Too bad, Carly thinks. Because they’re fresh out of sunscreen as of yesterday.
The clouds move on the stiff breeze. They scud, Carly thinks. She’s not certain why – or from where – she remembers that odd word, but she’s quite sure the clouds scud.
Jen does another exaggerated kick step, and Carly puts her finger on what she’s been noticing. Where’s all Jen’s energy coming from? They’re both exhausted. Sure, they’ve only been walking for less than an hour so far today. But when you put in the miles they do, day after day after day, you wake up tired. There’s no such thing as rested. There’s no such animal as fresh.
Jen stops, and looks all around them, 360 degrees. She’s been doing that all morning. Thoughtfully. As if there was something out here to see.
‘Pretty here,’ Jen says.
‘What’s pretty about it?’ Carly asks, clear in her tone that the kid is talking crazy.
‘Well,’ Jen says, looking all around again. Breathing in a piece of that sky. ‘There’s that.’
She points at the wind-whittled formations just in front of the mountainous horizon.
‘You’re nuts,’ Carly says. ‘It’s rocks.’
‘Pretty rocks.’
‘No such thing.’
They walk a few steps more, Jen kicking a few more times. The crunch of their footsteps and the click of kicked gravel is the only sound. That and the wind in Carly’s ears.
‘The sky,’ Jen says.
‘We have clouds at home, you know.’
‘Not the clouds. The sky.’
Carly stops. Jen walks a couple more steps, then notices, and also stops.
‘You’re being stupid,’ Carly says. ‘It’s the same sky everywhere.’
‘No, it isn’t. I never saw a sky like this one.’
‘Don’t they teach you anything in school? The sky is the sky. Each place doesn’t have its own sky.’
‘I know that. But this sky is bigger.’
‘You’re just seeing more of it. You just can’t see so many miles of sky where we come from.’
‘Right,’ Jen says. ‘That’s what I mean. That’s what’s different. That’s what’s better.’
Carly sighs and walks again, and Jen joins her. A bit more subdued. And, though it ignites a pang of guilt in her gut to admit it, Carly is more comfortable with Jen that way. That’s what’s been eating her about Jen all morning. How could she act … almost … happy? At a time like this?
Out of nowhere, startling Carly, Jen squeals and breaks into a run, her backpack bouncing wildly. Carly looks up to see what Jen has seen.
Horses.
Three horses graze in a field, behind a fence almost laughable in its construction. It’s made with branches for posts. Some straight, some curved, some forked. Branches standing straight up out of the ground, at intervals, strung with three strands of wire in-between. Not barbed wire. Just wire. And it goes on for ever. Two of the horses are white, but not as pretty as that makes them sound. Dirty white, with long yellowish tails and ribs showing just a bit.
But the third one is a beauty. A brown and white paint, with a brown tail and a thick white mane so long it trails down below the bottom of his neck. Carly never thought much about calling a pinto horse a paint, but she sees now why that description fits. It’s as though someone took brown paint to a white horse in big, broad splotches, then got bored and stopped halfway through.
The paint looks younger. And he acts younger.
As Jen gets closer to his fence, he’s infected with her energy. He runs the fence line toward her, then turns and runs away, bucking as if trying to shake off something invisible, kicking out his heels.
Jen squeals laughter.
Carly stops and watches, trying not to sort out the parts of her that both do and do not like what she’s seeing.
Then Jen breaks stride and hops on one foot, four hops, yelling, ‘Ow, ow, ow, ow,’ one ‘ow’ for each hop.
She hops over and stands at the fence, holding one branch post, and looks at the bottom of her filthy white sneaker. The horse has stopped running as well, and seems to be trying to decide whether he dares approach her. Jen drops her foot and leans over the ridiculous fence, trying to entice the paint to come close and be patted.
Carly breaks into a trot.
‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘Maybe he bites.’
‘He won’t bite me,’ Jen calls back.
‘And you know this how?’
‘He won’t.’
By the time she catches up to them at the fence, the horse is rooting around in Jen’s palms with his muzzle, twisting his lips and showing yellow teeth. Carly stands close enough to smell him. That deep, musty, not-at-all-unpleasant horse smell.
‘You want some food, don’t you?’ Jen says to him, the way you’d talk to your pet dog. ‘But if I had some food, let me tell you, I’d eat it myself. You can eat grass. You’re lucky. Wish we could eat grass. And sleep standing up in a field all night and not mind.’
Carly sits gingerly on a big tire that’s half-buried in the dirt against the fence. Extra big, like a tractor tire. She has to use her hands to ease herself down.
‘We have food,’ she says.
Jen comes and sits with her.
‘What do we have?’
‘Two more Snickers bars.’
‘Breakfast! Score!’
Carly takes off her own backpack and roots around in there until she finds the two candy bars at the bottom. She hands one to her sister.
‘Make it last,’ she says.
‘I’d rather have it all now.’
‘But then you’ll be sorry later.’
‘But maybe we’ll get more food later.’
‘But maybe not.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘Look. I’m the grown-up now. And I say just eat half.’
Jen rolls her eyes, but she breaks the candy bar in half, folds the wrapper over the half she’s been told to save, and slides it into her shirt pocket.
‘You’re as bad as Mom,’ Jen says.
Carly can feel the darkness in the air between them, the sense that Jen would snatch the words back inside if only she could.
‘I can’t believe you just said that, Jen.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘But you didn’t mean it in a good way, right? When you say I’m as bad as Mom, that’s not a compliment to Mom. You’re saying Mom was bad.’
‘Hey! You’re the one that—’
‘That’s called speaking ill of the dead, Jen. And it’s a thing nobody is ever supposed to do, ever. And you’re the superstitious one, so I’m really surprised you would speak ill of the dead.’
Jen looks up and around, as though trying to identify a particular area of sky.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers.
Then she takes a bite of her breakfast.
The paint horse leans over the wire, snuffling his muzzle in the direction of the food. His lips make a popping sound that causes Jen to turn around, and she laughs out loud to see him there.
‘Horses don’t eat Snickers bars,’ she says.
But a minute later a strong breeze upends the long, dark strands of Jen’s curly hair, and both of Jen’s hands fly up to her head to brush it back into place. And the horse, seizing an opportunity, leans farther over the fence and nicks the candy with his teeth.
Jen screams laughter again, and holds the treasure close against her chest.
‘Ick,’ Carly says. ‘Now you have to throw away the part he touched.’
‘No way. I’m not wasting it.’
‘You’ll get a disease or something.’
‘People don’t get diseases from horses.’
‘How do you know?’
Jen raises the candy bar and chomps off half of what’s left in one big bite.
‘If my neck starts getting longer,’ she says, her mouth full, ‘and my feet get hard, you can throw a saddle on me and ride me all the way to California.’
‘We’re not walking all that way. Teddy’ll come get us.’
Jen doesn’t answer.
Remembering something, Carly grabs one of Jen’s ankles and pulls her leg out and up, until she can examine the bottom of Jen’s sneaker. Even though she can’t remember which foot it was.
‘Ow,’ Jen says. ‘What?’
On the bottom of Jen’s sole is a hole about the size of a quarter, worn clear through. Carly can see the dusty dark green of Jen’s sock. She drops that ankle and grabs the other. The bottom of that sole has a hole the size of a dime. Carly gives Jen her feet back.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you had holes in your shoes?’
‘It’s not like you could have done anything.’
‘We could put cardboard inside or something.’
‘Oh. Yeah. I guess.’
A minute later Carly stands up, using her hands for support, and tugs on Jen’s sleeve.
‘More miles,’ she says.
‘Right,’ Jen says. ‘I know. More miles. How did I guess? Because it’s always more miles.’
Jen leans over and kisses the horse on his nose before they walk on.
The paint ambles the fence line with them, loose-kneed and confident, until he runs out of pasture.
Jen waves sadly to him.
‘Bye, pretty.’
‘He’s not your boyfriend.’
‘Says you.’
Jen gazes over her shoulder at him three more times before the road dips, obscuring their view. Then she looks one more time, as if it helps her remember.
Half a mile later they pass a ranch house with a garden hose coiled on the side. No cars. No garage to hide a car. No one seems to be home.
They drink their fill before moving on. It’s the first day they’ve been without a gas-station bathroom for more than half a day. It scares Carly to be so far from a source of water. And a phone.
They make it over the low mountains that same day. They crest the top and look down into the next valley. Carly expects to see more of the scant food, water and shelter sources that have lined their path at intervals so far.
What they see is more nothing.
They stand on a sidewalk together, Carly marveling at how long it’s been since they’ve had a sidewalk to stand on. Carly appraises what thin opportunities this place has to offer. Gas station with tiny convenience store. Thrift shop. Ice-cream stand. Hardware store. Native American blankets, Hopi and Navajo, both.
‘What town is this?’ Jen asks.
‘I don’t know. I never saw a sign, did you?’
‘I don’t think so. But I was busy looking at those rocks. They’re pretty.’
Beyond this stretch of highway imitating civilization, the landscape is made up of tumbled rocks, big and small, some forming tumbled rock mountains, others going it alone. All the same shade of ordinary rock brown.
‘What’s with you and rocks all of a sudden?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Maybe it’s too small a town to even have a name,’ Carly says.
‘All towns have names.’
‘How would you know? You’re twelve.’
Jen says nothing, and Carly knows she’s crossed a line. And then she knows she’s been crossing a line with Jen for days, being meaner than situations require. But she’s not sure she has the energy to fix it just yet. Or even knows how.
There’s a rough bench on a dirt lot near the sidewalk, made with a plank on two cut tree stumps. They hobble over to it, and slide off their packs. Carly eases herself down and unties her shoes, pulling one off.
Jen flops on her back in the dirt and puts her feet up on the bench.
‘You’re lucky you’re not a redhead,’ Carly tells her sister.
‘Don’t take your shoes off. Why is that lucky?’
‘I have to take them off. My feet are all swollen.’
‘You’ll never get them back on.’
‘I can’t help it. They’re killing me.’
‘Why is it unlucky to be a redhead?’
‘Because they burn so easy. They have that fair skin. Can’t take any sun at all. Like my friend Marissa. You didn’t know her. She was from my high school.’
‘Which one? New Mexico or California?’
‘California. We can buy more sunscreen.’
‘With what?’
‘I’ll get somebody to give us some money. I always do.’
Jen has the back of one hand thrown across her eyes. Probably to shield them from the sun, but it makes her look dramatic. Like one of those old-time movie actresses depicting angst. Though angst was never Jen’s style.
‘Carly,’ she says. ‘I’m hungry. I don’t care if I burn to a crisp. I don’t care if I burn till I blister. Do not waste … like … four dollars on sunscreen. You know how much food we could buy for four dollars? You want more miles, I need more food.’
The holey soles of Jen’s sneakers keep calling Carly’s eyes back.
She squeezes her eyes closed, and when she opens them, there’s the thrift store. Right in front of her. Like she’s been trying to conjure something, and now it’s arrived, just as ordered.
She pushes her feet back into the shoes, but they barely squeeze in. It hurts. It would be easy to cry out, but she doesn’t. She can’t even bring herself to lace them up again. She’ll just have to be careful not to trip.
‘Come on. Walk with me.’
‘We’re resting!’ Jen howls.
‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean we’re going in that thrift store.’
‘For what? We don’t have any money.’
‘Just shut up and walk with me.’
‘You go. I’m tired.’
‘No. You have to come, too.’
Jen sighs deeply and rolls over, pulling to her feet. A couple in their twenties stroll by. Each has an ice-cream cone. Two scoops apiece. The woman smiles at them. Jen stares at the ice cream until it’s too far away to ogle.
They cross the street together to the thrift store. The window is hand-painted, and says all proceeds go to benefit St Ignatius Hospital.
A bell jingles when Carly opens the door.
‘How’re you girls doing today?’ the woman asks.
She’s maybe forty, reading a paperback book. She looks Indian. Native. Native American, Carly should start saying. Indian might offend somebody. They’re getting close to Navajo country, the big reservation, but Carly doesn’t think they’re quite there yet. But at least they’re finally over the border into Arizona.
Carly never answers.
‘Anything special in mind?’
Carly sees a bird cage hanging near the woman’s head, with two blue and green parakeets. They make a chirping racket, almost like singing.
‘Shoes,’ Carly says. ‘We were looking for some shoes for my sister.’
‘Go all the way down that aisle and then left. They’re on the floor in the corner back there. All two dollars unless they got a tag says they’re more.’
‘Thanks. Want us to leave our backpacks here?’
People don’t like for kids or teens to come in their stores with backpacks. They’ve learned that for sure.
‘It’s fine. I’ll trust you. Let me know if you need help.’
Then Carly feels bad. The lady’s trust makes her feel extra bad.
Jen tugs at her sleeve as they walk down the aisle, but Carly knocks her hand away again. She shoots Jen a warning look. The shop is small. The woman won’t be able to see them once they’re back in the corner with the shoes. But she might hear.
Jen runs straight to a pair of cross-training shoes in about her size. She has her hand on them before Carly even sees them. They’re scuffed up pretty good. But when Jen picks them up and turns them over, the soles are nice. Not worn much at all. She turns them back upright, and they both look at the tops of them. They have a tag that says they’re five dollars, not just two.
Carly takes a quick look over her shoulder, then pulls off the tag, breaking its string. Jen sucks he
r breath in, and Carly shoots Jen another warning with her eyes.
‘Try them on,’ she whispers.
There’s no place to sit, so Jen sits on the floor and pulls off her holey old sneakers. Meanwhile Carly spots a pair of lace-up boots. She picks them up, considering. She turns her foot over and holds them sole to sole with the shoes she has. They look about right. A little big, maybe. But that would give her feet room to swell.
She puts them on and laces them snug to make up for their bigness, then looks up to see Jen sitting up straight on the floor, the new shoes on. Her eyes seem extra wide. Carly catches Jen’s eye and Jen nods. Those are the ones, all right.
Carly picks up her old shoes, and Jen’s old shoes, and arranges them in the line on the floor with all the others. They don’t look much worse than some of them, at least, if you don’t turn Jen’s over.
‘OK, well, we looked, anyway. You happy now?’ Carly asks in a normal volume, and too cheerful.
‘I guess,’ Jen says, sounding nervous.
Carly reaches a hand down to Jen and pulls her to her feet.
She looks down at the new boots. They’re sturdy. That’ll help. But they’re a risk, because they’re more one-of-a-kind than Jen’s trainers. The lady might spot them walking out the door. She looks back at her old shoes, and almost decides to take them back. But her feet have swollen even more by now. She probably wouldn’t get them back on.
‘Don’t look at her,’ she whispers in Jen’s ear. ‘Don’t talk to her. Let me do all the talking.’
Jen is a terrible liar. Jen is so honest she busts herself every time.
Carly tugs the sleeve of her sister’s shirt and they walk. God knows if there’s one thing they know how to do by now, it’s walk.
‘Thanks anyway, ma’am,’ she calls, prepared to keep walking right by the counter. Then she realizes that’s not the best thing to do. She should stop and talk. Because that’s just what a person who’s stealing something would never do.
Walk Me Home (retail) Page 2
