Mary Wolf (11 page)

“I haven't been drinking! Just a few beers.”

“Pardon me if I don't get the distinction.”

“You mind your own business.”

“It is my business. You're scaring the girls.”

“I'm not scared,” Danielle sneered, throwing down her pencil.

“They're not scared,” Daddy said. “Come here, Polly. You're not scared of me, are you?”

He got her giggling. Erica butted her head against him until he tickled her, too.

“Daddy, do you mind? We're doing some studying so the girls won't be so behind in school.”

“For God's sake, Mary, will you relax? You sound like an old lady. There's plenty of time for the girls to catch up. We're still on summer vacation.”

Erica's head was on his knee. She turned toward me and stuck out her tongue.

“I'll tell you one thing,” I tell Rocky, “I'm not having any kids.”

We're leaning against a log on the beach, watching the thick green waves roll in.

“Ever?”

“Maybe.”

“Don't you like your sisters?”

“Yeah, but once you have kids, you're not free anymore.”

“Your parents are free. They go where they want.”

“No they don't. They just go.”

I'm plunking out chords; Mama bought me new strings. Rocky's cutting up an apple with his pocketknife. He pops a slice into my mouth.

He says, “I'd like to see my brother. I hope he's doing okay.”

“You could call him.”

“No money.”

“You could call collect.”

“They don't like that,” he says, meaning the foster parents who took them in when their mother left. One day when he and Bobby came home from school, her clothes were gone. She'd left the rest; there wasn't much to take. It was a shock, Rocky said, but no surprise. He fixed supper for Bobby and they went to bed. They thought she might come back. She had before.

This time she didn't, and she didn't call. After a while, the school found out. They had an uncle in town but he didn't want them, so the county placed them in a foster home. At least they got to stay together. When he was fourteen, Rocky walked away. He didn't need to run, he said; no one was coming after him.

“Why'd you leave?”

“I don't know.” He hands me another slice of apple. “It wasn't like they whipped us or anything. It was just kind of nothing. Their duty, you know, and the county gave them money for having us. At Christmas they'd give us these teeny little toys; then we'd sit there and watch their real kids open all these presents. Bikes and things. They always bought us used clothes. The bigger I got, the less I fit in there. Soon as I can, I'll have Bobby with me.”

“Does he like it there?”

“He says he does. The last time I called he only talked a minute; then he wanted to watch TV.”

“Kids are weird.” I light a cigarette.

“Why do you do that?”

“Smoke, you mean? Because I'm a stupid idiot.”

“No, really.”

“Really. That's the reason.” I exhale poison, enveloping Rocky and me. I stink.

“So why do you do it?”

“I'm nervous, I guess. Anyway, it gives me something to do with my hands besides strangle my father.”

“He seems real nice.”

“He used to be.”

“People change,” Rocky agrees.

“Especially him.”

“My mother changed, but not a lot. She always said she didn't like kids. I don't know why she had us.”

“Just did, probably.”

“But after she had me, she must've known she didn't want any more, so why'd she have Bobby?”

“Adults do lots of stupid things. Where's your father?”

“Los Angeles, I think. He left before Bobby was born. He and my mother had terrible fights.”

“They must've liked each other sometimes. For at least five minutes.”

“Who knows?” Rocky sighs. “They're gone now.”

The apple feels gritty between my teeth. The wind's always blowing, seasoning everything with salt, tangling my hair like seaweed. When I clean the girls' ears, they're full of sand.

“If you were stranded on a desert island and could only have one thing with you, what would it be?” I ask.

“A telephone, so I could send out for pizza.”

“No, really.”

“Just one thing? Besides you, you mean? Duct tape, I guess.”

“You and your duct tape.”

“It's mighty handy stuff. What would you take?”

“My guitar, I guess. Or a never-ending book. I'm running out of things to read.” I've been borrowing paperbacks from Mama's friends, but most of them are romance or horror.

“Yeah, it'd be nice to have a library around here.”

“It'd be nice to have anything around here,” I say. “Let's face it: This
is
a desert island.”

“It's not that bad. We're not trapped here forever.”

I'm not so sure. Daddy's settling in, talking less often about San Francisco. People look up to him; they ask his opinion. He's admired by everyone but a former car salesman who was the resident bigwig until my father arrived. Daddy's organized a softball team and a police force. He and Dave practice target shooting near the cliffs. Dave traded him a gun for a Confederate flag Mama picked up in a flea market.

Some of the people have lived here for years. They say the beach is brutal in the winter, bleak and freezing. Summer's the easy season. There's plenty of fish and wild blackberries, and vegetables grown in inner-tube gardens. Once a week people drive up to the food pantry in Fort Bragg and get day-old bread and canned goods and powdered milk. We have potluck cookouts. Everybody shares. If we ever get to leave, I'll miss these people.

“When do you think you'll be moving?” Rocky asks casually, as if he's checking the time. It's a painful subject. I want to leave River's End, but I don't want to say good-bye to him.

“Pretty soon. We've got to find a place to live before school starts. Do you think you'll be heading down that way?”

“Maybe. I've got to find some work.”

“What about school?”

He shrugs. “Maybe later. The main thing now is making some money. I might go inland, over near Cloverdale. Dave says there's some fairs there in the summer.”

“Be a carny person? Your teeth are too good. Carny people have terrible teeth.”

“Dentists cost money,” Rocky says quietly.

We haven't been to a dentist in years. Erica's teeth poke out like a beaver's. I try to get her to quit sucking her thumb. I will, she promises, but it slides back in. She doesn't even know she's doing it.

I stand and brush sand off my jeans. “I better get back and help Mama with supper. You want to eat with us?”

“You should check with them first.”

“Good idea. Can I use your phone?”

“I mean, maybe they don't want me coming over all the time.”

“You don't come over all the time. It's fine.”

“I can bring some bread.”

“Save it for later. We've got plenty of food.” Daddy won't be pleased to see him, but that's not news.

As we climb the beach, jagged words blow in our faces. A man named Joe is yelling at his son. Janice says Joe beats up his wife. The wife tells people, “I'm so dorky. I fell down,” a shamefaced grin beneath her blackened eyes.

Now her little boy falls down while she wrings her hands and pleads, “Joey, don't. Joey, please, he didn't mean to!”

Joe slaps the kid's face and punches his arm. Smacks his head. The little boy's crying.

Something sharp tears loose inside me. I'm sick of hearing children cry.

“Leave him alone!” I say. “You can't hit him like that!”

“I can't?” Joe looks at me, amazed, almost smiling.

“Are you crazy? He's just a little boy! Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?”

The man's eyes measure me. “How about you?”

“You could try,” I say. “I wouldn't advise it.”

Rocky steps between us. “Come on, Mary. We'll go get your dad.”

“Back off. I can handle this.” I push him aside. Fury has burned up all my fear.

Joe snarls, “Didn't anybody ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“It is my business. You can't hit him like that.”

“He's my kid! I can do what I want!” Joe steps toward me. “I can hit anybody I feel like!”

“Try it. Go ahead. See what happens.” My tingling fingers curl into fists.

“You're crazy.” Joe sneers, but he looks uneasy.

“That's right, I am.” I feel hard as stone. I could pound him to death with my heart.

“Mary, let's go get your dad,” Rocky begs.

“He's not your property! You can't treat him like that! If you and your wife want to kill each other, go ahead! Everybody here will be glad. But leave him out of it! He's just a little kid! You're supposed to love him, not hurt him!”

I'm yelling so loud that people come running; Dave and Janice and some others. My father shoulders through the crowd, inflated with self-importance and worry.

He's stunned to see me. “Mary, what are you doing?”

“Telling this jerk he can't beat up his kid.”

“This bitch—” Joe begins but Daddy's got him by the throat, bent across the hood of his old wrecked car.

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Dave pulls them apart. “Let's everybody calm down. Joey, come on, man!”

“It's none of her business what I do!”

“Come on, man,” Dave says. “We're all good people here. She's just trying to help.”

“She can help by butting out! Ask my wife; the kid got what he deserved! Ask my wife! She'll tell you!”

The woman doesn't speak up, for her husband or her son. She leans against Janice, sobbing. The little boy scowls at everyone, as if we're the biggest crowd of clowns he's ever seen.

Daddy turns on Rocky. “What're you standing there for? Why didn't you defend her?”

“I don't need defending! You know what I need?” I shout at my father, at the circle of faces. “I need people to act like grown-ups for a change! There's rules, you know! Rules and regulations!”

“Mary's right,” Dave says. “Joe knows better than that. He just got a little carried away.”

“That's bullshit,” I say. “The guy's a psycho. And she's just as bad. What're you crying for, lady? For yourself or your little boy? You and this bozo can beat each other to a pulp. I don't care what you do. You can hit the road. But the boy stays here, with people who'll love him.”

“He's not your kid!” she wails. “You can't take him!”

“No, but the county can. All I have to do is make one phone call—”

“That's enough, Mary,” Daddy says. “You're not in charge here.”

“Then who the hell is?”

“Calm down, Mary. We'll take care of it,” Dave promises. “Joe knows he can't act that way.”

“You're listening to her? I don't believe this!” But beneath his bluster, Joe's scared. His car doesn't run. He depends on Dave.

“Remember what I said. I'll be watching you,” I warn him.

“Mary, did you hear me?” Daddy says. “Go home.”

“I don't have one.” I stare into my father's eyes until he turns away.

Twelve

“Mary,” Daddy said, “what you need to understand is that we're living on the new frontier.”

He aimed the pistol and fired. A hole bloomed in the target. He handed me the gun. “You try it.”

“I hate guns, Daddy.”

“I hate them, too. But the world's full of nuts.”

“And I don't want to be one.”

“Go ahead and shoot.”

“Why do I have to do this? Why can't Mama learn instead of me?”

“You know she won't. It's too much for her, Mary. Aim at the circle in the middle. That's his heart.”

“We never had any guns before. Why do we have to have one now?”

“Look around you, honey,” he said gently. “I'm not just talking about this place. The whole country's changed. Life's different now. People used to care, used to help each other out. Now some of them would kill you for a parking space.”

“Great,” I said. “This will sure come in handy at the supermarket.”

We were way down the beach, where the sand ends in cliffs. The blue-gray pistol was heavy and small. I raised the gun and fired. A hole appeared in the plywood, almost at the instant I heard the shot.

“This thing's too loud.”

“A little noise won't hurt you. Try again.”

“Daddy, what's the point? I could never use a gun on a real person.”

“Not even if that person was hurting your family? What if a stranger threatened Mama and the kids? Would you stand there and say, ‘Please don't hurt us, Mr. Nutcase!'?”

“Maybe, unless he was made of wood. Anyway, you'd get him.”

“I might not be home. I might be at work. You're the oldest, Mary. These are things you need to know.”

“Not in San Francisco.”

“The city's even worse. No place is really safe these days. You know that. You read the newspapers.”

“Then Mama should learn, too.”

He looked patient and pained. “Mama's a girl.”

“What's that make me?”

“Don't make that face. You know what I mean. I can't even get her to drive a car. Mama grew up in a different time. She was raised for a world that doesn't exist anymore.”

“It never existed.”

“You're too hard on your mother. She's not strong like you. She needs people to love and protect her.”

“She's not a child.”

“I didn't say she was. Here, let me show you how to load it.”

“What did Mama do before she met you?”

“Waited for me to come and rescue her.” He smiled. “Worked in her parents' store. Your mama's not one of these modern gals who wants to make a lot of noise and rule the world. All she ever wanted was a home and family.”