by Lexi Whitlow
“EMT’s are here,” one of the cop says to me. “They’re gonna check you and the boy out.”
I know the routine. Unless you’ve got a bullet wound or a knife stuck in your head, they call it a “verbal altercation” and write it off.
Joe punched me hard in the ribs twice, then kicked me across the kitchen. When Justin tried to intervene – the first time he ever has – Joe threw him against the wall and went after him. He would have hurt him if I hadn’t grabbed his feet and tripped him. When the cops got here, Joe was on top of me, slapping me over and over with an open hand. My face feels like a hornet’s nest just lit it up.
“I’m gonna kill that bitch and her shithead bastard too! That little shit isn’t my kid! He’s a damn mama’s boy!” Joe screams while the neighbors outside look on.
“Could you guys shut him up?” I ask the cops while an EMT pokes my ribs. “His son shouldn’t have to hear it.”
Another EMT, a young woman, inspects the knot on the back of Justin’s head and the bruise on his shoulder. She checks Justin’s eyes and his reflexes, then gives me an awkward smile. “If you have insurance, you should take him in for an x-ray,” she says. “If not, I think it’s just a bump. Keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours to make sure there are no neurological changes or alterations in behavior.”
Joe’s still raising hell outside when one of the cops comes over to us, crouching down in a squat in front of me. I know him. He’s been here before. He’s a big guy with a buzz cut and pale eyes he levels on me.
“You have any family or friends you can go stay with?” the EMT asks.
I shake my head. The only family I’ve had since my parents were killed is my grandfather, and he died two years ago.
He nods with resignation, taking a breath. “So, here’s the thing,” he begins, speaking in a low voice. “Social Services has been alerted and at some point today you’re going to get a visit. It’s the fourth time you’ve hit their dance card this year, and that makes people look up. You know what’ll happen if they determine you can’t keep Justin safe, while you’re at work, when Joe comes around drunk again, or whatever. I had a look in the fridge and it looks pretty spare in there. None of this looks good.”
I can’t fathom what he’s saying to me. “They can’t take my kid,” I tell him. “I’m a good Mom. This isn’t my fault. I have a restraining order against him. He’s drunk.”
The cop nods. “I understand. I’m just telling you what I know. I’m giving you a heads-up so you have time to do what you need to do.” He clenches his jaw tight, then takes another deep breath. “Do you have any money? For a hotel or something? Or a road trip?”
“Not a lot,” I say, feeling my voice fade. I’ve got nowhere to go.
He nods. “Okay,” he says. “We’re gonna get Joe out of here, take him downtown and process him. I’ll be back in a few minutes to talk and then we’ll clear out.”
The EMT’s leave Justin and me, packing their gear, moving on to the next crisis. Three of the four police cars in front of the house pull off, one of them with Joe handcuffed in the back seat. While a young cop sits in the driver’s seat of the last patrol car remaining, the big cop comes back inside.
“You seem like a decent person,” he says, his tone grim. “But shitty things happen to decent people.”
I hadn’t noticed when he came in that his hand was closed in a tight fist. I see it as he leans forward, dropping a square of folded bills on the table in front of me.
“Take my advice,” he says, “which is offered off the record and will be denied if asked about it. Get out of the state. Go as far as you can. Start over. Don’t look back. Guys like that don’t stop until they’ve killed somebody. I’ve been to too many places like this where I had to secure a homicide scene. I don’t want to come back here.”
A knot draws the pit of my stomach tight. Another chokes my throat.
My grandfather died two years ago. The only thing he had in the world was an old RV camper he took meticulous care of. I’ve managed to hide it from Joe all this time by moving it around Wal-Mart parking lots out in the suburbs. I knew if Joe found out about it, he’d make me sell it. I never knew until now why I kept it. Now, I understand. It and the money the cop has given us are going to afford me and Justin a second chance.
As soon as the last police cruiser pulls away, I start making lists in my head of what to take and what to leave behind. I cram Justin’s clothes into his school backpack along with his birth certificate and my paperwork. I grab his baby booties from the mantle just because I’m a sentimental sap, shoving them in a side pocket. There aren’t many photographs of him, but I take the few I have, sliding them into an old envelope for safekeeping.
“Where are we going, Mom?” Justin asks with concern, watching me spin around the apartment.
“Somewhere warm,” I tell him. It’s April here, and there’s still snow on the ground. April is supposed to be springtime, but it feels like the dead of winter outside. “Somewhere sunny,” I say. “Where you can go swimming, and play, and it’s safe.”
Southside Indianapolis isn’t safe. Not while Joe is around. This whole place is just a mirror of him—dangerous, cold, and isolating.
That’s half of what’s wrong with his father; he grew up right here in this neighborhood, mixing it up with pimps and drug dealers. When I met him, I had no idea what he came from. He was working at the Toyota Plant in Marion, earning forty dollars an hour on the assembly line. It was a great job with a union contract and benefits. We went out on Friday nights for sushi and beer and went to the movies on weekends. That was a long time ago, before the factory closed and moved to Mexico. That was before Joe turned to feeling sorry for himself and blaming everyone else because he couldn’t find another job. He took to going to the bar instead of looking for work. Then he just stayed home and stayed drunk.
Once upon a time I thought I loved him and he loved me, but the only thing Joe loves is his booze – and breaking my heart. I sold my diamond engagement ring six months ago to pay the rent. I’ll sell my wedding ring when we’re on the road. I’m done with fairytales. I’m done with counting on anyone. From here on out, it’s Justin and me and a brand-new start.
“Wow, Mom. Lookit that,” Justin croons, peering up at the craggy peaks lofting above the roadside beyond our windows.
I’m struggling, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles have turned white, trying to keep this 20-foot long RV between the lines with big rigs passing on my left, flying by like this highway through the Smokies is the Autobahn. I’m too scared to look up.
“Are there mountains in Beaufort?”
“Nope,” I reply, checking my rearview, hoping I’m not causing too much of a traffic jam with my tentative driving. “No mountains. No snow. Plenty of sun and sand and ocean.”
“I like the mountains,” he says, taking in the view. “But I’ve never seen the ocean. That’ll be cool.” He shrugs like only a seven-year-old can shrug. I’ve left my whole world behind, but Justin is on an adventure.
I’ve only seen the ocean once; when I was a kid, when my parents were still alive. We went on a family vacation to Hilton Head. We stayed at a hotel on the beach and raced go-carts at an amusement park at night. We played in the surf and I built sand castles. We got in the car and drove country roads all over, taking in the scenery with wonder.
The only place I can still recall clearly from that trip is Beaufort. I remember it being the prettiest little town in the world, with big old houses and moss wrapped trees, and the best seafood I’ve ever tasted. We sat on a dock by the water watching the fishing boats come in, and we ate fresh shrimp and oysters, fried and steamed right out in the open, served to us on brown paper in baskets by locals who talked funny, but who always smiled when we paid. They said, “Thank you. Ya’ll enjoy it and come back soon.”
I never got to go back, until now.
We left Indy yesterday and drove until I was so tired I couldn’t see the road
in front of me. I pulled the RV into a welcome center just across the Tennessee line and caught a few hours sleep in the back of the camper with Justin snuggled in my arms. We didn’t make it even close to half way, but we didn’t get an early start either. This morning I made sure Justin and I both had a good breakfast. We gassed up in Knoxville, bought some road food, and have been driving about three hours. If everything goes well, we’ll be in Beaufort before dark. I’d like to show Justin a real, coastal sunset—the kind you see in magazines and think they can’t be real. I’ve seen them. I know they’re real. I remember that much.
“I need to pee, Mom.” Justin says, cutting his eyes my way.
I glance over at him. “Then go pee,” I say. “I’m not pulling off here. There’s a potty in the back. It’s a camper.”
He glares. “It’s gross,” he says, and I wonder how my kid became so fastidious, living most of his life in a bug infested, broken down duplex, occasionally creeping with mice.
Granddad’s camper is clean; a lot cleaner than our place on Madison Avenue, with its shoddy plumbing, no yard, facing the highway. When we get to Beaufort, I want to get Justin a place with a yard that has grass he can play on so he can be a regular kid and not caged like an animal. Joe never gave a shit about stuff like that. The place on Madison was cheap and didn’t ask for a credit check. If we hadn’t gotten it, we would have been homeless. I guess I should be grateful for small blessings.
I pull over for gas again a little bit after we pass by The Biltmore Hotel outside of Asheville, North Carolina. The air here is fresh and fragrant with pine, and so much warmer than Indiana. Even the truck stops are cleaner, but the gas is more expensive, which sucks because it costs seventy bucks every time I fill up. I’m burning through our cash fast.
When we cross the South Carolina line I feel like we’ve made it, even though there are still hours to go. The landscape is beautiful and green, sun-drenched, with rich farmland and dense woods. It’s not like the farms in Indiana where a single field of corn stretches for miles in every direction, with the wind ripping at the stalks, making them grow sideways. Everything here is smaller, a little wilder, and prettier by far.
Another hour down the road Justin wakes from a catnap, looking around at the transformed landscape.
“Mom, it looks really… different… here,” he says, squinting against the sun, shading his eyes.
We’ve just pulled onto I-95 South, moving fast in heavy traffic. This far east the landscape becomes monotonously flat, thick with spindly pines. My eyes are tired of looking at the back ends of semi’s, and my legs are cramping from driving so long, but I’m determined to keep going as long as I can before stopping for a bathroom break and to stretch my legs.
That chance comes faster than I thought it would when I see a big green sign pointing toward an exit for Highway 17 and Beaufort, South Carolina. Not much further.
Joe is almost 800 miles away from us, probably just getting out of jail, and thinking of coming by the apartment to apologize. When he gets there, he’s not going to find us. He’ll never find us. He has no idea I even know where South Carolina is. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a clue it even exists.
I pull over at a Wendy’s and park it, my calves begging for a break, head throbbing from road weariness and dehydration. It’s downright hot and muggy in this flat little interstate strip of a town, without much shade to escape the glare and searing sunshine. Justin jumps out, running for the restroom inside the restaurant. I wish I had his energy. I’m beat, and the day is getting away. The dashboard clock says it’s two-fifteen. We’ve been on the road since seven this morning.
I promised Justin a real meal as soon as we got off the highway, and Wendy’s will do; especially since the air-conditioning is cool.
After ordering our burgers and sodas, I ask the girl behind the counter how far it is to Beaufort.
“Half an hour,” she says. “Ain’t far. Traffic’s light today.”
Her accent is strange; tinged with a southern drawl but piqued with something singular I can’t place.
“Where y’all from?” she asks, filling our sodas, gathering our fries. “Pennsylvania? We get a lot of folks from Pennsylvania.”
I shake my head, surprised by her inquiry.
“Your boy’s adorable,” she goes on, as if she’s known me forever. “That fair skin. You make sure you use plenty sunscreen on him. I see y’all Yankees getting burned up every season. Don’t let him blister up in the sun.”
“I won’t,” I say.
She places our burgers on the tray, smiling up at me. “Be sure to get some good seafood while you’re here. The best place in Beaufort is a little dive on Bay Street called Flo’s. It’s where the locals go.”
“Good to know,” I say, smiling awkwardly. “We’ll check it out.”
“Thanks,” she says, still smiling warmly. “Y’all enjoy it and come back soon.”
I remember the people being so kind when I was a kid. I didn’t remember wrong.
“That lady was nice,” Justin says, his eyes smiling as we find a booth, settling into our burgers. “Why was she so nice?”
I shrug, smiling at him. “I think people are nicer here,” I say. “Maybe because it’s so warm and green and a good place to live.”
He bites his burger, chewing fast, half-swallowing. “That’s cool,” he says. “I think I like it here.”
I swallow hard.
I haven’t forgotten how to cry, and I haven’t run out of tears. I try to hold them back, but they leak from my eyes against my will. I want people to be nice to my kid. I want him to like where he lives. I want everything for him, but all I have is a twenty-year old camper van and a few hundred bucks.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Justin says, awkwardly putting his hand on mine. “We’ll be okay. It’s so nice here, we can sleep in the RV and never even get cold. We have everything we need.”
He’s trying to console me, which isn’t his job. He’s only seven, and I’ve just dragged him away from the only home he’s ever known, and he’s trying to make me feel better.
“For a while,” I say, composing myself. “We’ll only be in the RV for a little while. I’ll get a job, and then we’ll get a nice place with a yard and some grass.”
We’re not back on the road long before the landscape shifts again; this time dramatically, as if we’re skirting off the edge of the continent.
“Woah! Look at that. That’s so cool! What is that?” Justin cries, sitting up as the road gives way to a causeway then a bridge and a wide open, marshy scene of green sea grasses, pristine aquamarine water, and an azure blue sky overhead scattered with puffy, silver clouds. The air smells of salt and fish, compost, and living things. It’s the best smell I’ve ever known. It brings back memories of vacationing with my parents and the freedom I felt playing in the salt water, digging in the mud for clam’s people said lived in the silt. I never could find one, but I always believed they were there.
“Can you swim in that?” Justin asks as we pass over the estuary, landing on the other side on an island of green pastures and homes built deep inside dense, forested lots. We can’t see water from here, but we can still smell it. It’s never far from us as we drive on toward our destination.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But there are plenty of places to swim down here. We’ll find some. You’ll see.”
It’s not long before we see water again; lots of it. Beaufort is just how I remembered it, only better. Lush trees canopy the streets, shading the way through town, and big, ancient houses look out over the bay, their colorful columns and deep porches beckoning. I don’t know the first thing about architecture, but I know these houses are older than anything I’ve ever seen. I’d do almost anything to get to ramble through just one of them.
I have enough common sense to know that the people who live in those beautiful old houses are nothing like me and Justin, and I know we’ll never live in a house like any of these, but it’s still something just to be
this close and get to see them in all their grandeur.
“Hey Mom! It’s the place the Wendy’s lady told us about!” Justin calls, pointing out a big, pink painted, double porched house on the bay side of the road.
Sure enough, a carved wooden sign out front advertises “Flo’s Bar, Seafood, & etc. Come on in, hang your hat, and stay awhile.” Just below the sign is tacked another, smaller sign with block letters in orange and black; “Help Wanted.”
I hit the brakes, hoping no one is behind us, veering into the dusty parking lot beside the house.
“Are we eating again?” Justin asks, perking brightly.
I shake my head, pulling the RV under a grove of moss-hung trees near the back, right on the water. “No, sweetie. There’s a help wanted sign out front and I’m going to go see if I can land a job.”
I check my hair in the rearview while straightening my t-shirt. I look like shit from traveling, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“You stay here,” I tell Justin. “Don’t get out and don’t talk to anyone. I won’t be long.”
“Mom, it’s hot out here,” he complains.
“It’s okay under the trees,” I say. “Stay here. This is super-important, and I need you to be patient and stay put.”
The air-conditioning is cool and bracing when I step inside the front door. The place is almost empty, which I am guessing is normal for a Thursday afternoon. There’s music playing loudly on an overhead sound system; something vaguely country I don’t recognize. Every wall and flat surface in the place, except the bar and table tops, are covered with hats of every design and description.
…hang your hat and stay awhile.
They take their slogan seriously, or at least the patrons do.
A big, red-haired, bearded man with muscles and a dark tan is prepping the bar, stacking glasses, and shoving small plastic bins filled with sliced fruit around. He looks up as I approach, giving me a solid once over, head to toe.
“What can I get you?” he asks, laying down a paper coaster with “Flo’s” imprinted on its face.
