Mary Wolf (15 page)

A couple of cars pass, packed with families. Kids hang out the windows, gawking at Rocky. Another car pulling a trailer speeds by.

“How'm I doing?”

“Not too good. Do you think wearing a trash bag has something to do with it?”

“I need a sign. That would help.”

“You could write it on your arm.”

“Then people would really think I'm crazy.”

Another car approaches and slows down; then the driver checks out Rocky and keeps going.

“Boy, talk about an anticlimax,” I say. “You're supposed to kiss me and ride off into the sunset.”

“I'm trying, I'm trying. Geez, my thumb is getting tired.”

“You could hold up your leg.”

“Yeah, maybe a dog would stop.”

We keep waiting and waiting.

“This could take all day,” he says.

“I hope not. The suspense is killing me. I don't want to have to keep saying good-bye.”

“I'll never forget you, Mary.”

“You better not. Get ahold of my aunt in a while. She'll know where we are. I'll let her know you'll be calling.”

“That'd be good. Otherwise she might think I'm some nut who's bothering you.”

“She would if she could see you right now.”

“It's just a trash bag, for God's sake! It's keeping me dry.”

“You should write that on a sign. People probably think you escaped from the dump.”

A pickup passes him, then stops and backs up. The driver's long hair is tied with a bandanna. Two smiling women sit beside him. They unroll the window and music blares out.

The driver leans toward Rocky. “Where you headed, man?”

“Cloverdale.”

“Nobody goes to Cloverdale,” one of the women says, giggling.

“I can give you a ride to the junction; then I'm headed south.”

“That's fine. I'll take it.”

“You'll have to ride in back, man. There's no room up front. Sorry.”

“No problem.” Rocky tosses his knapsack in the bed of the truck and climbs in, sitting with his back against the cab.

“Maybe I'll see you next week,” he tells me.

“Maybe. Take care. I'll be seeing you, Rocky.”

“That's for sure.” He holds up his tattooed wrist. “This arm is sacred. I'll never wash it.”

“I'll remember that the next time you hug me.”

The truck pulls onto the highway, spitting gravel from the tires. The tires aren't bad. He'll be okay. He salutes me with his tattooed arm. I turn on the flashlight and wave it back and forth until the truck rounds a curve and Rocky's gone.

Sixteen

Two days later the rangers came by and told us the county was closing the beach and everybody had to leave.

“How much time have we got?” Daddy asked them.

“Hard to say,” Rita said. “Couple of weeks, couple of months. Depends how much pressure they're getting from the top.”

“Those people up there?” Daddy aimed his eyes at the ridge.

“No, the state,” Rita said, but he wasn't listening.

“I'd like to show those people what pressure feels like. Let them see how it feels at the bottom. Bunch of rich bastards, think they're better than everyone.”

“Come on, Andrew,” Tom said. “You knew this was coming.”

The news thundered through the campground. People swarmed around Daddy like frightened children in a storm, begging him for shelter, for answers.

“Andrew, what are we going to do, man?” Dave asked. “Maybe you should call the TV people, or we could do that other stuff you said.”

“I don't know what you're going to do,” Daddy told him, “but as soon as the battery comes, we're leaving.”

The crowd buzzed, shocked. People looked puzzled, lost.

“What about the lawyer?” Janice asked. “You said we could get a lawyer to help us.”

“Maybe you can, but we're moving on. I've got a job waiting in San Francisco. I talked to them this morning. They want me down there right away. I wish I could stay and help you.”

Dave looked stunned, but he patted Daddy's shoulder. “No, man, it's okay. You gotta do what you gotta do. We'll go up and get that battery tomorrow.”

“You said we could fight it.” Janice's voice was shrill. “You said you were going to help us.”

Daddy got angry, too. “Hey, look: I'm not God. I'm not the Wizard of Oz. What do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to do what you said you'd do! You're just like those people up there! You've got yours and the hell with everybody else!”

“Honey, don't,” Dave said. “It's not his fault.” She leaned against him, sobbing. He led her away.

Daddy went into the RV and opened a beer. “Christ, I'll be so glad to get out of here,” he said.

Daddy and I installed the new battery the next morning, but the engine wouldn't turn over. It didn't even whimper. Daddy raged around the RV, punching and kicking it. Mama stood on the steps, drying her hands with a dish towel, afraid to ask him what was wrong.

“Acting like that won't do any good,” I said.

“Oh, really? Thanks for pointing that out.”

“Being sarcastic won't help either.”

“I don't think you appreciate our situation, Mary. We've got to get this thing running. We've got to get out of here!”

He looked like he wanted to smash the windshield, finishing the job the crack had started.

“Maybe it's the plugs.”

“It's not the plugs. They're almost new.”

“Well, it's got to be something.”

“That's brilliant, Mary. Let me jot that down.”

“Don't take it out on me! It's not my fault!”

“Are you sure you put it in right?” Mama ventured timidly. “Maybe some of the wires got crossed.”

Daddy stared at her incredulously. “Speaking of crossed wires, since when are you an expert on the RV? Butt out and let me handle this, Wendy.”

“I'm just saying—”

“Don't say anything at all.”

“Andrew, you shouldn't talk to me like that.” She stuck out her chin, but her voice trembled.

“I don't want to talk to you at all right now. Just get out of here and let me think.”

“I'm not a child—”

“Get out of here, I said!”

She withdrew inside the Wolfs' Den and slammed the door.

“I hate it when you act like that,” I said.

He sat beside me on the ground and rubbed his face, smearing engine oil across his chin.

“You're right. I'm a jerk. I apologize. Does everyone hear me? I apologize! I apologize for everything, whatever it is! The thing is, Mary, I'm not a magician. Whatever goes wrong, she expects me to fix it. The RV won't run? Here's a new engine! We need more money? Here's a thousand up my sleeve! Well, Andrew Wolf's bag of tricks is empty, as empty as his goddamn wallet.”

“Dave might know what's wrong. He knows a lot about cars.”

But Dave didn't know what was wrong with the RV. He and Louie and Abalone John spent hours under the engine hood. Mama brought out potato chips and beer. Daddy whispered in her ear and nuzzled her cheek. She accepted his kisses and apology and took Andy and the girls to the beach.

Dave shook his head. “I don't know what's wrong with this thing. I've never worked on this kind of motor before.”

“We could ask Big Ed,” Abalone John said.

Daddy shook his head. “He's crazy.”

“He may be strange but he knows engines,” Dave said. “He had his own shop in the East Bay.”

“If he's so good, what's he doing here?”

“Let's put it this way: He had some problem with the boys.”

“The boys?”

“He used to be a Hell's Angel.”

“So?”

“It was a bad deal or something. Maybe he narced on them, I don't know. I don't want to know. All I know is, he can't go back. There's people looking for him and it ain't the cops.”

“No, I don't want him around here,” Daddy said.

“You want this rig running? You want to get out of here? It can't hurt to ask him.”

“You ask him,” Daddy said.

Dave limped off toward Big Ed's hut. He came back alone.

“He's coming,” Dave said. “He was taking a nap.”

“Getting his beauty rest,” Louie said.

“Mary, go inside.”

“Daddy, he's not going to eat me.”

“You never know,” Louie said. Abalone John laughed. I stayed where I was, on the RV's steps. I was curious to see the man up close.

In a while Big Ed loomed across the sand.

“Geez, he's bigger than God,” John whispered.

The sun was hot but Big Ed wore leather, black pants and a vest over his matted chest. His enormous boots were draped with chains. His long hair was stiff with sweat.

“What's the problem?” he growled.

“We don't know,” Daddy said. “It just won't start. Care for a beer?” Daddy tossed him a can and Big Ed drained it, a trickle cutting through his tangled beard.

“Got anymore?”

I brought out another can and handed it to him. He smelled powerfully of feet and gasoline. Big Ed emptied and dropped the can. Dave picked it up and put it in his vest pocket.

“Got a cigarette?”

Dave gave him one, then lit one for himself and offered me the pack.

“I quit,” I told him. “It didn't make me feel too good.”

“That's funny.” Dave pretended to cough up his lungs. “It makes me feel like a million bucks.”

“Green and wrinkled,” Louie added, lighting up. Big Ed got under the hood with his cigarette. It seemed dangerous but nobody mentioned it.

Big Ed tugged on wires. He sniffed the engine. He plucked out the battery and asked for a wrench.

“What's wrong? Did they sell me a crummy battery? Maybe the battery's no good,” Daddy said. “Is that the problem?” Big Ed ignored him. Dave signaled Daddy not to bug him.

Big Ed straightened up and wiped his hands on his pants.

“Thirsty,” he said, looking at me.

I brought out another beer. He gulped it down and belched. Dave offered him the pack of cigarettes. He kept it.

“Can you see anything wrong? What's the problem?” Daddy asked. “Is there a problem with the battery?”

“Head's cracked,” Big Ed said, looking bored.

“What's that mean?”

“Means you're fucked. Look at here.” Big Ed pointed with the wrench. “See this? The head's cracked.”

“Can't it be fixed?”

The biker looked at Daddy as if he were stupid. “Yeah, with a new one.”

“Andrew, it needs a new engine,” Dave explained gently.

Daddy sagged. “That'll cost a fortune.”

“You got it.” Big Ed nodded. “Coupla thousand, at least.”

“A couple of thousand! I don't have a coupla thousand!”

Big Ed shrugged. “You don't have a engine, either. What you got is a piece of shit on wheels.”

Daddy's eyes bulged. The cords on his neck stood out. I was afraid he was going to start shouting.

Dave read the signs, too. He shook Big Ed's hand and walked him away. “Thanks for coming down here, Ed. We really appreciate it. I'll come by later and bring that fish.”

“You won't forget?” It wasn't a question.

“No way. I'll be there.”

“Bring plenty,” Big Ed said.

The men watched him go, then crowded around my father, murmuring words of sympathy, as if a family member had died.

“Man, what a bummer,” Abalone John said.

“Tough break, Andrew,” Louie said. “What're you going to do now?”

“I don't know.” Daddy sounded vague, as if he wasn't following the conversation.

“Andrew, it's not the end of the world, man,” Dave said. Everything that's broken can be fixed.”

“Not without money.”

“You'll get the money. There's no sense beating yourself up over this thing.”

I wasn't worried about Daddy beating himself up. I was worried about what would happen to us when the men went home.

“Well, I gotta go catch some fish for Ed,” Dave said. “Let's hope they'll bite, or he will.”

“Thanks,” Daddy said. “Thanks for everything.”

“Hey, no problem. That's what friends are for.”

Daddy grabbed Dave's arm. “Maybe he's wrong about the engine. Are you sure he knows what he's talking about?”

“Only when it comes to motors and drugs. Take it easy, Andrew. It'll be all right.”

“Don't let it get you down,” Louie added, walking away.

Mama and the kids were coming up from the beach. They waved at Daddy. He just looked at them blankly, as if they were strangers, shadows.

He's acting differently than I thought he would. Not breaking things, not shouting. He's sitting in the driver's seat, staring out the window, as if he's traveling on an unpaved road through country he's never seen.

Mama put the girls to bed right after supper.

“Daddy's tired,” she explained. They didn't complain; they could feel the tide of tension rising.

He wouldn't eat dinner. He's been drinking brandy. He keeps it in his bedside drawer, with the gun. I was afraid he'd notice the gun was gone, but he was in a hurry for the bottle.

He wouldn't, you know, hurt anyone, but he might get mad and go up on the ridge and wave the gun around. If they had guns too, something bad might happen. Besides, I was scared one of the kids would find it. They're supposed to stay out of that drawer, but kids do stupid things. They forget. I've begged him to leave the gun unloaded. He won't.

“What good would that do in an emergency? What would I say: ‘Please wait here, Mr. Psycho, while I find my bullets'? Nuts aren't especially cooperative, Mary. That's what makes them nuts.”

“Kids aren't especially cooperative either. That's what makes them kids.”