Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  She picked up her bedroll, noticing the new muddy smudge. No big deal, though. She walked over to the sunroom door and tugged on the handle.

  Locked. They’d wedged a security bar in the track too.

  Peeking through the blinds, Mel scanned the dark room. Even in the dim light, she could tell the rattan furniture had new cushions in a tropical print. Magazines covered the low table, same as always, and houseplants stood against the low walls below the windows.

  She loved that room, especially when all the windows were open. It had been the only room in the house where she could breathe. Where she didn’t feel suffocated.

  After checking the windows and confirming she couldn’t sneak in without breaking something, she dragged one of the plastic deck chairs under the wide overhang of the roof in case another storm blew in. She wiped the seat dry with her hand, then unzipped her sleeping bag and spread it over the chair. She patted her shirt pocket to make sure her treasure was safe, then sat, pulling the sleeping bag around her and drawing the jacket’s hood over her head.

  Her folks wouldn’t see her when they pulled in, but she would hear them. Hiding in the backyard was better than waiting on the front porch where the neighbors would see her and start gossiping again.

  Now that she’d stopped moving, she ached all over. And her feet and ankles were like ice. She’d give anything for jeans that covered her ankles. Dry socks. Shoes that weren’t smashed and filthy.

  A freezing wind blew through the yard, reminding her how cold Noble could get. She pulled the sleeping bag tighter, but it didn’t help.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to pretend she was back in her own room. The room Grandpa John had helped her paint in a soft blue when she was fourteen.

  “Same color as my car, almost,” he’d said.

  “No, it’s my car,” she’d said, poking his shoulder to make him laugh.

  “Yes, sweetie, it’ll be your car someday,” he’d said.

  Grandpa John was the only person she’d never doubted. Because he’d never doubted her. He’d always believed the best about a person.

  When she was a little girl, they’d passed a homeless man on the sidewalk. Grandpa John had said he would drop her off at the house and go back to buy the man a hamburger or something. “There but by the grace of God,” he’d said.

  She’d thought it was a funny thing to say. Grace meant prettiness in your movements. Being surefooted. Not tripping over your own feet and making a fool of yourself. So it didn’t make sense. God wasn’t a real person with feet.

  “Good night, Grandpa John, wherever you are,” she whispered.

  Then she tried very hard to believe he winked at her from heaven and whispered back, “Good night, Melanie John.”

  It was dark when Tish pulled her car into one of the few empty spots in front of Bag-a-’Cue and ran inside. For a Monday night in a small town, it was a busy joint that attracted a healthy mix of young and old, black and white. Noisy, friendly customers crowded a dozen picnic tables. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. A little boy ran around in red footie pajamas, his chin smeared with barbecue sauce.

  She approached the counter and met the heavily lined eyes of the teenage girl working the register.

  “Yes ma’am, how can I help you?”

  “I called in a to-go order a few minutes ago for—”

  “That’s the other end of the counter.” She pointed. “Where it says Pick Up Orders Here.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I’m new here.” Giving the girl an apologetic smile, Tish proceeded to the proper spot.

  A grown woman presided over the pick-up station. Excessive eyeliner seemed to be a locally popular style for all ages. “Hey,” she said with a smile.

  “Hi. I called in an order to go …”

  “Name?”

  “Letitia.”

  The woman blinked. “Okay.” She collected Tish’s money and counted out her change. “It’ll be up in a minute.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stepping aside to wait, Tish looked back at the tables full of customers and wondered if any of them were her new neighbors or people she would run into at the grocery store or the post office. Of course, she’d do her shopping and banking over in Muldro, a much larger town with more options and better prices. She’d go there in the morning to get the gas turned on and open a checking account.

  But these people probably lived in Noble. Some of them could be her neighbors. Maybe they’d become her friends someday.

  A young couple stopped at the condiment station. Loading red trays with plastic forks, paper napkins, and ketchup packets, they bantered back and forth with their friends who were already seated. The little guy in pajamas swiped a fry from his father’s plate and giggled.

  “Letitia,” a man yelled. “Pick-up for Letitia.”

  She turned toward the counter. “That’s mine,” she said, speaking into a sudden lull in the conversations behind her.

  A burly old employee held a brown paper bag in huge hands. “Letitia,” he repeated loudly and unnecessarily. “That you?”

  “Yes.” Her voice rang in the strange new silence.

  The man slapped the bag onto the counter. “Here’s your order, Letitia.”

  The way he said it took her back to whispered mockery of her old-fashioned name in a Michigan schoolyard. Saginaw? Yes. Fourth grade. Letitia, Letitia, Tish Tish Tish …

  “Thank you,” she said. Even the rustling of the bag in her hand sounded too loud. Too conspicuous.

  Someone snickered and whispered something she couldn’t catch.

  She turned around. The people closest to the counter were staring at her. No one was smiling now except the tyke in red pajamas.

  Whatever was going on, getting mad wouldn’t help. She drew a deep breath and managed a smile.

  “I’m new here,” she blurted. “My apologies.”

  No one spoke.

  Bag in hand, she fled to her car. Was Noble one of those towns where everybody was related somehow, and they refused to accept outsiders? Or—she looked down at her University of Michigan sweatshirt. Did they hate Yankees? Could they be that provincial?

  No. She was exhausted from the move, and she’d let her old paranoia kick in.

  “I am Letitia McComb,” she said under her breath. “You can’t change who I am.”

  She started her car and pulled out of the lot. In January, without Christmas lights, Main Street had lost some of its friendly charm.

  Mel jerked awake and squinted up at a bright moon glittering above the trees. She’d never been one of those Girl Scout types who could figure out what time it was, or where north was, from studying the sky. She only knew it was full dark, she was freezing, and either her folks hadn’t come home or she’d slept through the sound of the garage door going up and down.

  She left her sleeping bag on the chair and peered through the blinds again. No lights were burning except the dim ones they always left on, day and night. The kitchen clock didn’t show from the sunroom windows, and she didn’t have a phone or a watch that worked.

  Putting her ear to the cold glass, she listened. No voices. No TV. If it was three in the morning and they were sound asleep, it wouldn’t be cool to pound on the door. Last time she made that mistake, her dad almost wouldn’t let her in. He’d grounded her instead. Tried to, anyway.

  She figured they’d still treat her like a little kid this time too. They would feed her, though, and they’d let her sleep in her own bed where she’d be warm and dry and safe.

  Golden light pooled suddenly across the kitchen floor. Someone had turned on a lamp in the living room.

  Moving fast, she rolled up her sleeping bag, trying to hide its muddiest parts. She finger-combed her hair, straightened the collar of her jacket—her dad’s—and practiced a smile. Smiling was the hard part.

  Bedroll in hand, she knocked on the glass sliding door. “Mom? Dad? It’s me.”

  No one came. She tried again, knocking harder and speaking louder.

&nbs
p; “Mom! Mom, it’s Mel. Let me in, please!”

  A shadow darkened the pool of light. Slowly, someone came into view. Someone short. Mom, the soft touch.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, Mel made a rat-a-tat-tat on the glass with her fingernails. “Mom, it’s me!”

  It took her mom forever to unlock the door and shove the security bar out of the way. Then the door slid smoothly across the track, and Mel stepped into delicious warmth.

  She met her mother’s eyes for the first time since the big blowup. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Mel,” she whispered. Her face looked pale and old without her usual mask of makeup. “You look tired.”

  So do you, Mel wanted to say. “Well, yeah. I’m tired.”

  “And thin.” Her mom offered an awkward shoulder pat and lowered her hand to her side. “Where have you been?”

  Not the best welcome, but she’d take it. “All over. But I’m home, and that’s what matters. Right?”

  Her mom didn’t answer. Only stared, as if Mel were a spectacle at a carnival.

  Dread settled in her stomach. They were going to kick her out again. But before they did, she’d make the best of it.

  She edged past her mom, across the sunroom, and into the kitchen. She flipped the light switch. The crystal fruit bowl sat in the center of the table, holding apples, oranges, and ripe bananas. She lowered her bedroll to the floor beside the table. Trying to move slowly, as if she didn’t really care, she pulled a banana off the bunch, peeled it halfway down, and took a small, ladylike bite. It was heaven. She’d never appreciated bananas before.

  “Where’s Dad?” she asked.

  “In the shower.”

  “What time is it, anyway?”

  “About ten.”

  “That’s all? I thought it was about midnight.” Mel couldn’t stop herself. She wolfed the rest of the banana like a half-starved bum.

  She crossed to the fridge and stared at the new school photos held up by the same old magnets. Her nephews still had their sweet smiles and big, dark eyes, but she couldn’t believe how much they’d changed.

  She loved her brother’s boys so much. Especially Nicky. She shouldn’t have a favorite, of course, so she tried hard not to let it show. She knew how it felt to be the un-favorite one.

  “Nicky and Jamie look so grown up,” she said. “How are they? And Stu and Janice?”

  “Fine,” her mom said. “They’ll be staying with us for a week or two while they have their kitchen remodeled. It’s a huge, messy project.”

  “Is Stu still working at the dealership?”

  “He’s practically running it himself, these days.”

  Mel nodded. When her dad retired, Stu would be in charge of all those shiny new vehicles. All those salesmen in their matching polo shirts. All that money.

  She opened the fridge. Milk, juice, cans of soda. Half a ruby-red grapefruit covered with plastic wrap. An unopened package of all-beef hot dogs. A clear plastic container of … chili?

  Her mouth watered at the idea of chomping into a chili dog. She didn’t want to tick anybody off, though, so she’d keep it simple. She found the grape jelly on the door and set the jar on the counter. “You don’t mind if I make myself a PBJ, do you?”

  “Of course not.” Her mom didn’t come any closer, though. It was like she was afraid she might catch something.

  Everything was exactly where it had always been—honey-wheat bread in a basket on the counter, the peanut butter in the cupboard by the fridge, and the paper plates in the next cupboard. Mel pulled a knife from the drawer and started slapping the sandwich together. A hot meal would have been great, but she was too hungry to care.

  She should have washed her hands and scrubbed her chipped and dirty fingernails. Too late now. She probably smelled like a homeless person too. If they’d let her, she’d take a shower and wash her hair. And she’d raid her closet for all those great clothes she’d left behind.

  Not bothering to cut the sandwich in half, she bit into it, rolling her eyes at the sweet, soft goodness. She started to put the lid back on the peanut butter jar, one-handed, then reconsidered. She took two more slices of bread from the bag and made a second sandwich.

  “My, you’re hungry,” her mom said.

  “Yeah.” Mel put away the peanut butter and the jelly. She pulled out the milk. Tempted to drink straight from the plastic jug, she slowed down long enough to find a glass and fill it. She drained half of it and wiped her mouth. “Oh, wow. Everything tastes so good.”

  “I take it you haven’t been eating well.”

  “Not lately.”

  Mel took the glass and the paper plate to the table and sat in the chair closest to her bedroll. If she had to, she could stuff her pockets with fruit and be out the door in seconds. But maybe she wouldn’t have to.

  Finished with the first sandwich, she started the second. “You think Dad will let me stay?”

  “Ask him.” Her mom nodded toward the family room.

  Afraid to breathe, Mel turned her head slowly. Her father stood six feet away, arms folded across his chest. He’d gone gray, making him look like a grandpa. Well, he was a grandpa, but not the huggy kind. In sweatpants, a T-shirt, and white socks so new they were still fuzzy, he was in jock mode. He just might tell her to hit the floor and do push-ups.

  “Hey, Dad.” Her voice shook. “It’s your lucky day. I’m back.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “And you’re broke as a stick, aren’t you? You think we’ll let you mooch off of us?”

  Mel straightened her spine. “If Stu can move back for a while, why can’t I?”

  Her dad narrowed his eyes. “Your brother would never steal from us.”

  Mel squinted back at him. “I’ve never stolen from y’all.”

  “No? Where’s my gold watch?”

  Oh boy. Things were going downhill fast. She gobbled more of the sandwich, then grabbed two oranges and put one in each pocket. She’d be pressing her luck if she took a banana too. Better not. Anyway, bananas squished.

  She finished the sandwich, thinking carefully about her answer. “I don’t have any watch of yours. I never did.”

  “If you’d tell the truth, it would go better for you.”

  “I’m telling the truth. I never took your watch.”

  “Like you never took your grandpa’s car? I think you’re what they call a pathological liar. As well as a thief.” He unfolded his arms and jutted his thumb toward the front door. “Get out. And don’t come back—unless you come back with the watch and put it in my hands. With an apology.”

  “I only took what was mine.”

  He let out a short laugh. “I guess you think our food is yours too. You about done there? Ready to go quietly, or do I need to call the police?”

  Her heart jumped like a scared jack rabbit. “For what?”

  “Where do I start? Petty larceny, grand larceny. Breaking and entering.”

  “I let her in, Duncan,” her mom said in a tired, quiet voice. “She didn’t break in.”

  “Not this time.”

  “I don’t think they call it breaking and entering when it’s your own house.” Mel’s voice broke. Furious with herself for caving, she gulped the last of the milk, slammed the empty glass onto the table, and stood.

  “It’s my house, sweetheart,” he said, making the word sound mean. “Not yours.”

  “Then I’m not yours. Not your daughter. Not anymore.”

  “That’s still my jacket.” He held out his hand.

  “Sorry if it’s dirty. It’s been through a lot.” She shrugged her arms out of the sleeves and tossed it at him. An orange fell out of a pocket and rolled across the floor, hitting his foot in one of those brand-spanking-new white socks.

  Mel nearly cried. She’d forgotten about the oranges. She wanted them. She needed them.

  “Stealing our oranges too,” he said. “Once a thief, always a thief.”

  She grabbed her bedroll and charged past him, catching a whiff of fresh-s
melling soap that made her feel filthy. Running now, she crossed the family room. The front door was straight ahead. It was all she could see. She was in a narrow tunnel edged with black. She had to get through it, get outside, escape into the fresh night air where she could breathe.

  A vehicle passed in the street, the sound jolting Tish out of hazy daydreams of where she might put the furniture when the moving van arrived. Sitting in her old green camp chair by the empty fireplace, too tired to move, she’d lost track of the time. It was nearly midnight.

  Tish yawned. The drive had been tiring in itself, and then she’d made so many trips out to the car and up and down the porch steps. Up and down the stairs. Her feet ached.

  Closing her eyes, she could still see the rain on the windshield. The green mile markers measuring her progress on the interstate. And, like an echo in her ears, she could still hear the racket her rolling suitcase had made as she pulled it across the hardwood floor to the foot of the stairs.

  She’d brought in her box of essentials—TP, light bulbs, cleaning supplies—and her sleeping bag, floor mat, blankets, and pillow. The camp chair. The vacuum. The cooler with the remains of her road-trip food and drinks. The space heater.

  After she’d emptied the car, she cleaned, and while she still had a scrap of energy, she put up the brand-new shower-curtain liners she’d bought for the claw-foot tubs in both bathrooms. But the real work wouldn’t start until the moving van showed up.

  Yawning again, she stood. She made sure the doors were locked and then trudged upstairs. She’d already made her “bed” for the night, and the space heater had raised the bedroom’s temperature to an acceptable level. In her warmest, dorkiest pajamas and thick socks, she’d be fine.

  After brushing her teeth, she studied her wavy reflection in the old mirror on the 1950s-style medicine cabinet. For days now, she’d been playing with the idea of dropping her nickname and going by Letitia, but she didn’t look like a Letitia. She didn’t feel like a Letitia. Going by her great-great-great-grandmother’s name would be like wearing clothes that were too big and completely out of style. She might get used to it, though, and it would begin to feel right.