She takes my hand and yanks. “I had an idea you’d be on a run—you idiot!” She whacks my shoulder and backs into the tent. Her hands shoot to her hips. “Stop doing this!”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t get you. You’re always leaving me!”
“Wait a minute. You were with the Watkinses,” I say, and zip the tent behind me. “I was the one who woke up alone by the fire, well, except for Persephone. She saw me leave. Figured you were sleeping.”
“Next time you disappear until three A.M. maybe tell me! I thought we had some level of trust.”
“We do! I didn’t think you’d care if—”
“Oh, I don’t care, huh? I blew off Amber for you. That doesn’t mean anything?” Her eyes widen and narrow and my gaze drops.
“You did do that for me,” I say.
“And it was really scary, too!”
“I bet.”
It was quiet.
“But you’re okay?” I ask.
Naomi’s voice softens. “I’m okay, you?”
“Yeah, I just saw—yeah.”
The flashlight is out, and it’s black in the tent. We settle down and I feel Naomi’s warm breath on my neck.
After my run, I’m comfortable. And free. My mind wanders and my mouth loosens, and before I can stop it, the hinge falls off my jaw.
“So, what do you think your baby is, boy or girl?”
Without a word, Naomi jumps off the mattress and disappears into the night.
“Hey!” I call. “It popped out.” I plop back down, whisper, “Just wondered if you could tell somehow.”
I rise and step out. I circle the tent and spot a shadow pacing on the other side of the RV.
I tiptoe over. “Naomi.”
She charges nearer. “What do you want from me?”
I have no good answer for that.
“What are you trying to do? Asking me that . . .” Her body fights itself again, part of it starts to run, part lifts a fist to whack me. I cover my shoulder.
“I was curious. I wasn’t trying to make you crazy about whatever I made you crazy about.”
“Like I don’t feel stupid enough. Like I need another thing to feel guilty about. We’re lying there and for once I don’t feel like dirt. Because I’m not thinking of the baby or never holding my own child.” She stomps her feet and gives a disgusted scream.
“Okay,” I say. “I never meant—”
“I mean, it’s only this big.” She pinches her thumb and forefinger together. “So why do I feel like trash? Some family will be ecstatic to have it, right? But for me it’s a dream killer!” Her voice raises, and I’m sure the whole camp hears. I step back. She steps forward and sticks her finger in my chest.
“I don’t want to think about it anymore. I don’t want to care about it anymore. I mean, before he left, Andrew called it garbage!”
I close my eyes—Old Bill’s voice roars in my head.
“You piece of garbage. Ungrateful twitchy garbage. My money buys you food, clothes, and you can’t even work the machine.” Bob and Joe jumped out of Old Bill’s cement truck. Joe ran toward my stepdad, laid a hand on his shoulder. “The kid can’t help it.”
“You believe that? See how still he is now?” My shoulder twitched. “Stop it, dammit!” Bill slapped me across the face, and I choked back tears.
“I’m trying. Please. I’m trying to pour straight.” My shoulder sprang again. Another slap. Blood oozed from my nose.
“Enough, Bill!” Joe jumped between us, put his hands on Bill’s shoulders, and eased him back.
“You’re right on that.” Old Bill spit. “I’ve had enough. Go home, you nothing.”
I turned and let tears flow.
“Never forget that!” Old Bill called, “You’re a nothing!”
“And I have to believe him, that it’s a nothing. Because I can give away a nothing.” Naomi paces. “A nothing that for some reason hurts my heart like a big something. Do you hear me?”
“No, Bill,” I whisper. “That’s a lie.”
“A what?” Naomi hollers.
“Piece of garbage, a nothing.” I look at Naomi.“That’s a lie.”
Naomi steps back, surprised, and covers her mouth with a shaking hand. She stands there like a statue, and then collapses into my arms.
“Oh God,oh God!” She pushes me, and we rock back and forth. “It’s real. It thinks, it feels—Sam?”
I gather her closer and hold tight. Her body goes limp, and I gently lower to the ground. Leaning against my chest, she sobs and tries to rock, but I sit firm.
“Do you think it knows my voice?” Naomi asks.
One last sob shakes her frame, and I lift her chin, look into her face.
“Let’s get you inside.”
Her arms shoot up around my neck. I’m not going anywhere. She hums, stops, whispers, “Just hold me.”
We both sleep in—way in. Luke and Brutus race around our tent, and I get to my feet. Luke must hear me move.
“Hey, Sam!” Luke can’t speak quietly, and it sounds even louder now. “Gonna get up today?”
I join him outside.“Yeah.” I shield my eyes from the sun and blink until I can see. “Wow.”
Mountains, star-eaters the previous night, are beautiful in the morning.
“Ma said to let you sleep,” Luke says.
“Nice of you not to.” I tousle his hair, pause with my hand on his head. I’ve never tousled anyone and it feels really adult, but it also feels good, so I do it again.
“I’m going on a short walk.” I kneel down, look at Luke square. “This is really important. When Naomi wakes up, tell her I’ll be right back. Tell her I’m walking.” Luke doesn’t pay attention. I grab his shoulders.
“Can you do that?” I ask. “I’m not running, I’m not leaving, I’m walking.”
“What?” He’s blank-faced.
Oh well, I’ll make it a quick walk.
“I did something!” Naomi greets me with a hug.
“You barbecued the Watkinses’ dog.”
She whacks me on the shoulder again. It jumps and aches.
“No, dummy.” She pulls me inside the tent. “I made breakfast—wait, what’s that smell?”
I point at the cast-iron skillet resting directly on the air mattress. The smell of burned rubber overpowers.
Naomi jumps toward the pan and raises it. Gooey strings of melted rubber look like taffy.
“Best eat outside, you think?” I say.
“You could help here!”
I grab the ruined mattress, toss it through the flap, and nod toward fresh air. We walk out and plunk down at a nearby picnic table.
“What was it?”
“Can’t you tell?”
I look through the rubbery smoke that rises from the rim of the skillet. Maybe eggs. Possibly bacon. The third clump is a mystery.
Naomi looks at me, waits.
“Was a nice thought.” I shrug, grin.
She glances down, frowns, and stares at me. “It was a nice thought!”
“Absolutely!” I agree.
“One of the nicer things I could have attempted, really.” She stands and walks around to my side of the table.
“More I think of it, the nicer it gets.” I say, and rise to meet her.
Again, Naomi hugs me. “You smell smoky.” She presses into me, and I tingle. It’s a good tingle. “Not that I mind.”
I awkwardly squeeze in return. She nuzzles into my neck.
“Do you know that you know everything about me?” Her voice comes from inside my head.
My hands grasp her waist and pull her nearer.
“Uh, no.” I glance at the sky. I’m losing my bearings. “I don’t know your middle name.”
“Lani.” Her lips brush my ear, and I’m out of breath.
“And your dad’s name.”
“Will.”
Something gentle shifts beneath my shirt.
My mind rolls as my hands work up her back.
/> “What would you name the baby—if you kept it?”
All movement stops.
Name of the baby? Twice stupid, Sam!
I wait for Naomi to tense—for her to remove those hands from my stupid skin. For another shoulder slug.
But she stays. She turns her head to the side and presses into my chest. “Last night was the first time I thought about it.”
“Forget it, dumb question.”
She pulls away, takes my hand, and squeezes.
“It’s not so dumb.” Naomi takes a deep breath. “You really don’t hate me?”
I shake my head.
She nods and scuffs the dirt. “Kids have names, don’t they?”
I shrug. “Never met one who didn’t.”
chapter forty
I NAME NAOMI’S BABY JESS. NOT OUT LOUD, BUT IN my mind. It’s none of my business and I’m not the father, but I hate thinking of the kid as an it. It sucks to change hands and lose your names, but being an it must feel even worse. Besides, Jess is one of those good names that goes both ways.
Probably, Jess will be good-looking, like Naomi. Smart, too. And the odds of Tourette’s are slim.
I think about this, take down the tent, and return it to the office.
Naomi leans against the car. I walk back toward her and stop. She could raise Jess. She needs to. ’Cause I can’t bear to think of that kid as messed up as I was.
“Where are you, Sam?” she asks.
I blink and see Naomi and almost say something dumb like “I was inside of you.” But I clear my throat and move nearer.
“Thinking about Jess.” Even dumber.
She frowns. “Who is that—” She must figure it out, because she falls silent, approaches, and lays her head on my shoulder.
Things are different now between the two of us. Gentler, I guess. I know she’s not going anywhere, and she knows it, too.
“Jess.” She repeats it quietly. “It’s a nice name.”
“Think so?” I ask.
There is silence, and I stroke her head. She grabs my hand and gazes at me.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No. Stop asking that.”
“Why aren’t you?”
I jerk my shoulder, and her head bounces.
“Guess because you’re still here,” I say. She hugs me. I look beyond at tumbleweeds as they skip along the campsite and close my eyes.
I see Dad, the one I never knew. Again, I follow, call after him.
“Are you mad at me? I need to know.”
He looks over his shoulder, his face sad.
“No. Stop asking that.”
We say good-bye to the Watkinses.
Kids surround us and Persephone covers us with kisses.
“Albie wants to talk to you. Go on into the RV.”
I frown and twitch.
“Go on,” she says.
I climb the steps and slip inside. Albie sits in the driver’s seat and I plunk into the other captain’s seat.
“We’re leaving,” I say.
“Where to?”
“My map says Las Vegas.” I’ve seen pictures of the town. Vegas looks neon and feels thin and hollow and for the first time on the trip I miss Pierce. I wonder about Mom, wonder why I only wonder about her. As if she’s someone I read about in a magazine.
“I need to make a call,” I whisper, “Do you have a cell?”
Albie glances down at the cup holder where a phone rests.
“Could I borrow it?”
Again, he looks at the phone.
I nod. “Okay.”
I walk into the bathroom, shut the door, and stare at the keypad. I feel jittery, as if I’ve escaped from prison and am about to return. I enter my number and stare at the send button. I delete, reenter, and stare some more. Breathing deeply, I close my eyes, press send, and hope for voice mail. It rings.
“Hello?”
Mom’s greeting sounds tired, and suddenly I’m tired, too, and slump against the side of the bathroom. I don’t know how to act or how I should sound.
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Oh, Sam.” She sounds relieved. It’s quiet on both ends. We listen to each other say nothing. She sniffs and clears her throat, lowers her voice. “You’re okay. Everything’s okay?”
“Yeah. I’m heading for Las Vegas. I’m fine.”
“Las Vegas? What are you doing there? Are you alone?” She pauses. “Lots of people have been worried.”
I doubt that. I think of where Mom stands in the farmhouse, how she leans against the refrigerator. She wears a yellow apron, and her fingertips are pruny, so likely she has me tucked between her shoulder and ear. I stop picturing and can’t remember her questions.
“Well, I thought I should check in—”
Mom interrupts. “Don’t come home. Not yet. Don’t come near here.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, or what happened to our friendly conversation.
I hear Old Bill’s holler and Baby Lane’s cry.
“Please, Sam. I have to get off the phone.”
“What’s going on? What’s Old Bill doing?”
“Las Vegas,” Mom whispers. “Your father and George worked on a windmill near there. James wanted me to see it.” She starts to cry. “I promised him we’d go when you got older. And then he was gone.”
Old Bill’s louder now—near the sofa.
“You could go now, for us,” she says.
“I think I am.”
“Who you talking to, Lydia?” Old Bill’s grainy voice comes clear through the receiver.
“I love you, Jack.” Mom hangs up.
I don’t want to picture Pierce anymore, don’t want to hear Old Bill holler or Lane scream. I never want to go back to that town again.
I exit the bathroom and carry the phone up to Albie. He doesn’t take his eyes off the dashboard, but gestures with his head toward the empty seat beside him.
“What she say?” It’s the second time Albie has spoken to me. Throws me off.
“Who?”
“Your mom.”
“How’d you know I called her?”
Albie adjusts his glasses and says nothing.
“She doesn’t want me to come home,” I say.
He looks at me. Albie’s sleepy eyes look like they already know what I should know.
“What’s she scared of?” he asks.
“I got Tourette’s.”
He waits for more.
“Old Bill, that’s my stepdad, hates it. I embarrass him and lately, when he gets mad, it’s not pretty.”
“Nope. That ain’t it.”
I tongue the inside of my cheek.“Don’t know what else she’d be worried about. I’ve never gotten in Old Bill’s face before.”
Albie looks at me. “Would you now?”
I’m quiet.
“Oh, that it all right.” He chuckles. “Was your dad a good man?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.” I pause, and run my hand through my hair. “I’m startin’ to see him. When I jog or sit and think. Like he’s here, you know?”
Albie smiles.
“But he’s dead,” I say.
“Sounds like he was waitin’ for the right time to show up.”
I think about George, who lived two miles from me for eighteen years, about Farkel, seven miles the other way. Naomi, in another world. They all showed up at the same time.
“Maybe. But Mom sounds bad. Old Bill was hollering, Lane was crying, she was crying. Think she needs me to head home.”
“Listen to your mama, son. She’ll take care of herself. She tell you anything else?”
“She wants me to see something Dad built. It’s our next stop.” Sigh. “Just hope that one’s still there.”
chapter forty-one
HOURS OF NOTHING LULL MY BRAIN AND BODY into a partial coma, and we drive through the day without seeing another vehicle.
The engine grating is back, and I don’t know if she’ll make Vegas. Heat and distance will ag
ain leave us stranded on the road. Naomi must hear it, too, but if she does, she pretends not to worry.
“What’s this place called?” she says.
I unfold the map. “Keegan Gardens.”
“Gardens? Out here?”
I shrug and puff out air.
The Chev gasps, too, but hours later, the car surprises and we reach the city.
I pull into Conoco and make a few adjustments under the hood. Then I ask the Conoco man for directions to a garden, and he points me toward the Millennial Casino.
Minutes pass, and we pull into the parking lot and scoot out of the car. Naomi hops back in and fires her up.
“Where you going?” I yell, surprised.
“This dad stuff. Take some time and get it out of your system. I’ll come back this afternoon.”
Dad stuff?
I watch Naomi back up and make a slow turn. She presses her hand against the glass, smiles, and shrinks in the distance.
“Okay.” I face east. Sun glints off the hundreds of cars in the lot. I shield my eyes and squint. I don’t see a garden, but a windmill pokes up a few rows from me. I’ve seen it before. An exact copy stands in George’s Garden Bowl.
I weave through cars, reach the mill. It’s working. Blades circle freely.
“Hey, Dad.”
Chained to its base are two rusted red chairs—shin bangers.
“Good to see you again, George.”
I set a chair upright and plop down. I lean back and think of my friend and the garden that probably was once here and Polaroid cameras. It feels safe.
Until I hear them—graders, levelers, cement mixers. I know each by the sound of their engines, and I want to vomit.
“What are you bustin’ up now, Old Bill?”
It’s not my stepdad. I know that. But it’s his type of business and that’s close enough. I hate what was once my inheritance.
I stand, reach out, and touch the mill. White flecks crumble and fall to the ground.
But it works.
“I’m here. Sorry it took so long to get here. I’m sorry for everything.” The mill slows as if listening to me.
“Mom can’t come. But she wants to, I think. With Old Bill around, don’t know if she ever will.”
I sit in the parking lot, put my feet up on the mill, and talk to both Dad and George. I don’t hear anything back, but it feels good to be near them and I blab on.
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