“I hear,” Zoe says.
Grandma shakes her head and narrows her eyes to puckered slits. She leans so close Zoe can smell her smoky breath. “Family sticks together—real family, that is. But I think you got all of your daddy’s blood and none of your mama’s. I guess you’re hardly family at all.” She shakes her head one last time and leaves.
Zoe walks to the landing, watching Grandma plod down the steps. When she gets to the bottom of the stairs, she turns and calls, “And don’t bother coming to Kyle’s party on Saturday. Only family’s invited. Unless, that is, you’ve already come crawling back by then.”
She watches Grandma disappear around the corner of the garage, and with crushing clarity Zoe knows that she will die—she will truly die—before she ever crawls back. She forces a breath, and another wave of knowing hits her. Nothing will keep her from Kyle’s party on Saturday. Kyle is more hers than anyone’s.
She goes back in and closes the door, the door to her room on Lorelei Street, and in that instant, with the clicking of the latch, Ruby is no longer small. It is a large town of close-knit families, best friends arm-in-arm, houses with well-kept gardens and easy laughter, conversations buzzing over phone lines, and life of which Zoe is not a part. Ruby is suddenly very, very large, and Zoe is very, very small. She is only seventeen, and she only slings hash, and if she were to slip away into inky black nothingness, would anyone really notice?
Fourteen
Opal hugs a bag of groceries with one arm and lifts the other arm to Zoe. She waves her twiggy fingers, and Zoe thinks her smile is too young for her wrinkled apple face. It reminds her of Kyle, smiling from somewhere down deep, as much for himself as anyone else. Zoe waves back. She manages a smile, too. She knows her smile doesn’t come as freely or as deeply, but it is the best she can do, and Opal nods her head like she is so pleased that Zoe saw her.
She puts the car into drive. Soon Opal is out of her vision and she only sees the dappled flash of light on her hood as she races down Lorelei Street to work. She is only at Carmichael when another flash comes into view. The red warning light glows on the instrument panel. She needs oil. Shit. Why now? She thinks she can make it to the gas station half a block from Murray’s. Didn’t she just add oil? How long can you drive with the oil light on? She doesn’t know. Grandma would just love to see this. Would love to see her burning up Mama’s engine. But it’s only oil. It’s only a couple of bucks. She’ll take care of it better than Mama would have.
With each block she feels the glowing red light twisting something inside of her tighter. Ungrateful. Am I really? The light seems to grow brighter. The engine and I may poof at the same time, she thinks. Poof. No more engine. No more Zoe. No more nothing. Would that be so bad?
Six blocks later she turns off into Thrifty Gas and Garage. She rolls down the window and asks the attendant for oil. “I’m in a hurry, if you don’t mind. I’m on my way to work.” He obliges and lifts her hood. He pulls out the stick, shakes his head, wipes it with a blue paper towel, and shoves it in again. He shakes his head again when he pulls it out, and Zoe’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Maybe she drove it too far. Maybe the engine is ruined already. God, she can never face Grandma with that.
The attendant walks over to her window, carefully holding the stick like there is a virus on the end. “I can add more oil if you want, but I’d just be adding it to sludge. When was the last time you changed the oil in this thing?”
Changed the oil? She has never changed the oil. “I think it’s been a while,” she says. “Does it need it?”
He silently nods his grease-smudged face like the condition is too grave to utter a word.
“How much?” she asks.
“Change the oil, new filter, and top off your other fluids for twenty-nine bucks. Best thing you can do for your car. Simple stuff like that’ll keep it running for years. Could have it done in half an hour.”
Zoe sighs. She doesn’t have half an hour. She doesn’t have twenty-nine bucks. But she needs a car that will last for years. A car that Grandma can’t blame her for trashing. “Can I leave it and pick it up around nine?”
“Sure thing.”
She grabs her purse and gets out of the car, dropping the keys into the attendant’s greasy palm. She is afraid to ask but she does. “And can I pay when I pick it up?”
“You bet.”
So much for groceries for the refrigerator. She heads for Murray’s, grateful that she didn’t burn up the engine. Mama would have. It is still light outside, but she can see Murray’s neon sign half a block away already glowing with its red and yellow lights.
Ungrateful? What did Grandma mean by that? Zoe grabs a cigarette from her purse for one last smoke before her shift begins. She notices the pack is nearly empty. Didn’t she just open it this morning? It must have been yesterday. What should I be grateful for? She lights up and takes a drag, wondering if she looks like Grandma when she does. She tries to keep her face smooth and light as she inhales, her chin drawn up and her eyes soft and round.
Grateful? For what? That Mama didn’t get rid of her when she was nothing more than a peanut inside of her? Grateful for all of Kyle’s crappy diapers? Grateful for all the times Mama didn’t show up for parent conferences at school? She almost smiles—maybe she should be grateful for that. Or maybe grateful for all the life-sucking, meandering, tearful monologues that squeeze the spirit right from her heart and have everything to do with Mama and nothing, nothing to do with Zoe? I’m only seventeen, Grandma. Don’t I deserve a life, too?
The streets of Ruby are busy, and the sound of her footsteps is lost in the rumble of the trucks and cars whizzing past her. Everyone is in a hurry to get home. Home. So they can enjoy the twilight, the brief rosy wash of quiet before evening brings its own busyness. She slows her pace and searches for that feeling, a fluttering hint she remembers, so she must have known it once. You can’t remember if it never happened.
There are things…
She is grateful…grateful…. Mama holding her, wiping tears and hair from her cheeks when she has her first period on the bus and Kenny Beeson announces it to everyone. Mama whispering and cooing over and over again that she is a woman now and Kenny is nothing but a jerk-off little boy. Grateful. Mama, bragging on the phone to Aunt Nadine that Zoe is five-six and still growing, Zoe with silky black hair, Zoe with eyes that can stop traffic. Mama said those things. Grateful. Mama, leaning over, so slowly, tenderly, kissing Daddy’s cold lips when Zoe couldn’t even walk up to the coffin. Mama. Beautiful Mama.
Grateful.
Fifteen
“Easy on the mayo!” Zoe reminds the cook. It’s on the ticket, but if he forgets, she is the one who will pay the price, and tonight more than ever she needs the tips. Her voice is cheerful. She cannot sound like a nag, either, or her pleas will backfire. She walks a tightrope as thin as spaghetti as she turns, smiles to the sleazebag at the counter who cannot keep his eyes off her off-limits breasts, and asks, “More coffee?”
“If you’re offerin’,” he says, “I’m takin’.” His voice suggests everything his eyes ask for.
Zoe pours. She knows where she would like to pour it, but that would probably nix her tip. Maybe. She moves on to table seven, three elderly women who are finishing up soup, rolls, and water. Not a high tab, but Zoe knows how they tip anyway. Fifty cents from each of them, no matter what they order. It’s the same routine every Thursday night after their Bible meeting. She pours them more water and lays their bill on the table. At table six she refills a young couple’s iced teas and lets them know their Island burgers will be right up. She smiles, maybe even from somewhere deep, at least as deep as a beef patty can take you. Island burgers in the middle of Ruby. A few months ago it was Fiesta dogs. That one didn’t last. You had to love Murray.
Her tables have been light tonight, but she can’t complain. Charisse and Deirdre have had even fewer tables. Zoe has kept count. Every time Murray seats someone she notices. She has to. The counter
is seat yourself, though, divided half and half between Charisse and Zoe. At dinnertime most folks want to sit at a table, so it is not too busy. Only the sleazebag on Zoe’s half and another customer occupy it now. Zoe wishes she had the other customer. She glances at him when she can, notices his worn blue jeans and his clean white T-shirt that fits him way too nicely, but his attention is held by a thick book open on the counter beside him. She guesses he must be twenty or so, maybe Hispanic. His hair is dark, and his arms are the same rich color of the toasted almonds she nibbles from the top of Murray’s coffee cake. He alternately scoops forkfuls of mashed potatoes and chicken-fried steak. She wonders what could be so damn interesting in his book that he can’t be friendly, and then she wonders why the hell she cares.
She returns to the sleazebag and, though she hates to ask, she knows she must before she can lay down the bill. “Anything else I can get for you tonight?” Her voice is pitch-perfect, her smile sterling, and she knows if Reid were watching he would applaud her. She has never worked so hard in her life.
The sleazebag shifts in his seat. He grins. She can tell he is so pleased with the setup. She supposes she shouldn’t give him another thought. He probably has the teeniest, weeniest penis, and this is his way of making up for it. We all have ways of compensating, she thinks.
“What else have you got for me, honey?”
She scrutinizes his oily face. He has to be twice her age, somewhere in his thirties at least. His hair is thin and stiff, sprayed in place so his scalp won’t be revealed by an unexpected breeze. He holds his hands oddly, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. They are large and meaty and awkward and don’t match his thin, angled body. What else have I got for you?
“Just what’s on the menu,” she says.
He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Is that all? I thought maybe you had some special desserts you wanted to tell me about.” He says “special” like he has invented the word. Like he is a come-on genius and she will melt.
It must be so small, Zoe thinks. No bigger than a gherkin.
“No,” she says. “Just what’s on the menu.” She stays cheerful, happy. Oscar-worthy. Reid would be proud. Oil changes take priority over humiliating dirtbags.
“Then I think I’ll pass. Maybe next time.”
“Sure. Next time,” she says, and she slides the bill across to him. “Have a good evening.” She hurries away to deliver the Island burgers to the young couple before he can say anything else.
After she has delivered the burgers and gathered her dollar-fifty tip from table seven, she catches Murray at the cash register. “Hey, Mur, any chance of me picking up a shift on Saturday night? I could really use the money.”
The squint of his eyes and the tilt of his head answer her question, but he goes ahead and explains anyway. “Pretty top-heavy already, Zoe, and you’ve seen how it is tonight—Saturdays haven’t been much better. Between the new Buffet Basket in Cooper Springs and the grand opening of the Rocket Gourmet in Duborn, I’m getting squeezed from both ends like a rat in a snake’s belly.”
“You’re no rat, Mur,” she says. “Things will get better. No one has chicken-fried steak like you. You’re a landmark in Ruby.” She’s sorry she asked. She already knew things were tight, and now she has rubbed it in deeper with Murray. He added Tammy Barton to the payroll last month when her scum-licking husband ran out on her and their two kids. Tammy can’t balance two plates on her arm to save her life, but Murray knew she was desperate. There aren’t a lot of jobs in Ruby. Most folks commute to Abilene or even farther. Zoe knows she is lucky to have this job—especially with a boss like Murray.
“But if someone calls in sick, I’ll be sure and call you first.” And then, like he has arrived at a better solution, he adds, “Or maybe we could let a few rats loose at Buffet Basket—that might send more customers this way.”
Zoe forces a smile, struggling to keep up her Oscar performance but only thinking how broke she is, how alone, and how there is no one to help. It seeps into her, weighing her down like a sinking boat. She lifts her voice, for Murray’s sake and maybe for her own, too. “That’s what I like about you, Mur. Always thinking. Island burgers one day, rats the next.”
Three customers walk in the door, and Murray whispers to Zoe, “Ix-nay the at-ray talk. We don’t want to send ’em the other direction.” He grabs three menus and welcomes them, leading them to a booth. At the same time, the sleazebag arrives at the cash register and Murray asks Zoe to ring him up.
“Sure,” she says, noting her poor timing. Seeping. Sinking. But why should anything go well for her today?
He fans a fat wad of bills, pulls out a twenty, and hands it to her along with his tab. She notices his hands again, thick, heavy, and clumsy, resting like two hams on the counter. “So, things are a little tight, huh?” he says.
“Good hearing,” Zoe answers.
“I’m good at lots of things,” he says.
Zoe glances back to where he was sitting. The tip is already there. Nothing to lose.
“Well, you’re a good talker, anyway.”
She hands him his change and he fans the bills once again, inserting his change in between. He shoves the wallet in his hip pocket and smiles, his ham-hock hands dangling at his sides. “You have a good evening now, you hear?” he says and leaves.
Zoe heads straight to his seat to retrieve her tip. Five dollars? It is three times what he should have left. Grandma’s accusation fills her head. Ungrateful. Is she? Was he just trying to be friendly? Did the poor perv just want to be noticed? Was that too much to ask? Just to be noticed? The way she wants the guy at the end of the counter to notice her? Isn’t that all anyone really wants—someone’s eyes to look into you instead of through you?
She watches Charisse fill the book guy’s water glass. He lifts his gaze from his book, smiles, and thanks her. Charisse is married with three kids. She can never appreciate that smile like I can, Zoe thinks. But life is never fair, never even, never sensible. Look at Mama and Daddy. They fought like cats and dogs, but Grandma says Daddy was the love of Mama’s life. If love is a lot of fighting and pain, then maybe life does make sense after all.
She runs her hands through the tips in her pocket. She knows to the penny how much money is there. Exactly $13.75. Her groveling, jumping, and smiles didn’t get her far, and now her shift is over. Never even, never fair. After she tips the cook and pays the garage, she will have $5.25 to last her until Sunday when she works again.
Mama probably drinks away that much in a day, she thinks.
She wraps two biscuits in a napkin and fills a paper cup with orange juice before she leaves. She will put those in her refrigerator. Her refrigerator. I am grateful. I am.
She takes a last look at the guy at the end of the counter. He is studying his book again, his fingers running down the page. She wishes she was half as interesting as his book. She clocks out and leaves, walking through Murray’s parking lot past the grimy oil pump she usually parks next to. Like the others that sprinkle the Ruby community in odd, unexpected places, it has a matching grimy chain-link fence around it. It groans its usual greeting. A groan that always seems to be pleading, always sad. She offers her usual greeting in return.
“Someday,” she whispers. “Someday.”
Sixteen
She takes a detour.
It’s for the coffee can, she thinks. For the thousand pennies that must be in the coffee can. It’s hers after all. Just a quick detour to get what is hers.
The gate still swings open. Light glows through yellowed shades.
She pushes the door open. “Mama?” she whispers, so softly it hardly creases the air.
There is no answer. She didn’t expect there would be. She goes to her closet and quietly slides the door open. The old coffee can, heavy with pennies, grates and chinks as she slides it from her shelf. She tucks it into the nook of one arm and slides the closet shut with the other. Mama will never know she was here. Her breath barely rises in her
chest as she walks down the hallway, but then she stops.
Why, Zoe? Why don’t you just leave? Run?
But something pulls inside of her. It feels like Daddy, whispering in her ear, Just keep an eye on Kyle for a few minutes, a few minutes, I’ll be back, keep him safe for me, that’s a good girl, my good little Zoe.
She closes her eyes, but it doesn’t make the pulling go away. She wants to throw the coffee can against the wall and hear a thousand clattering pennies shatter the silence, a thousand tinny voices falling to the floor, spinning, rolling out of control, anything but Daddy’s whispers.
She hugs the can closer and reaches for Mama’s doorknob. A quick look. That’s all. Just to be sure. She opens the door a sliver and then a little farther. Rumpled sheets and nothing more.
But the lights are on.
“Mama?” she whispers. She goes to the closet, but it is empty, too.
“It’s so late,” she says. And then she knows she must check one more place. A place that haunts her, even in her dreams, and the coffee can becomes a heavy weight but not heavy enough to keep her feet from moving to the bathroom. She is tired. She doesn’t want to go. She has looked too many times, and she doesn’t want to look anymore. It makes her crazy, and she probably is, she is, to let it hold on to her, to clamp down on her like a trap that is sprung over and over again, but, keep an eye on her, Zoe, watch out for her, where is she, where is she, where the fucking hell is she?
A Room on Lorelei Street Page 7
