Problem Child (ARC)

by Victoria Helen Stone

  a flavored lip balm.

  She’s just a girl. That’s all. There are no pieces of me

  here. Nothing I identify with. I’ve become some kind

  of do-gooder.

  I leave the mauve-colored room and stride down the

  hallway, bored with this game and done with this town.

  “What’s your number?” I ask Nate, whose turn seems

  to be over. Someone else is firing a gun now, and Nate

  is packing one of the bongs.

  He offers his phone number without question, and

  I tap it into my contacts, then immediately send a text.

  Send me Brodie’s info. While I wait, I peruse the figu-

  rine shelf, touching the pastel sculptures before picking

  out my favorite and sliding it into my purse. I’ve wanted

  one since I was six years old. The height of luxury and

  elegance. And now I have a pale, long-limbed woman

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  reaching to drape pearls around her ice-cold neck. Just

  lovely. What great luck I have.

  My phone lights up with the contact info, and I wave

  goodbye and leave, descending back into the real world

  down the hill and past the prison, to another grandmother’s house we go.

  The smokestack taunts me, guiding me home.

  97

  CHAPTER NINE

  I’m not putting off seeing my parents; I’m just hungry.

  I drive past the power plant, taking my hands off the

  wheel to give it the double finger as I cruise back into my hometown and then drive right on through it, back toward

  the county seat. I’m craving Sonic tater tots anyway, so

  the heartwarming family reunion can wait.

  I frown when the giant cloud of power plant steam

  reappears in my rearview mirror, ever looming.

  My dad worked at the A & I power plant for a to-

  tal of ten months, but don’t get excited. That wasn’t a

  streak. It was ten months spread out over four different

  years. Despite that spotty history, he called himself an

  “A & I man” for my entire childhood. His last job might have been at a feed distribution center that he’d quit five weeks before, but he was still an “A & I man” through

  and through. It was the best spin he could manage on

  his work history.

  He staffed all the jobs around town at one point or

  another, but his body rejected each of them, one by one,

  overcome by the idea of getting up at 6:00 a.m. five days

  a week.

  He finally threw his back out hauling a deer carcass

  out of season, and then his glory years of disability checks began. Funny, even after that he could still rant for days

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  about black people on the dole. Those racism muscles of

  his never got tired. Truly a miracle of persistence.

  Setting my father aside for now, I spend the rest of the

  drive to the county seat planning my perfect Sonic home-

  coming. Chili dog, yes. Tater tots, yes. Cherry limeade,

  of course. But what kind of ice cream for dessert? Hot

  fudge sundae? Maybe, but they might have something

  new I want to try. Best to save that order for after the

  meal to see what feels right.

  I pull into the drive-in stall, roll my window down,

  and order the perfect meal. When it arrives, it’s heaven

  delivered on a red tray, and I tear open the chili dog

  wrapper with glee. And just as I suspected, there is a new dessert. I chew my tots and contemplate the photo of

  mini-churros stuck into a bowl of soft-serve ice cream.

  I think I’ll try that instead of going for an old standard.

  When I hit the button for the second time, the voice

  asks for my order, and a grand idea hits me square in the

  forehead. I grin with the shock of it and ask for three

  large orders of fries in addition to my dessert. An entire

  overstuffed bag of french fries is delivered a few minutes

  later along with my churros.

  “Still hungry?” the server asks as she hands my good-

  ies over. She’s not even wearing roller skates to entertain me, so I just roll up my window in response and enjoy

  my churro bowl in peace as the fries get cold. I’ll be sure to turn the vents on them when I start the car.

  Nobody in my town was wealthy or even middle-class,

  but their parents worked and brought home groceries

  and made meals, even if those meals were just casseroles

  made with ground beef and canned veggies. In fact, those

  church-basement casseroles were my favorite kind of meal.

  Warm and good and filling.

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  My parents rarely had fresh food in the house. They

  just didn’t bother because they could always get in the car and pick up a meal for themselves. They also never threw

  food away, no matter how old it was. The oldest leftovers

  were reserved for me and Ricky when my parents were

  heading out for one of their weekend casino trips. “Still

  good” was a common refrain, even for old, hard fries at

  the bottom of a greasy bag. “There’s fries in the fridge!”

  my dad would shout. “They’re still good!”

  Still good when fries got nasty and grainy after an

  hour. Still good when there was a box of macaroni my

  mom could have cooked up if she wanted to. Still good

  just because she couldn’t bother running to the store for a can of soup to feed her four-year-old before they started

  drinking.

  These days I don’t eat fries unless they’re piping hot

  and crispy from the fryer. The big bag of fries on the

  passenger seat is already cold. By the time I get to my

  parents’ house they’ll be soft, the first stage of fry death.

  Then they’ll start drying out and hardening. I’m famil-

  iar with all the stages. Mom and Dad will keep this bag

  in the fridge for days, making meals out of it as long as

  they can. My petty spirit will linger with them over the

  fridge, laughing.

  “Still good,” I whisper as I pull out and head back to

  the two-lane highway out of town.

  My phone rings, and it’s my law office, so I ignore it.

  I’m on emergency family leave. How dare they?

  As I drift out of town, I pass the richest neighbor-

  hood in the county. The street is lined with big oak trees

  shading the nicest houses and the biggest yards around.

  A couple of these homes even have genuine in-ground

  pools. More of them have aboveground pools, which

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  aren’t as nice but do offer a blue and shiny glimpse for

  the rest of us, like a cruel elevated mirage.

  I used to covet these houses. My mouth would salivate

  at the sight of them. I imagined that I might seduce one

  of the owners—middle-aged men who were all upper

  management in oil companies—steal him away from

  his wife and install myself as stepmom to one of those

  idiot blond girls who wore designer clothes to her high

  school classes.

  But the girl and her mom would move away after the

  divorce, of course. They’d head into Oklahoma City and

  live off alimony and child support. Then I’d have the

  house and the pool and no s
tepchild. I’d lie on a cushioned lounge chair all summer, piña colada in hand, hoping

  my old husband had another business trip that week so I

  could be by myself.

  I’d wanted their life so badly. And now it was strange

  to realize I drove past this neighborhood two or three

  times already without noticing it. Because the houses

  weren’t grand at all, not to my adult eyes. They weren’t

  estates. They were just fairly average two-story houses.

  Maybe twenty-five hundred square feet? Nothing to scoff

  at, but nothing to go tying yourself to some doughy old

  sex addict over.

  I could buy one of these places right now if I wanted

  to, and I definitely don’t want to. But I wanted this so

  much at sixteen I actually walked down that street several

  times one summer in booty shorts, looking for a likely

  conquest. I didn’t see any, but a cable guy called me over

  to his van to show me his dick. I wrote down his license

  plate and called his employer when I got home, pretend-

  ing to sob breathlessly over the trauma of it all. I hope he got fired and starved to death.

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  Ah, memories.

  Now these mansions, these dreams, with brass chande-

  liers in the dining rooms and two-car attached garages …

  they just look like plain old houses I’d see on any street

  in the Minneapolis suburbs. In fact, these may be just

  the kind of house my boyfriend is trying to talk me into

  living in, and here I am resenting him.

  Life is really funny, isn’t it?

  102

  CHAPTER TEN

  I drift out of town past the one-stories and manufactured

  houses in no time, and once I reach ranchland, the power

  plant cloud is growing bigger on the skyline. Home fire,

  I see you and here I come!

  There is no rich neighborhood in my little town. Hell,

  there’s not even a wrong side of the tracks. There are

  simple houses, then the train tracks that bring coal to the plant and take luxury cars to people somewhere far away,

  and then, when you get past the rail line, it’s all pasture.

  That’s it. Poor folks and cows and an obnoxious bit of

  industry. Not one aboveground pool to covet, though

  we had a deflated kiddie pool in our yard for many years.

  I take a left just before the plant and head down a

  paved road that can only generously be called two-way.

  After driving past a row of houses with neat yards, I take

  a left onto a packed dirt lane just before the grain eleva-

  tor. I pass behind a few widely spaced ranch homes and

  one small horse pasture; then the path spits me into a

  bare dirt yard enclosed by barbed wire to protect the two

  precious rusted-out cars in front of our trailer. They’re

  the same two cars that were there when I left for college

  more than a decade ago.

  In fact, everything looks the same, except that there’s a

  newer trailer home sitting directly next to the one I grew

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  up in. The windows of the old house are covered from the

  inside by stacked cardboard boxes, as if the entire place

  has been filled up with a collection of junk. Red dust

  coats the white walls in years of layers like unshed skin.

  The new trailer is tan and bright, smaller than the

  old one but definitely nicer, with bigger windows and an

  unfinished-wood wheelchair ramp that leads up to the

  front door. There’s even a flower box at the top of the

  ramp, but whatever plant was in there gave up the ghost

  many, many weeks ago, and just a few sad sticks poke

  over the sides to greet me.

  I grab my big bag of cold fries from the passenger seat

  and set out across the dirt and patches of crunchy grass

  toward the ramp. The wood is beautifully constructed

  and smooth under my hand, so I know Ricky didn’t

  build it. A church group probably. My mom always made

  sure she was in at least two congregations at a time to

  maximize the number of possible potlucks and charity

  donations. To her benefit, I mean. Not out of a spirit

  of generosity.

  Snorting at the very idea, I knock on the metal door.

  “Sarah!” I hear my father call from inside. “The door!”

  But when the door opens, it’s Dad standing there, looking

  like shit. He’s heavier than he was ten years ago and shorter too, but he doesn’t look like a man who’s been ravaged

  by a stroke. In fact, his bloodshot eyes and unshaven face

  make it appear as though the stains on his oversize Snap-

  on tools T-shirt are probably bourbon. Good old Dad.

  “I’m helping look for Kayla,” I say in greeting. “Was

  she living here when she disappeared?”

  “I talked to that deputy weeks ago,” my dad growls.

  “Yeah, I’m not with the county.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

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  “I’m your daughter, asshole. Look, I even brought

  you a present.”

  “Jane?” He squints as he takes the bag I thrust into

  his hand. “Jane?”

  “Yes, Jane. I heard you lost your granddaughter, so

  I’m here to help.”

  “Sarah!” he shouts right into my face. I can smell the

  bourbon now and I finally feel at home. “Sarah! Jane’s

  here!”

  “Who?” my mom shouts from a bedroom somewhere.

  I roll my eyes. “It’s your daughter! Returned to the

  warm bosom of her family!”

  “What?” my mom shouts back.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble. “Can I come in

  or not?”

  My dad shuffles aside so I can step past. The trailer is

  new, but the furniture isn’t. I recognize the overstuffed

  blue sectional smashed into the tiny living room right

  away. I fell asleep on that couch so many times. I elbowed

  my drunk father awake on it far more times than that. I

  think I even caught Ricky making one of his children

  there when I was in high school. He barked at me to get

  the hell out or join in. I don’t think he meant it, but then again, he’s Ricky.

  My mom finally shuffles down the hall, eyes nar-

  rowed in suspicion. Her stringy hair is gray now but still

  streaked with enough brown to look like moldy wheat

  bread. She’s lost about an inch in height too. Or maybe

  I’ve gotten straighter since I left this place behind.

  My lip arches in a sneer as I take her in. I haven’t

  seen her in so many years. The last time we spoke on the

  phone, she called me a heartless bitch and several other

  names, so I blocked her number and moved on. That was

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  more than a year ago now. Her small eyes widen when

  she registers that it’s actually me.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she barks.

  “Living my best life, obviously. How about you?”

  “Your daddy almost died from a stroke and you didn’t

  do shit to save him. Now look at him! He’s a cripple.”

  “Looks more like a drunk to me. That wheelcha
ir in

  the corner has dust on it.”

  “You little—”

  “Let’s skip the endearments and drawn-out hugs, all

  right? I’m not here for a reunion. Where’s Kayla?”

  My father drops into a recliner and lets it rock violently

  beneath him. “You look good, Jane!” he yells, as if I’m

  not standing four feet away.

  “Thanks.” My dad never took care of us and never

  protected us. He could also be a mean drunk. I couldn’t

  count on him for anything, not food, heat, transportation,

  or safety. But he never sneaked into my room at night

  to molest me, and his drunken slaps were halfhearted at

  best, and that’s better than a lot of girls get from fathers.

  My mom, on the other hand, was a cruel bitch: over-

  critical one day, ignoring me the next. She’d bring me a

  half-eaten cake from some church basement, pretending

  she’d made it herself, then call me a little pig for eating it too quickly. She’d take me to Wednesday services and

  ask the women to pray the devil out of me, then take off

  in the car and let me walk home wondering if I’d see her

  in a few hours or a few days.

  My very first memory is being alone and scared at

  night when I was three or four. Lightning and thunder and

  wind knocking trash against the thin walls of our house.

  My brother was nine and already a bully. He told me our

  parents were never coming home and he was going to

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  sell me to a man he met that day for fifty dollars. “I got

  him up from twenty,” he sneered.

  Nobody cared about us. We were the white trash of

  the neighborhood, and family matters weren’t anyone else’s

  business in this part of the country. It’s not like we were being beaten half to shit, and plenty of kids my brother’s

  age were cooking and cleaning for younger siblings.

  I wasn’t dying. I wasn’t even starving, really. I was

  just terrified and bereft. No call to involve the authori-

  ties in that.

  That was back when I still felt fear. When I still cried.

  When I still needed love and safety. I can almost remember

  what that felt like, but not really. It’s more like watching a movie of some pitiful little stranger.

  I hate remembering that I used to need these people.

  They disgust me now, and that weak little girl disgusts

  me too.

  “Your brother’s locked up again,” my mom whines,

  trying a different tack, since confrontation didn’t work,