Mary Wolf (10 page)

“I'm in insurance.”

“No kidding.” Dave's face crumpled with admiration. “I had insurance on my car one time.”

I followed the highway south. The fog had burned off and the sun was bright.

“Turn down here.” Dave indicated a dirt road to the right.

I drove down onto the beach past a big sign alerting campers that they could stay for only one week.

“Don't worry about that,” Dave said. “They don't enforce it.”

“We're not going to be here long,” Daddy said.

“Park over there, beside that tent,” Dave said. “This rig is pretty big.”

“Just for a day or two,” Daddy added.

I parked the RV and we got out and looked around.

“Welcome to Lifesa Beach,” Dave said. “Otherwise known as River's End.”

It looked like a flea market had washed up on shore, leaving behind a wreckage of odds and ends: lawn chairs, mobile homes, kids' bikes, car parts, tires, camper shells, fishing gear, tents. Beyond the high-tide line driftwood was piled into mounds. A man crawled out of one and waved at us.

“Oh, my.” Mama squinted, as if the light was too bright. She shielded her eyes with one hand and hugged Andy.

“You'll love it,” Dave said. “It's like a regular little town. We've got rules and regulations, the whole caboodle. There's even a phone, up at City Hall.”

“City Hall?” Daddy said.

“That phone booth by the highway.” Dave's suntanned face split in a grin.

“Do we have to stay here?” Danielle wrinkled her nose. Erica huddled behind her on the RV's steps.

“Not for long,” Daddy said. “There's no hookup for the RV.”

“We'll have to use the generator,” I said.

“I don't know,” Mama murmured. “It seems kind of crowded.”

Barefoot children chased each other across the sand. Dogs ran behind them, barking. Some people walked by and smiled at us. “Welcome to River's End,” they said.

For several days my father was too busy to come out of the Wolfs' Den. He studied our gas receipts and maps, as if he could prove that we'd taken a wrong turn and stumbled into someone else's life by mistake.

Mama was a different story. She bloomed in the warmth of the other women, housewives and mothers like herself, good people down on their luck. These were families who'd been climbing the ladder of success; near the bottom, maybe, but nonetheless, working hard, moving up. But the rungs were rotten. Then the ladder was shattered, gone.

“We're just here till we get on our feet,” they told each other. Some were working, some got county aid. River's End was a rest stop, not their final destination.

Mama began doing wash by hand at the faucet of fresh water near the highway, hanging it to dry on top of the Wolfs' Den. She'd tell the girls, “Don't go out of the yard!” Our yard extended to Bob and Vicky's blue van with the stovepipe poking through the roof, across the road to Marie and Bill's single-wide, their three kids outside fighting over one bike, and back as far as Dave and Janice's mini Winnebago, which, until we arrived, was the biggest rig. The girls weren't allowed to go down to the water by themselves or to play near the driftwood huts. Those were considered the poor side of town, occupied mostly by single men.

There were only a few people we were warned away from: a man and a woman who were always drunk and beat each other up, and a big biker named Ed with a thick gray beard who was on some kind of unpredictable drug. He spent all day working on his Harley when he wasn't kicking it apart.

Dave said there'd been a prevert at River's End, a prevert, he said, who went after the kids, but they'd run him off. Dave's wife Janice told Mama that the pervert hadn't run off; he'd disappeared. “We don't take to child molesters here,” she said proudly.

The population of River's End rose and fell with the tide, people drifting in and out, but there were twenty or thirty regulars, not counting kids. There were millions of them. For once, my sisters had someone to play with besides me and each other. Danielle hung out with a girl named Marcie who lived in a big red tent, and Erica played with Marcie's brothers and sisters. Even Polly had a special friend, Megan, who lived in a blue van.

I watched them one day, moving toy cars through the sand. They didn't play house; they'd never had homes. They played Get In the Car and Drive Around. Can we stay here, Daddy? No, we're leaving. How about this place? It looks real good. Oh yes, Polly said. We'll be happy here. I love you, honey, and we won't fight.

Dave finally got Daddy to leave the RV. He came by one day and practically dragged him out. They pitched horseshoes on the beach with some other men. Daddy was a champion horseshoe pitcher back home. He returned to the RV glowing with pride and beer. He and the men sat under the awning and talked. I was sitting on the steps, reading.

The men were impressed by the grandeur of the Wolfs' Den, especially when Daddy told them how much it had cost.

“Jesus!” exclaimed the man called Abalone John. “Where'd you get that kind of dough? Steal it?”

“Insurance,” Daddy said. “Headed up my own office. I had twelve guys working under me.”

“Why'd you quit? Get sick of being rich?”

“Not exactly,” Daddy said. “Things kind of slowed down.”

“No shit.” Dave shook his head and spit. “One minute we're putting up six condos a week, the next thing you know, you couldn't get a gig building a doghouse.”

“Tell me about it,” Louie said. “I was in real estate. People camped outside the office, wanting to buy these houses. Slept in their cars so they'd be first in line. I bought up a bunch of property myself. Then the bottom dropped out. Now I'm sleeping in my car.”

“But it's a nice car,” Dave said.

“And I own it, free and clear.”

The men laughed. In the world they lived in before River's End, my father had been the richest, a success. True, he wasn't working now, but he had a job lined up in San Francisco. Or the prospect of a job. Or the promise of a prospect. Whatever it was, Daddy made it sound good. In the sunlight that bleached the ragged homes on the beach, the Wolfs' Den stood out like a castle.

I pass the outhouses, two wooden buildings with high, wide windows open to let in the breeze and let out the smell, and head toward the beach with my guitar. A cloud of small birds skims the waves. Kids in tattered shorts hunt shells and sand dollars. It's a pretty safe beach, no undertow, no sleeper waves to catch you off guard. I enter the path through the driftwood thicket and trip over a boy crawling out of a hut.

“Sorry. I didn't see you.”

“That's okay.” He stands and dusts off his knees, which poke through string where his jeans used to be.

“You live here?” I say idiotically. He's not delivering the mail.

“Yeah, it's mine. It's got my name on it. See?”

By the opening to the hut is a flat piece of driftwood with a word carved into it: Rocky.

We check each other out. He's about my age. Almost everyone else here is younger or older. Once I asked Dave where all the teenagers were. “Gone to war,” he answered vaguely. Dave's a veteran, lame in one leg.

The boy's tall and skinny with pale, wild hair. The skin of his nose is roasted raw. He wears a sweatshirt with the sleeves torn off and sneakers wrapped with silver duct tape. He's holding a battered tea kettle.

“You play that thing?” He nods at my guitar.

“Sort of. Do you play?”

“No, but I like music.”

“Me, too. I want to be a musician. I mean, someday, if I can.”

“No kidding. That's cool.”

I am badly out of practice talking to people my age. He's rusty, too. We stand there, nodding. We both start talking: No, after you.

“You been here long?” I ask.

“Maybe a week. It's okay. I been catching some fish in the river. Want some?”

“No. Not right now. I mean, thanks anyway.”

“You live around here?”

“In that big thing, you can see it from here.”

He looks where I'm pointing. “The RV? That's nice. It looks like it's got lots of room.”

“Not for seven people.”

“My place is pretty small but I like it,” he says. “You want to look inside?”

“No, that's okay.”

“I'll wait outside. So you won't feel funny. Don't worry, I'm not a nut or something.”

Everyone here feels obliged to let you know that even though they're poor, they're not crazy. My name is Mary Wolf and I'm not insane. I'm not a hopeless loser; I'm on vacation.

“By the way, my name is Mary.”

“Rocky.” We shake. “So do you want to see my place?” He's busting with shy pride.

“You sure it's okay? I don't want to butt in or anything.”

“You're not. Go ahead. I'll hold your guitar.”

I get down on my knees and crawl inside. The hut is maybe five feet wide and tall. A blue tarp covers the sand floor. A sleeping bag is spread beneath a hole in the wall that's curtained with a scrap of clear plastic. His knapsack, patched with duct tape, is stowed beneath a driftwood shelf that holds a few paperbacks, mostly Westerns, a candle in a saucer, a frying pan, a cracked mug, a spoon and fork, a box of wooden matches and a jar of stones and shells. Sunlight pierces the walls in a few spots where the driftwood doesn't fit snugly.

“It's nice,” I say truthfully, inching back outside. “It's cozy.”

“I've fixed it up a lot. It doesn't even leak. I put my name on it so nobody would steal it.” He hands back my guitar and holds up the tea kettle. “I was going to get some water. Make some tea. You want some? I mean, you can if you want—you don't have to.”

“Maybe in a while. I'm going down to the beach. This thing really needs new strings.”

“Well, I'm going to get some water.” He walks backward, looking at me. “Maybe I'll see you later.”

“Okay.”

“Roger,” he says. “I mean, that's my real name. I like Rocky better. But you can call me what you want.”

“Rocky's fine. It was nice meeting you.”

He nods at me and heads toward the highway.

Eleven

When I was little, I played with neighborhood kids, but Rocky's the first real friend I've ever had. He's close to my age; he'll be eighteen in January. I feel like I've known him forever.

We hang out together. We can talk about anything. That's all we ever do, just talk. My father doesn't like him.

“You're seeing too much of that boy,” he said. He had his head under the hood, changing the RV's oil. “I don't want you spending so much time with him.”

“Why not?”

“Something could happen.”

“Like what?”

“Like sex.”

“It's not that way with us.”

“I didn't say it was. But things just happen.”

“Not with me and Rocky. We're friends.”

“I understand that, Mary. Hand me that can of oil. He seems like a very nice boy. But he's not the kind of boy you want to get involved with.”

“Why not?”

“He's a drifter.”

“So am I.”

“Damn it to hell.” Daddy threw down the oil can so hard it bounced. Mama stuck her head out of the RV, saw our faces, and withdrew. “That's not true. Why do you say things like that? You know I've got a job lined up in San Francisco. We'll be moving soon.”

“A real job? Since when?”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“It seems like you didn't have a job, now you do.”

“The point is this, I'm not having you involved with somebody like that, some kid you don't even know his background.”

“He knows my background and he still likes me. At least he's not prejudiced like you!”

“Do you hear what I'm saying?”

“You can't tell me what to do!”

“Come back here when I'm talking to you!”

I kept walking. He's worried about money lately and takes it out on me. Mama hasn't been doing her flea market gig; the last time scared her, and anyway, there's nothing around here worth stealing. Daddy's made a couple of phone calls from City Hall, trying to borrow money from my grandparents. Grampa said no and Daddy got real mad. Then he got ahold of Grandma and she promised to send some to the Western Union office in Fort Bragg. Dave's taking him up there this week. Daddy doesn't drive the RV unless he has to; it uses too much gas. Dave's real nice, he gives people rides. A lot of people here don't have cars that run.

His wife Janice takes Mama to the free-food pantry in Fort Bragg. Andy usually stays with me. He's bigger every day, roly-poly and pink. The disposable diapers got too expensive, so we're using cloth ones, which we wash by hand. They dry stiff in the wind and chafe his skin.

I wish she'd take him for his vaccination shots. Polly had them so she wouldn't get a disease. Some of the women here think the shots are unnecessary. They say they might even make your baby sick. Mama never used to believe that, but she bends in the breeze of the strongest opinion.

She's been trying to talk Daddy into applying for welfare. Some of the families get county aid and are telling Mama we might qualify, too. It's a complicated process but it's worth a shot. Daddy flatly refuses.

“What's your self-respect worth, Wendy?” he brayed the other night. The volume goes up when he's been drinking beer. “Are you willing to trade your pride for food stamps?”

I was sitting at the table, making the girls practice their handwriting. Mama cringed and didn't answer him. That made me angry.

I said, “I guess I'll fix a side of pride for supper tonight. Daddy, how do you want yours cooked?”

“You shut your mouth.”

“Don't talk to me like that. You always act like this when you've been drinking.”