by Lisa Tucker
I used to think Mama blamed me. For the longest time, whenever she got drunk, she would pressure me to tell her what I had been doing that must have distracted him. I was in second grade; even though I couldn’t think of anything to tell her, I was never really sure I was innocent.
I can’t remember how much she drank before he died, but I’ll never forget how hard she hit the bottle afterwards. At night, whenever I got up to get some water or go to the bathroom, I’d find her sprawled out on the couch, mumbling that she couldn’t bear to sleep in their bed. In the morning, she would cradle her head in her hands and yell at me for everything: for dressing too slowly, for letting my spoon clank against the cereal bowl, for leaving a spot of toothpaste foam on my lip. I guess she was happy sometimes, but only for fleeting moments and never when I needed her to be. I remember when I told her I got the lead in the sixth-grade play, she shrugged. I convinced myself she didn’t hear me, but I was careful not to say it again. I didn’t want to know if I was wrong.
She didn’t start throwing me out until I was twelve. The first time she told me to leave, I thought it was a joke. It was a strange night. I had just started my period, and Mama decided that she would drink to my “becoming a woman.” Every evening she had a reason for drinking, but this one was friendlier than most. I sat with her, I let her toast me. We ate saltines dipped in ranch dressing and talked about (but never cooked) supper. I remember how happy I was when she mentioned that I would have my first kiss before long.
I was chattering about boys at school, which ones might like me, which ones I thought were cute, when her mood started to change. She told me she didn’t want to hear any more about my social life, and poured herself another shot of whiskey.
After a while, she started talking about how she met Daddy. This was one of her favorite topics when she was drinking. I knew the whole story by heart. Daddy was with another girl when Mama met him at the warehouse where she was working then. Evelyn was the other girl’s name. This Evelyn was well liked and pretty; she had a good job as a supervisor. “But he didn’t end up with her, now did he?” Mama would say, and laugh. “I’m the one he married.”
I never really understood why Mama was so interested in Evelyn, but I always nodded along. One time, when I asked her where Evelyn was now, she said, “Working in a ditch, for all I care. Ten kids and no teeth. On welfare. Wrinkled up and ugly as a prune.”
Mama called herself ugly sometimes. I tried to tell her she was pretty, but she insisted that she was too short and too heavy to be pretty; her face was too square. She was twenty-nine when she married Daddy, an “old maid,” as she put it once. He was twenty-four, blond, and very handsome, everybody said so, according to Mama. They also said she was robbing the cradle, but she told them to get lost.
“I wasn’t robbing no cradle. That Evelyn was a slut, but hell, I was still a virgin when your daddy came along.”
I nodded, thinking that I would be a virgin until I was at least twenty-nine, hopefully longer. The whole sex business seemed more frightening than fun, especially on that day, when I was having my first period, and bad cramps to boot.
I could have listened to Mama discuss Daddy for hours. But after seven or eight drinks, she changed course and started in on her other favorite topic—all the sacrifices she’d had to make for me.
She’d worked full-time to put food on the table and clothes on my back. She’d taken care of me for twelve years almost by herself, because even when Daddy was alive he was gone six nights out of seven with his truck-driving job. She’d listened to my constant humming and whistling and singing and blabbing about my childish ideas. She’d put up with all my selfishness and ingratitude.
I always felt bad when she said these things, though I figured it was probably true. She had taken care of me. I was selfish sometimes, and loud, although I was trying so hard to be quieter. I thought if I could only be quiet, like she asked, then she wouldn’t get mad at me.
“Today you’re a woman though,” she said. “You can go out on your own. Then you’ll see what it’s like. You’ll see it isn’t easy as you think.”
She’d said today, but I had no idea that she meant this very minute until she stuffed the Tampax box in my backpack, “for the road,” she said. I had nowhere to go, and I told her so, repeatedly, but she ignored me.
“Everything is about you, you, you,” she said. “You’re the princess. Well, things have got to change.”
She threw the unzipped backpack outside, and when I ran out to get it, because I was worried about my homework blowing away, she locked and bolted the door.
A child with some pride would have walked away, but I wasn’t that child—yet. I banged on the door, begging and pleading and crying for her to let me in. When I saw one of the neighbors looking at me, I went around to the back door and started banging there. I must have done this for at least two hours before she finally relented. She was really plastered by that point. She thought it was funny, except when she was yelling at me for disturbing the Fowlers, who lived next door and had called her to complain.
Until I told Rick this story, I was sure what I’d done wrong would be obvious to anyone as soon as they heard what had happened. I felt this way about all my fights with Mama, actually. This is why I never told anybody about them. There had to be something I was doing, or why else did this keep happening?
To say Rick saw it differently is putting it mildly. He’d had his own experience living with an alcoholic; it was something we had in common. His mother was alone, too—his dad had disappeared when his youngest brother was a baby—and she’d been a drinker as long as he could remember. He was the oldest of five, and he had plenty of practice protecting his brothers and sisters from his mom’s rages. He wanted to protect me, too, but it was tough because I kept going back to Mama. I kept thinking I could fix things with her if only I tried a little harder.
Of course it’s all different now. Now she’s sober, and even though she and I have our problems from time to time, she’s always good to Willie. Sometimes I’m still surprised by how kind she is to my baby. It feels like a gift or even a miracle.
Willie and Irene are back from the pool; I’m helping him spoon out his slushy, when I glance back over at the couple on the blanket. They’re still so engrossed in each other that they don’t even look up when the lifeguard blows his whistle to empty out the pool for a safety check. They’re not going at it as heavily now, but somehow it’s even sexier, the way he’s tenderly touching her cheek, staring into her eyes, straightening out the strap of her purple bikini.
Rick bought me my first bikini. It was blue, my favorite color. The first time he saw me in it, he whistled until I blushed.
About a half hour later, when Irene suggests we leave so we have time to hit the store and still make it home before the guys, I say fine. She’s impatient to see Harry and find out how the concert went. I’m not eager to see any of them, but at least the stress in the trailer will distract me from my own mind.
I don’t miss Rick, but I miss being loved. This is what I’ve been telling myself at the pool each time I think about him. And this is what I always tell myself to explain why, after three years, I still dream about him.
None of the dreams are close to X-rated. Sometimes they’re headed in that direction—we’re kissing, taking our clothes off, touching each other—but something always happens to interrupt, as if my dreaming mind is determined to protect me from making a mistake and being with him.
I guess it’s not surprising that Willie is almost never in those dreams I have about Rick. Usually he doesn’t exist, but even when he does he’s off somewhere, and safe; I don’t have to think about him. The only time I dreamed about both of them was right after Rick came to Kentucky. It was a stupid dream—the three of us were in the Lewisville mall, shopping for training pants for Willie—but I still woke up in tears.
Foolish tears, I reminded myself. True, I grew up without a father and so did Rick, and true, it’s sad that Will
ie is growing up the same way. But there’s no alternative that I can see. Only a fool cries over what can’t be changed.
five
The store is crowded, and Irene needs all kinds of odd spices and fresh mushrooms, onions, tomatoes—she’s planning to make her special spaghetti for Harry and for the rest of us, too, she jokes, if we’re nice. When we make it to the trailer, the van isn’t there, but the Camaro is in the driveway, and parked in the street, a brand-new-looking truck. Probably a woman for Carl, I suggest, but Irene says no, the truck’s too expensive; it has to be a dealer. For the last few days, Carl and Dennis have been complaining that they need a hookup, they’re nearly out of weed.
Willie and Irene are still at the trunk of the Honda; he insisted on helping carry in the groceries. When I walk in the door and spot him, I blink a few times, like my eyes are the problem, not what they’re seeing. It is a deal, that part is true. The weed is spread out on a newspaper on the table, and there’s a scale and bags. The guys are coughing, smiling; obviously they’ve had a sample.
Dennis laughs. “Haven’t you ever seen a buy, Patty? God, you’re so sheltered.”
Irene is inside too now, standing at the door next to me, quickly trying to take this all in. She turns to Dennis. “Patty knows him, idiot. He used to be her boyfriend.”
“You’ve gone out with druggies?” Carl’s voice is sleepy, stoned. “This is a new side to you.”
Willie has put down his grocery bag, and now he’s looking at Rick. I wonder if he remembers seeing him in Kentucky. A minute later, I decide he must: why else would he go over and stand right in front of Rick?
“Hi,” he says, and his voice is shy, but he’s smiling his biggest, sloppiest smile. He’s still in his green swimming trunks; he didn’t want to change because the big kids told him dragons always wear green. He looks adorable with his little chest and his chubby stomach sticking out, his cheeks and nose sprinkled with new freckles.
Rick smiles too, reaches in his pocket, gets out his keys. “You want to look at this?”
The key ring is shaped like a lion’s head and glittering like gold. Of course Willie marches closer, sticks his hand out. Rick hands the keys to him, and at the same time, pulls Willie up on his lap.
I force myself to take deep breaths, stay calm. I flash to what Mama said about calling the cops if I see Rick and I almost laugh. Considering what Rick’s doing here, it’s impossible.
Jonathan always sits in the recliner where Willie and Rick are sitting; it looks strange to see them there instead. When I remember the van wasn’t in the driveway, I turn to Harry and ask where Jonathan is. Harry says he’s hanging with a local jazz reporter who came to the concert; he won’t be back for a while. This makes me more nervous, although I can’t imagine how Jonathan could solve this problem.
Irene says she has to put the groceries away. She asks if I want to help; I say no. I don’t want to leave the room, leave Willie. “Just for a minute,” she whispers.
I follow her into the kitchen but I keep looking back, glancing at Rick and Willie. Rick’s hand looks so big resting on Willie’s pink shoulders, but Willie seems happy, still absorbed in the key chain. Rick is talking to Carl about the possibility of getting them another ounce next week. He sounds like he does this kind of thing all the time, but I know he’s acting. What I haven’t figured out is why.
Rick used to call weed “baby load” and guys like Carl “peewee chippers.” He dealt drugs, true, but he wouldn’t consider peddling anything for under five hundred dollars; it was too small-time. This transaction can’t be more than a hundred, and yet here Rick is, sitting in a trailer in Omaha, putting on like the band is his most important customer, like all he wants is to please.
“What?” I ask Irene, as soon as we’re in the kitchen.
Her voice is low. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I. But what can we do?”
She leans against the counter. “I’m going to tell Harry he’s up to something.”
Before I can say I doubt that will help, Harry appears. He gives Irene a hug, tells her the concert went great. She asks him how they hooked up with Rick, and Harry says he came to the club; he’s a big jazz fan. I know this is crap. Rick rarely listened to any music. He said it broke his concentration.
While Irene is telling Harry that Rick could be dangerous— he’s Willie’s father, he’s got to be here for some reason—I’m peeking into the living room. Willie’s off Rick’s lap, but he’s still standing close to him. They’re arm wrestling, or at least Rick has his hand out, but Willie’s using his whole body trying to knock it down. Rick is smiling, saying, “Come on, show me what you’re made of.” He looks up, notices me watching. He stares into my eyes like he’s asked a question and he’s waiting for my answer. I quickly look away, move back into the kitchen.
Harry is laughing softly. He says he wasn’t born yesterday, he’s been around, he’d know if any shit was happening. Irene puts her hands on her hips and asks if he doesn’t think it’s odd Rick never mentioned he knew me. Harry shrugs. “I think he did say something about Patty. I don’t remember. We didn’t talk chicks, we talked music.”
I’m not surprised Harry is reacting this way. I’ve hung around the guys enough to know that they like dealers; they even like the idea of crime. To hear them talk, crime is like jazz: outside the mainstream, against society, cool, hip. They don’t have a clue what it’s really like.
Irene asks Harry to tell Rick to leave. He says he can’t do that, but Rick will leave soon anyway. “We just have to settle the finances.” He pulls her close, rubs her neck. “You’re so uptight, girl. Want a hit?”
Irene says no, somebody needs to keep their head together here. When she says she’s going to start dinner, I walk back into the living room, hoping Harry’s right, Rick’s about to go.
He isn’t, he’s still talking to Carl. Willie is over by the television now, running his fire truck by the baseboard. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention, but still, I don’t like him being any part of this.
I walk over to him, whisper, “Why don’t you go in our room, buddy? Set up all your cars on the bed, make a big traffic jam.”
“No,” he says loudly. “I stay with the big guys.”
“Please, baby. I’ll help you.”
He stands up reluctantly and drags his feet in there. As soon as I sit on the bed and start lining up the cars though, he gives me his whole-face smile and says he loves me “bigger than an elephant.” I reach out and pull him to my chest, hug him until he’s squirming to get away.
“Cars,” he reminds me.
For the next forty-five minutes, we play cars. The bedroom door is shut; I tell myself we’re fine, we’ll just stay in here until Rick leaves. I look out the window every few minutes, hoping I missed the sound and the truck has disappeared.
Finally, there’s a knock on the door. I assume it’s Irene giving me an update, but it isn’t.
“Your friend has dinner ready,” he says. Willie says “Yum,” and escapes before I can stop him.
Rick steps into my room, glances around. We look at each other for a minute before I whisper, “What are you doing here?”
He stares at me. “Helping out your band.”
“For real.” There’s a note of pleading I can’t keep out of my voice. “I don’t understand what’s going on. First Zeb shows up at the club and now this. What do you want?”
He comes so close I can see the little scar above his lip, a patch of stubble on his cheek he missed during his morning shave—but he doesn’t touch me. After a moment, he says, “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back, Patty. You know that, right?”
“But there’s nothing you can do,” I say, looking at the wall behind him. “I told you it was over; I told you—”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he says. “I remember exactly what you told me.”
Before I can say another word, he’s turned around, walking to the door.
I stand for
a minute, thinking or trying to, until an alarm goes off. Willie. I have to go out and see what he’s doing.
He’s already climbed into his booster seat. He tells Irene he’s hungry, then he says, “Feed me, Eeyore,” and grins. He’s heard Harry tell Irene, “Feed me, Seymour”—a line from one of their favorite movies. Willie grins because he knows Irene will crack up; she always does when he says this.
When Irene gives him a plate of spaghetti, I sit down next to him and start cutting it up. She’s the only one in the kitchen; she says Carl and Dennis are outside, and Harry is waiting for her in their room. They’re going to eat on the floor, alone, to share this special meal. Irene even bought plastic wineglasses for the occasion.
I mouth the word Rick and she points to the living room. “I gave him spaghetti,” she whispers, and shrugs. “He said it smelled good. What could I do?”
She doesn’t ask if I want some, she just fills my plate. I’m way too tense to eat, but I thank her and take a bite, tell her it’s delicious. Then she’s off to eat with Harry, and Willie and I are alone, but not for long. Rick comes in and, without saying anything, sits down on Willie’s other side. Willie says hi and tells Rick about the pool where he got to be a dragon and all the other kids were scared of him because he roared so loud.
“Let me hear you roar,” Rick says.
Willie does, and spits a chunk of chewed-up spaghetti on the floor. Rick laughs, surprises me by leaning over and wiping it up with his napkin.
I’m still holding my fork, but it’s useless. There’s no way I can eat now.
For the rest of the meal, I watch Rick talk to Willie. Rick is used to kids, I’d forgotten that. He even took care of his sister’s baby one weekend when she was trying to chase down the baby’s dad. He asks Willie questions, but not in the forced friendly way a lot of grown-ups do, and when he tells Willie something, he takes his time and emphasizes the part most likely to be interesting to a kid. Willie is in heaven when Rick describes his brand-new red truck that goes 140 miles an hour. When Rick says he’d like to see some of Willie’s toy trucks, Willie gets up so fast he knocks his booster seat to the floor.
