Soon enough, Joni fussed in her crib. I lifted her into bed with me to give her a bottle. Her wide eyes looked into mine in the lamplight; she stared at me as if I were a full moon. The rhythmic sounds of her swallowing filled the room. I leaned forward and kissed her fuzzy forehead. Then, ever so softly, I began to sing to her.
My foot in the stirrup, my pony won’t stand;
Good-bye Old Paint, I’m a-leavin’ Cheyenne.
* * *
BEFORE WE left Ozona, Thanksgiving fell on the wrong side of payday. We couldn’t afford to buy a turkey.
Daddy didn’t apologize; he merely bought a package of ground hamburger meat and molded it into the shape of a meat-loaf turkey, complete with drumsticks on the side and a meatball for a tail. Mama was in bed with another migraine, so Daddy prepared the meal. He opened up several cans of creamed corn and made mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese.
Mama, wearing Daddy’s pajamas, gathered with us around the kitchen table. Daddy placed the meat-loaf turkey on a platter and lowered it onto the table beside the other steaming bowls. The seven of us bowed our heads and Daddy offered up a simple prayer. He thanked God for our family, for our food, and for the opportunity to be together.
A carful of girls—Patricia, me, Joni, Nancy (who came to live with us), Brenda, and Vicki
Grand Junction, Colorado
LIKE TUMBLEWEEDS BREAKING free from their roots, we rolled across the Texas highway toward New Mexico and western Colorado. None of us knew we would be adding yet another child to our family in Grand Junction—not a baby, either. Mama had her tubes tied after delivering Joni; she didn’t plan on giving birth again. As Patricia put it to one of our neighbors, “Our mama was spayed.”
Daddy hitched a large orange U-Haul trailer, crammed to the ceiling with our belongings, to the back bumper of our Ford Fairlane. He and Mama speculated whether the Ford could handle the almost one-thousand-mile trek to Colorado without breaking down.
“Maybe with a lick and a promise,” Mama teased.
“Colorado or bust,” Daddy added.
The trailer hitch rode so low it scraped against the pavement when we pulled off the highway to take a photograph in front of the state-line sign reading: WELCOME TO NEW MEXICO “THE LAND OF ENCHANTMENT.” The seven of us unfolded out of the car, grateful to stretch our legs. We squatted behind some bushes, hiding from the occasional motorist, and peed rivulets into the bone-dry earth. Before we folded back into the car, we gathered around the sign, looked at Daddy’s camera, and said cheese.
Just as the road sign promised, New Mexico was a land of enchantment. Our route took us through grass plains studded with yucca plants, dense forests of pines, and the Sangre de Cristo (Blood of Christ) Mountains, which glowed a deep red at sunset. We traveled within a hundred miles of the White Sands Missile Range near Alamogordo, where, fifteen years earlier, the first atomic blast had stunned the world. We drove through Roswell, where a flying saucer supposedly crashed on a nearby ranch two years after the atomic blast.
Traveling through the countryside in 1960 provided an education all its own. History, geography, anthropology, folklore—all of it came to life outside our window. We sometimes drove in silence down the highway that curled like a ribbon toward the horizon, taking in the splendor of the ancient landscape.
If I had to pick a single painting to represent my childhood connection to the big-sky country of Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado, I would choose Georgia O’Keeffe’s Ladder to the Moon. It evokes what I felt when I gazed into the distant horizon or tilted my head to marvel at the starry heavens. Driving through big-sky country back then, I noticed how infinitesimal a particular problem like moving seemed when set against the backdrop of creation.
I was still feeling this expansiveness when we pulled into a motel, its red VACANCY light blinking. I looked around and spotted the swimming pool. Daddy opened the car door, got out and adjusted himself (a habit that drove Mama crazy), and went inside to the registration desk.
Daddy had been given a modest expense account to move us, so the whole family could do something we rarely did—eat in a café for breakfast, dinner, and supper, plus stay in a motel with a swimming pool.
Could life get more luxurious than a motel with a swimming pool?
We pulled on our bathing suits while Daddy lifted the hood of the car and tinkered inside. He unscrewed the radiator cap and added water. The needle had been riding close to hot all day. So had we. The Ford didn’t have air-conditioning.
DADDY WAS both tour guide and teacher. He ferreted out unique opportunities on our travels with the same finesse he had for locating oil trapped between layers of sediment. If there was a mummy, a ghost town, or a two-headed rattlesnake display within a hundred miles, Daddy thought it worth a side trip.
Both Mama and Daddy had an intrinsic curiosity about life, which led Mama to ask Daddy if he would drive us through one of the nearby pueblos. Mama said she had always wanted to do this more than anything. Daddy loved to grant Mama’s wishes. He beamed when he came back to the car with directions from the gas-station attendant.
“There’s one not too far off the road up yonder,” he told her.
We found the dirt road and drove toward the village. Mama was electrified by it. She sat up tall in the front seat and told Daddy to slow down. She pointed out an American Indian man wrapped in a colorful striped blanket leaning against an adobe wall on the second floor of the pueblo.
We drove by so slowly that my eyes met his. He seemed to see all the way inside me. His gaze was so intense, I had to look away. Suddenly, I felt we didn’t belong there, that we were intruders. But Mama felt different. She said she wouldn’t be surprised if our family tree included an American Indian. She didn’t have any genealogy records or charts, just a hunch that her thick coal-black hair originated from genes that weren’t European.
Mama had more than her coal-black hair in common with the American Indian man wrapped in the blanket. Her gaze was every bit as intense. Whenever Mama’s eyes locked on mine, it seemed she could tell my every thought. That kind of scrutiny caused me to look away. I didn’t like anyone seeing my raw seams or knowing my thoughts—not until I had figured them out for myself.
* * *
MOST EYES followed our passel when we walked into the cafés along our route. Tables generally had to be pushed together, a booster and high chair located, and seating arranged to make sure an older child or adult sat next to a younger one to help with cutting, napkins, and spills. Patricia always wanted mashed potatoes and gravy, Brenda loved “girl” cheeses, and my favorite meal was a hamburger with French fries. And, if the budget allowed, a chocolate malt to top it all off.
I loved hamburgers so much that I decided to order one for every meal on that trip. Mama, feeling particularly jolly, had no objections. She even interceded on my behalf several mornings, asking if the breakfast cook would serve me a burger instead of eggs.
“Yes,” Mama admitted to the waitress, the request was a bit unusual, but maybe the waitress could ask the cook if it was possible. Mama might then share that she too had some experience working in cafés.
“It never hurts to ask,” Mama told me.
She was right. I became known within our family as Wimpy, Popeye’s friend who loved hamburgers. I was also the family poison tester. If the other girls ordered chocolate malts along with me, I devised a way to procure a few extra sips.
“You know,” I whispered, “sometimes you have to be very careful with malts because it’s easy for people to put poison in them.” When alarm registered on the younger ones’ faces, I offered, “Would you like me to taste yours and make sure it isn’t poisoned?”
They would gratefully scoot their drinks in front of me; I would take a long, slow draft, smack my lips, and give it my nod of approval before going on to the next one. If I was feeling particularly naughty, I might say the malt tasted a little funny, which, of course, required a second sip. My sisters quickly wised up, but for a shooting-s
tar moment, I was their hero, willing to sacrifice myself in order to save them.
Nearing the end of our trip, we chugged up the San Juan Mountains into Durango, Colorado; our Ford struggled mightily to pull the U-Haul trailer and seven bodies to an elevation of 6,512 feet. Daddy teased that we might need to get out and push the car the rest of the way to the motel.
Mercifully, it was the end of our driving day. I climbed out of the car and spread my arms, like the bald eagle flying overhead that Daddy had pointed out earlier. I inhaled the crisp mountain air. I had never seen a prettier place on earth. No wonder Mama loved it so. Nestled in a valley, Durango looked like a picturesque mining town, with a narrow-gauge railroad running between it and Silverton. The historic buildings lining Main Street made me feel as if we had stumbled into the Wild West.
Later, I climbed into bed with Vicki and Patricia.
“Tomorrow,” I told them, “we drive on the Million Dollar Highway.”
“Why’s it called that?” Patricia asked.
“’Cause it’s made out of money,” I said.
“Nuh-uh,” Vicki said and turned over to go to sleep.
Truth is, I wasn’t lying entirely. One story says the Million Dollar Highway cost a million dollars a mile to build; the other story alleges that the fill dirt for the highway contained a million dollars’ worth of gold ore. I liked the latter story better. When we stopped for breaks or to admire the vistas, I looked alongside the road to see if I could spot a gleaming nugget of gold. Grandpa Skinner had taught me well.
Our travels ended the next afternoon as we drove into Grand Junction. The Ford, dust-covered and bug-splattered, had made it. The Utah state line lay twenty miles to the west, where Daddy would end up working in the fields for weeks at a time. A semi-desert landscape surrounded us. In front of us was the largest flat-topped mountain in the world, the Grand Mesa.
Grand Junction lay in the valley between the mesas. Daddy and Mama located a tidy little rental house near enough for us to walk to our new school. But before our closets had a chance to get messy, Mama and Daddy moved us into yet another rental near the outskirts of town. It was far enough away that Vicki, Patricia, and I had to transfer to our third school that year.
Instead of feeling disappointed, I surprised Mama with my enthusiasm. She didn’t know I was happy to be leaving my fifth-grade teacher. He scared me. He had never done anything to me, never touched me, but several times he stood so close I could feel his body heat. I started shaking once and couldn’t stop until he backed away. When I felt his eyes following me, I wouldn’t look at him, because his gaze never felt teacher-like.
I practically skipped into my classroom in the new school. I liked my teacher immensely and buckled down to learn Colorado history, which had nothing to do with Davy Crockett and the Alamo. It wasn’t until two weeks later that my teacher said something about you sixth graders.
Confused, I raised my hand. “Is this fifth or sixth grade?” I asked in all earnestness.
“Sixth,” the teacher said, looking surprised.
Then I looked surprised. “I’m a fifth grader,” I told her.
She raised her eyebrows and quickly led me into the principal’s office, where we untangled the misunderstanding. Afterward, I walked behind the principal into a new class of fifth graders when I overheard someone whisper, “She’s the new girl.”
As the new girl, I didn’t know if I would have time left in the school year to make a new friend. But if I did make a friend, I wanted to invite her to play at our wonderful new house, which was the second reason I didn’t mind moving. When I saw the house for the first time, I could not believe our good fortune.
From the living room, your eye traveled to the treed backyard, sloping to a small stream, perfect for wading. The bedrooms were filled with light and breezes. Off the living room, in a sunny corner, was the most special alcove I had ever seen. Mama called it the library.
A library. It sounded like something Frankie Avalon might have in his house. Mama was an avid reader, yet we had only a handful of books, which filled little more than half a shelf. But still, I loved our library. A pair of floor-to-ceiling windows flanked the bookshelves, and sunlight streamed into the room.
I twirled round and round in the sunlight, thinking, We could live happily ever after here. I felt certain that whatever ailed our family could be cured under that very roof. Mama’s headaches and visits to Timbuktu, Daddy’s absences, our transience, all of it could be healed just by living in such a perfect house.
That first month, sprawled on the library floor, I was inspired to write a work of fiction that I unabashedly called The Lost City of Enchantment. I still have the yellowed, lined paper scrawled in pencil. The opening line reads “It was a nice day in May.”
I wanted to believe the Lost City of Enchantment existed, that it could be found if only one looked long and hard enough. It was a beautiful, magical place where trials were overcome, orphans found homes, and people stayed in one place.
Mama snapped a black-and-white photograph of our family during this time, in our backyard, not far from the creek. I cherished this photograph because it marked a time when I still believed in enchantment.
We pose in front of a tree, probably one of the cottonwoods. Vicki and I wear identical pleated skorts. As usual, Vicki’s hair is coiffed perfectly; mine looks as if it’s been combed with an egg beater. Vicki looks French, with her petite features and dark hair. Patricia, looking more like Mama than any of us, has her left hand resting lightly on Daddy’s shoulder. Daddy sports a crew cut; I think he smiles at Mama instead of the camera she is holding. I surmise he is glad to be home for the weekend. His white T-shirt, with rolled-up sleeves, tucks into his jeans. His gold wedding band glints on his left hand as he props Joni on his lap. I hold Brenda. My gaze travels off into the distance; maybe I am thinking how much I love this place.
THE DAY I learned we had to move again, I couldn’t catch my breath. My dreams of living happily ever after in our glass-slipper house shattered to the floor.
“Why?” I cried as I sank to my knees. “Why?”
Our house with the library was to be sold instead of rented.
“Can’t we buy it?” I wanted to know.
But, of course, we couldn’t. We barely had enough money to pay rent. From that day forward, I longed for us to buy a house of our very own, one that couldn’t be snatched away. I yearned for something sturdy and solid, made from bricks and mortar, something that could withstand all the huffing and puffing of life.
Suffused with melancholy, I again helped pack up our belongings. When I opened one of Mama’s drawers, I came across a new item—diet pills.
Mama began to pop the diet pills, both to feel good and to lose weight, though her twenty-six-year-old figure still turned heads. Amphetamines hadn’t been banned yet for weight loss. Doctors still prescribed them, unaware that continued use could make their patients paranoid and that withdrawal could trigger depression. In addition to the amphetamines, Mama was now taking barbiturates for her migraines. Her moods began to yo-yo. She became as hard to predict as the weather.
When Daddy was out of town and Mama in one of her fogs, I learned to fend for myself. And, being the oldest, I learned to fend for my sisters, too. Because if I didn’t, who would? It was around this time I came to realize a hard truth. Once your sisters begin looking up to you as if you really could save them from being poisoned—as if you know a way out of a dark cave—there’s no going back. You’ll draw your last breath trying to find that door to the Lost City of Enchantment, because you can’t bear to let them down.
OUR NEXT rental was short a library, but it did have, much to Patricia’s delight, a playhouse next door as well as a playmate Patricia’s age. These same neighbors also owned our rental house and had a daughter my age and a son four years older. Janet became my best friend and her brother, Landon, my first crush. Janet wrote in my autograph book (the same one that Frankie Avalon signed), “You are a very sweet
girl who likes a boy named Landon, a dumb brother.”
After we arranged our clothes in new drawers and closets, summer arrived. Mama seemed to perk up. One weekend when Daddy came home, Mama drove herself across the Rockies to visit her mother and her sister, Eunice, in Fort Morgan, Colorado. When Mama returned from her visit, she carried yet another box of clothes into the living room with my cousin Nancy in tow.
“Terry, you remember Nancy?”
I nodded. I remembered both Eunice and Nancy and our time together in the house with the tent bedroom, almost eight years earlier.
“Nancy’s going to stay with us for a while,” Mama said.
I studied Nancy. She was five months younger than I and about thirty pounds lighter. She looked like a beanpole with Bette Davis eyes. And she didn’t look happy.
I cleaned out part of a dresser drawer, where Nancy stacked her underwear.
Later, Mama called me into her bedroom and told me to sit down.
“Eunice isn’t doing well,” Mama said, fingering the beads on her white moccasins. “She’s drinking more and I’m worried about Nancy. She spends six days a week with the babysitter.”
I couldn’t understand why Aunt Eunice started drinking so young. I remembered a graduation photograph of her as class valedictorian. Why would a young woman as beautiful and smart as Aunt Eunice begin drinking so destructively by the time she graduated from high school?
Eunice, Mama said, had been blamed for causing their father’s death. Their mother had asked Eunice to babysit Mama, but Eunice refused. So their mother stayed home while their father went out. Later that night, their father fell to his death.
Instead of comforting Eunice, Grandma accused her. “If you had watched Carola like I asked, your dad would still be alive,” she said. “I wouldn’t have let him ride on the running board of that car.”
Moonlight on Linoleum Page 9
