find the best place to make her room for the evening and looked for escape routes in case danger appeared. She picked up the stick again and gripped it like a club.

  The memory of Big Fun made her rub her arm. She stuck the diary into the waistband of her jeans and took a few practice swings with the wood. Her arms felt weak and trembly.

  As she searched for a place to rest, she held the stick out in front of her, grasping it with both hands, like she had seen swashbuckling heroes do in movies. She pretended it was a saber and she could cut someone in half or evaporate them on the spot.

  The marshy area behind the place, with a stream that would have to do for water, housed frogs croaking in an array of tones. She pulled out her notebook and squinted at her entries in the gloom, reading her research notes on creatures and night noises.

  Don’t be afraid.

  Frogs will not hurt you.

  You will get used to them.

  She had not expected them to be so loud.

  Unnerved, Wreath chose a crazy van, a maroon color like the cover of an old record album one of her mother’s cousins had. The van, with tiger-striped shag carpet on the floor and walls, looked as t
hough someone had left it in midsentence. Magazines and a faded photo album sat on a fake wood end table, a suitcase of rotten clothes and a stack of paperback books rested in the corner. The windows had been covered with old sheets so no one could see in, nice for privacy but no good for lighting.

  Wreath chastised herself for heading out without a flashlight, mad that she had let the detail slip past her.

  That meant she had likely overlooked other essential details.

  Closing the doors, in the eerie night, she fidgeted with the locks until she made them work. For one frightening moment, she thought she had permanently locked herself in and panicked, imaging her decaying skeleton discovered years later. She frantically dug a pair of rusty pliers from the glove box and forced the side lock open, drawing a deep breath of fetid air when it worked.

  Trembling, Wreath spread her blanket on the rough carpeted floor and laid out her clothes, ate a banana, and put her stick nearby. She lay awake for a long time, afraid to sleep.

  A loud tapping noise caused Wreath to roll over and rub her eyes.

  She needed to get to the door before the knocking woke Frankie up.

  Frankie.

  A sick feeling roiled in her stomach. Frankie was gone.

  Wreath froze and tried to figure out where she was.

  The rough carpet rubbed against her aching arm, her familiar blanket bunched up. A trail of ants inspected the banana she had left nearby.

  The tapping continued, and Wreath reached for her stick.

  “Who is it?” she asked, her voice sounding like one of the frogs the night before. The knocking noise went right on, as though she had not spoken.

  “I’m armed,” she said louder, clearing her throat and trying to clear her mind. “What do you want?”

  She heard the shrill call of a bird, and the noise stopped.

  Crawling to the front seat of the van, she tried to roll the window down to peek outside, but corrosion had jammed it. Tentatively, she pushed against the door and looked, blinded by bright sunshine.

  She jumped back, slammed the door, and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Then the knocking started again.

  Agitated, Wreath opened the van door, the branch in her hand. A large woodpecker sat at the top of a rotten tree, ignoring her as he tapped at the wood.

  The bird sounded exactly the way the neighbor had in Lucky when she knocked on the front door, soup in hand or with a piece of misdelivered mail. Wreath’s anxiety vanished at the sight of the bird. She looked up at the clear sky and back at her watch. Twelve o’clock!

  She had slept until noon.

  In desperate need of a bathroom, Wreath wondered if any of the rotten trailer houses had commodes. She settled instead on a spot in the woods, embarrassed, and wandered back to her campsite, thankful no one was around.

  As she strolled back to the van, a warm breeze lifted her hair. She yawned and stretched and savored the sunshine. Sadness lurked, but she felt rested.

  Almost refreshed.

  The junkyard looked slightly more inviting by day, and its vastness felt almost safe, like a giant metal cocoon where no one could find her. The panic of the night before seemed excessive.

  Her original plan had not been off base after all. If no one knew she was here, no one could hurt her.

  She rocked back and forth for a moment, the daytime thoughts more agreeable than the dark doubts of the night before. She felt almost giddy, although part of that could be weakness brought on by hunger. She knew she couldn’t eat nearly as much as she wanted, so she brushed the ants off the banana peel and wondered if it was edible.

  Wrapping up half a package of peanut butter crackers instead, she decided to go on an expedition. This is an adventure, Brownie, she wrote in her diary. I will not give up. Frankie taught me to be strong and brave. I will not let her down.

  Scouting nearby vehicles, Wreath found similar setups to the van, places that looked as though the owners had walked away with nothing. The Tiger Van already seemed more familiar and less foreboding than the other cars, trucks, and trailers, and her inspection revealed details of lives that reminded her of the home she had left behind.

  To cheer herself, she pretended to be honest-to-goodness house shopping, like she loved on those home channels on TV and in magazines that Frankie brought home from the café. Within a few minutes, Wreath assumed the role of both buyer and real estate agent. She spoke aloud to calm her nerves, finding the lack of human noise unnerving.

  “This van is small enough to be safe, has several exits in case of emergency, and is carpeted from top to bottom, floor to ceiling,” Wreath said, using her stick as a pointer. “The previous owners might have gone a little overboard with the furry, tiger-striped carpet, and I am not thrilled that the wall and ceiling will require vacuuming. Perhaps it comes with air freshener?”

  Realtor Wreath was gregarious. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer one of our larger models, maybe the school bus that can accommodate a crowd, or one of these tiny sports cars that are cozy and easy to heat in the winter? You might find a camper trailer to your liking. They’re musty, but they have breathing room. You’ll have to commit soon because the property is flying off the market.”

  Wreath laughed out loud, the game of charades a relief. “I’m quick to know what I want,” she spoke aloud again. “I’ll stick with my original choice. Have your people get in touch with my people, and perhaps we can discuss a Tiger Van reality show.”

  She took a small bow and then felt ridiculous rather than playful, the woodpecker still knocking in the distance. She heard another bird call, and it sounded as though the woodpecker paused and answered.

  Even the birds had more friends than she did.

  She inhaled deeply, the air a mix of fresh summer and moldy ruin. A breeze moved through the trees, and she felt a moment of calm.

  During her explorations in various trailers, Wreath pilfered a half-dozen tiny painted flowerpots, made in Mexico, a cracked mixing bowl, and a mildewed Bible that reminded her of her grandma. She took a tire iron to replace the tree branch as a weapon, removing it from an Opal GT, a car she’d never seen before.

  She was disappointed but not surprised to find no lights and no running water in the area and began to consider her first trip into town.

  Too soon, she told herself. Wait.

  As evening fell, the mosquitoes were big and aggressive, and she added insect spray to her shopping list. As she wrote, she knew that no matter how good she was with money, hers would not go very far. She would have to find a job.

  She hoped Frankie’d had a nice funeral and wondered who had paid for it.

  Chapter 5

  After three sweltering, unnerving nights in the junkyard, Wreath thought there must be truth to Frankie’s motto. Where there is a Willis, there’s a way, she wrote time and again in her notebook. She considered putting it at the top of every page.

  Without a strong will, she never could have survived. Her brain was shaken up, like the snow globe Frankie had brought her from a weekend trip to Hot Springs.

  By night four, filthy and hungry, her meager food gone, she yearned for a break from what she now called Wreath’s Rusted Estates. Worried that it was too early to show her face in town, she longed for a shower and a real meal and was willing to trade precious cash for cleaning supplies.

  She had spent most of the first stifling forty-eight hours huddled in the van, exploring only briefly before scurrying back like one of the mice she saw every time she turned around. At least she preferred to think of them as mice. Some looked big enough to be rats, and they grew when she sketched them in her notebook.

  On the fifth morning, Wreath emerged from the van, forcing herself to look around, happy to hear the familiar tap-tap-tap of the woodpecker. After a brief walk through scattered car bumpers, stacks of old tires, and briars that lay across her path like booby traps, she pulled out pen and paper and catalogued what she had seen.

  MY NEW HOME:

/>   1. Isolated.

  2. Woodsy.

  3. Dirty.

  4. Smelly.

  5. Horrible.

  6. Mine!!!!

  She huddled back in the van, allowing herself a few ounces of water each day and a scant amount of food. For four days she had eaten berries growing on vines and peaches on a gnarled tree near the back of the property. Even with wormholes in them, they were delicious, and she hoarded them like the finest groceries.

  Finally, she could stand it no longer. On the seventh day, she gave in to the urge to go into town.

  Assignment: fact-finding mission, she wrote. Explorer: Wreath Willis.

  Assess threats.

  Find a shower.

  Gather usable objects.

  Map the area.

  Before she settled into sleep the previous night, she had made plans for the day, going through them again and again. She stepped out of the van and observed her new hideaway with a tiny degree of pleasure and a medium helping of pride.

  The sun blasted the hot van by the time she woke up, and she wolfed down the last of her peanut butter crackers and drank a few sips of water, nauseated with excitement and fear of the day ahead.

  She pushed her hair back with a black headband and pulled on a pair of track shorts and a T-shirt she had found in the backseat of one of the cars. The shirt looked almost in style—vintage, it would be called by fashionistas—and only had one small hole under the arm.

  Walking past nearby vehicles, Wreath found a large utility truck with big side mirrors and surveyed her appearance, satisfied that she looked pretty good for someone who hadn’t had a bath in days. Her hair wasn’t shiny but her dark eyes had a hint of sparkle, and her skin was smooth and clear.

  Her pack slung over her shoulder, she headed for the state park, mentioned by the lady who’d given her the ride and the subject of a brochure from the Not-So-Welcome Center. The park claimed to be “spacious” with a swimming area, cabins, trails, and, most importantly, showers. Sticking to the edge of the woods, a thrill ran through her when she found the entrance road, tree-lined and peaceful. A runner sprinted down into the park, waving at Wreath as she zipped through the gate.