Burn Girl (5 page)

Tammy would be the last person I'd call, but I nodded anyway. I got out of the car and retrieved my few belongings from the backseat before she could hug me or offer any more snark about Frank.

As she drove off, I stood for a minute, taking in how large the trailer actually was. Frank had positioned it at the far side of a huge lot that was mostly dirt clods and weeds. I hadn't known lots this size were even available within the city limits. This one was situated at the north end of town behind a river-rafting company. Half a dozen brightly painted school buses that were used to haul rafters blocked the view of the residential area behind the lot. At least I'd be within a couple of blocks of the last stop on the town's trolley route and a short bike ride from Mo's house.

Frank motioned me over, so I joined him in the middle of the yard and set down my duffel. He'd already marked off a perfect square with wooden stakes and bright pink plastic tape.

“What's the project?” I asked.

“This is where the entrance will be. The downstairs will be one large great room with a staircase in the center.” He waved his thick arms, pointing here and there at an image only he could see. “And there'll be two bedrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs.”

“You're building yourself a house?”

“I'm building
us
a house. It'll be our new home.”

Home. I'd lived in one-room apartments, motels, a beat-up Subaru Outback, and an abandoned garage. I couldn't imagine living in a 1970s-style trailer with a stranger I'd just met a month ago. I didn't know if I could do this. Any of this. Returning to the foster home almost seemed like a good idea.

“You bought this lot?” I asked.

“Yep. The owner is letting me rent the lot for the trailer until the sale of the land closes early next month.”

He'd made this decision on his own; not that I expected to have a vote. He'd moved awfully fast to establish us as a family, but still he didn't give me a say in the matter.

“You a millionaire or something?” I asked. “Land's not cheap here.”

“Nothing to concern yourself with. Let me show you the tube.”

He picked up my bag, but I grabbed it back. “I got it.”

The interior felt more spacious than I'd thought it would, although it was definitely retro. The front door opened into a living area with a brown plaid sofa and an orange Formica table with a built-in bench on one side. Books stood in precarious piles under the table and near the sofa. Many more lined makeshift bookshelves along one wall and covered one of the few windows in the place. The inside of the trailer smelled old.

“Like books much?” I asked.

“I have hundreds more in a storage unit in Corpus Christi,” he said proudly. “Climate-controlled, of course, since the humidity is damn thick down there.”

I let out a low whistle. “Impressive.”

“So … you get the bedroom.” He pointed past the little galley kitchen to the plastic accordion door at the rear of the trailer.

“I don't want to put you out,” I stammered.

“You're not putting me out,” he said. “You need a door. Everyone needs a door.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'd go mad if I couldn't shut out the world at least a few minutes a day. From what I hear, you've never had a door to close. So this one's yours.”

I swallowed hard against the growing lump in my throat. “I hadn't thought about it like that.”

“I have,” Frank said. “A kid should have a room … a messy room with clothes and junk everywhere … and a parent to yell at them to clean it up.”

Parent?
He wasn't my parent. I'd never had a room or someone who cared if it was messy or not. The thought was so completely overwhelming that I picked up my bag and retreated before Frank could say anything else. “Thanks. I'll be out in a minute.”

I plopped down, burying my face in the bedspread. So, the guy was being nice. Isn't that what he had to do? I didn't ask him to move here. I didn't even know him.

I sat up and wiped my face. The room was basic and outdated. The double bed was covered in a simple floral bedspread—a relic from the 1970s. Mo would love it. She'd say retro was in. The walls were pale wood paneling without any photos or pictures, although you could tell by several darker spots on the wall where some had hung before. Frank had probably taken down his own stuff.

In the corner of the space was a wooden rod hanging from the ceiling by two chains, a makeshift open-air closet. That and the small chest of drawers would do, since I didn't have a lot of clothes.

My room
. Mo would want to paint it right away and pick out curtains and probably a funky lamp. I could just see it now: orange and turquoise and hot pink, like Mo's personality. She'd want to pay for it all too, even though I had my own money. I'd always made sure I did because Mom hadn't.

We'd buried Mom just over a month ago and here I was, under the microscope of yet another person tasked with making sure I was okay. This one wanting to be my father.

When I emerged from my room, Frank was in the kitchenette chopping veggies. He could be described as a fireplug—thick across the chest, with massive arms that could pound anyone who dared to call him that. He wore an apron that read “You can kiss the cook, but keep your hands off my buns.” Not exactly the picture of manliness.

“Stir-fry okay by you?” he asked.

I nodded. In our few brief visits with the social worker after Mom's funeral, I hadn't mentioned my inability to taste.

“Could I help with dinner?” I asked.

“Nope, just relax. I'll be done in a second.” He waved me away with the knife.

“I'll just watch some TV then.” I scanned the living area for the television.

“I don't have one. Rots your brain.”

As much as I loved to read, I'd gotten used to having cable in our motel rooms. Almost every motel, no matter how shabby, had cable and at least one premium movie channel. One of the few perks of living in a moldy, fifteen-by-fifteen-foot space with pasteboard furniture and a lumpy mattress.

“You're kidding, right?”

“Nope. I occasionally watch movies on my laptop. If I had a television, I'd be tempted to channel surf through a lot of crap I don't need to watch. Plus, all the news is bad these days. A real downer.”

“Well, can we get one?” I asked.

“No.”

He didn't even apologize or explain why. Shouldn't he have been trying harder to win me over? Engrossed in his damn stir-fry, he didn't even look up.

“I guess I'll watch on my laptop,” I said.

“You have a laptop?”

My face colored. I guess Frank assumed I wouldn't have nice things.

“It's Mo's old one.”

“Oh. Nice kid. But if you ever need a newer model, just let me know.”

“Well, I won't,” I mumbled and turned my attention to his bookshelves. He'd arranged the books alphabetically by author. That was something I'd probably have done if I'd been allowed to keep books. Mom always said they were too heavy and slowed us down, and that I could go to a library if I needed to read.

“Borrow any books you'd like,” Frank said. “Although I doubt we share the same tastes.”

Maybe not, but I liked that he read. Book people were more interesting.

Within a few minutes, he'd cleared the small table of the architectural drawings for the house and set down two steaming bowls of shrimp and veggies over rice. There were a few textures I couldn't take, rice being one of them. Anything grainy like that, and slimy things like cooked spinach and ripe bananas.

Many days I'd just buy a milk shake or frozen coffee drink for lunch because at least I could choke down smooth, cold things. To ensure I was getting enough calories, I sometimes drank protein shakes intended for old people who didn't eat right, only those were awfully expensive.

“So how is it?” Frank's freckled skin seemed to rage against the spiciness of the food. Perspiration trickled down his forehead in impressive rivulets.

“Habanero or Scotch bonnet?” I asked.

“Thai chili. Sorry, I got carried away. I can make you something else if it's too hot.”

“No worries. I can't taste it anyway.” Although the rice grains were sure to tease my gag reflex, I gulped down a large spoonful in appreciation of his hard work.

“What do you mean, ‘can't taste it anyway'?” He put down his fork.

I spent the next half hour explaining that I'd lost my senses of taste and smell following the explosion—except for the lingering chemical taste on my tongue and in my nose. But even that wasn't there all the time. Mostly it was just a numb sensation that made eating a miserable chore.

“That's awful, Arlie. Has a doctor said if it's permanent?”

I snorted. “Doctor? Too expensive. Besides, I never told Mom the full story.”

Frank's face twisted with what looked like shock, anger, and sorrow in one messy stew.

“It's okay, really. I just couldn't burden Mom with another thing. She couldn't handle a lot of stress.”

My uncle slammed his palms on the table, causing the spoon to jump from my bowl. I startled. The move reminded me of Lloyd and his hair-trigger temper. Then the hiccups started—probably a by-product of the Thai chili as well as shock at Frank's anger.

“Shit, I didn't mean to scare you. It's not like me.” He shook his head. “I just keep hearing about all the horrible stuff that's happened to you. Things will be different now. Sarah may have failed you, but I won't.”

“Where do you get off saying that? You don't know me.” Hiccups peppered my reaction. I clenched my jaws to keep from saying more.

Frank put his bowl in the sink even though he hadn't finished. He stood looking out the small kitchen window.

“And you didn't know her.” I looked down at my food, ashamed because I knew he was right. Mom
had
failed me. But I'd protected her for so many years that it was my go-to response.

“I used to know her,” he said. “But you're right. I don't know a thing about your lives together. I just meant I'll try my best.”

Frank handed me a glass of water to help with the hiccups. I chugged it and waited for him to sit back down.

“I don't need rescuing, you know.”

When he didn't answer, I wondered if that meant he didn't believe me.

“I'm not really hungry.” I pushed back from the table and returned to my new bedroom. As I closed the plastic accordion door behind me, Frank called out from the kitchen.

“You're going to see a doctor about that taste thing.”

I must have dozed off because I woke shuddering from the cold, the edge of the bedspread pulled up over my shoulders. The Airstream must not be airtight. Might not have been a problem in Texas, but Colorado would be a different story.

I opened my door. Frank was on the sofa at the other end of the trailer, reading. He'd propped his beer bottle up against a throw pillow.

“A little cold for beer, isn't it?” I rubbed my arms and blew into my hands.

“Never too cold for beer,” he said, putting down his book. “There's an electric heater in the far corner of your room near the baseboard. I meant to tell you earlier but didn't get the chance. Don't put anything in front of it or it'll catch fire.”

He'd pulled on a large wool sweater, which made him look even stockier. And his socks didn't match.

I pulled a kitchen chair around so I wouldn't have to sit on the sofa with him.

“I didn't mean anything, you know … before,” Frank said. “I don't know how Sarah was with you. Hell, I didn't even know where she ended up after she left Texas.”

He tossed me the crocheted afghan that was draped across the sofa. I wrapped it around my shoulders.

“You didn't know where we were all these years?”

“Hell, I didn't even know I had a niece. Sarah fell off the face of the earth after Mom and Dad died. Car wreck. I was twenty and your mom was eighteen.”

He took a swig of beer.

“That sucks,” I said.

“Yeah, it does. So your mom never mentioned our parents? Not even that you're named after your great-grandmother?”

“I'm named after somebody? I always wondered. Mom never talked about her childhood.”

Whenever I asked her about my grandparents, she'd change the subject so eventually I stopped asking. Suddenly I felt sad for the grandma and grandpa I'd never met and who had died without ever meeting me. Mom had kept her family a secret for some reason, even the brother who might have been able to help us.

“What's wrong, Arlie?”

“Just thinking my family tree is missing a lot of branches.” The image of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree came to mind, a pathetic twig losing the last of its needles.

“Well, you can ask me anything. But I warn you, I'm not that interesting.”

I wanted to ask questions about Mom instead. What she was like at my age. What music she listened to. Whether she had a steady boyfriend. I couldn't go there yet.

“You moved out here pretty quick. Didn't you have some kind of job in Corpus?”

“I was in construction. I built houses mostly.”

“So you didn't go to college?” I asked.

“Oh, I went. Got a wildlife and fisheries degree, but I found out I liked using my hands more.”

That explained why he thought he could build a house by himself, but how could he afford the lumber and materials? He didn't have a job and he'd just purchased a lot in a mountain resort town where real estate was outrageously expensive.

“I know this isn't any of my business,” I said. “But you're going to have some major-league expenses if you plan to build a house here. What do you do for money?”

Frank's mouth tightened into a line. “I have the means to take care of you.”