Steal the North: A Novel (9 page)

“I’ll teach you to drive over the summer. You’re plenty old enough.” We passed a rodeo arena, more trailers, a few churches, and gas stations where families with trucks and boats and all kinds of fishing gear were filling up gas cans and ice chests.

“Mom won’t give permission,” I said. “Actually what I mean is—I’m scared.”

“We’ll stick to county roads at first. You can’t get hurt on those, unless you drive into a canal.” He smiled.

Mom had sounded strange on the phone both times I’d talked to her—distant, for starters. She’d always been a little remote. Maybe it had made it easier to hide her past? But now she also sounded defeated, which unsettled me. The one time I’d talked on the phone to Connor he’d sounded the opposite of defeated. His parents, despite his deplorable grades, had just bought him a brand-new Acura. He’d been driving his cousin’s old one. So much for his stance against suburbia. I waited to call Mom until the next morning, Sunday, after Aunt Beth and Uncle Matt left for church, and I could take a Vicodin pill (my third ever). I asked Mom right away about driving lessons with Matt, almost hoping she’d forbid them.

“I don’t see why not,” she replied, to my amazement. “Hold on.” She put her hand over the receiver. Long pause. “Spencer said it sounds like a great plan.”

She’d actually asked his opinion? That was a rarity. “He’s there? That’s cool.”

“Why’s that
cool
?”

“I don’t like the thought of you all alone.”

She laughed but didn’t sound amused. “I’m a big girl, Emmy.”

Changing the subject, she asked about my morning plans. I told her I was going out to tend Beth’s herb garden.

“
Tend
,” Mom said. “You’re starting to talk like her.”

Beth occasionally used old-fashioned words—biblical, though they also sounded like Shakespeare. Or even the Brontës. I liked them.

“I wish you could see how nice her garden is.” I bragged how I was learning the names of the different plants. There was a bench where I planned to sit and read
Sister Carrie
. I didn’t tell her I hoped to catch another glance of the handsome neighbor boy whom I’d caught staring my way the other day. Connor had stared at me intently for a month—just long enough for me to think maybe he despised me or found me ridiculous—before slipping a naughty note in my locker.

“You okay, Mom?” Shouldn’t she be asking me this? “I miss you.”

“You’ve only been gone a week.” I felt stupid. She probably didn’t even miss me yet. I didn’t really miss her. It was the pill making me sentimental. “It seems longer,” she said. Then, with a hint of sorrow, she added, “So much longer.”

So, she
did
miss me, and she was right that it seemed longer. She was also right about the trailer seeming suffocating, or at least the carpeting. We had hardwood floors in our apartment. I’d been staring at the carpeting while talking to her. Its dingy blah threatened to erase time. Aunt Beth kept the kitchen blinds closed all day because the jars of essential oils needed shade. But she said I could open the living room blinds (I wished I could open the windows) whenever I wanted to, which I had that morning as soon as they’d left for church. Beth usually kept the living room blinds closed too, she admitted, so the carpet stains (probably from previous miscarriages, I later realized with anguish) wouldn’t show up as badly. She’d tried to scrub them clean over the years, she told me, but they only got worse, and there was no need to replace the carpeting since she and Uncle Matt were going to buy a new house as soon as they had a baby. Grabbing my sun hat, I walked carefully around the stains, which resembled undefined continents on a map, and then out the door.

Kate

My daughter’s been gone now a week and a half.

Unable to sleep, I brood on the couch at 2:00
A.M.
I can’t focus to grade papers or to read a novel, not even my favorite scenes from Hardy’s
Tess
. I keep trying to picture Emmy in eastern Washington: standing in sagebrush, the wind blowing her hair, or sitting inside Beth and Matt’s trailer, maybe eating dinner with them at the table, or walking down the same dusty sidewalks in town that I walked down at her age. Because I can’t visualize Emmy in the setting of my childhood, it feels as if she’s gone someplace farther away than Moses Lake. Or conversely, further back in time but also very much in the present, only completely out of reach. It’s hard to articulate. But I’m afraid, and I miss my little girl terribly. I drink a third glass of wine that I’ll regret come sunrise. It’s one of those cool valley nights, when the heat is broken by the delta breeze. The curtains blow lazily. I’m naked under my short robe, and a naked man sleeps in my bed. The atmosphere doesn’t fit my mood. And my teeth hurt.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the day I boarded a bus bound for California, I followed in the footsteps of the Donners and the Joads and the millions of others who have left their pasts behind to seek and, in my case, find redemption in the Golden State. It wasn’t easy. When I stepped off that Greyhound in Sacramento at nineteen years old, I was poor, brokenhearted, uneducated, tired, and Emmy had been crying inconsolably for hours for her aunt. I had tickets for L.A., but I couldn’t put another mile between Bethany and me.

The gold I dredged in California was education. I had to start at the bottom: adult education classes to get my GED. But the state helped every step of the way. I received grants to attend junior college. I struggled, having never taken a single science class, math beyond decimals and fractions, or much grammar. I’d cry in frustration. I’d cry for Jamie, but more often for Beth. I studied harder and read more books, trying to fill the emptiness. I sinfully went to the movie theater for the first time in my life and watched
E.T.
while Emmy slept in my arms. I bought my first rock-and-roll album, Bruce Springsteen, and an old TV so I could start following the news and Emmy could watch
Sesame Street
. I became a regular at the tutoring center. Even at two years old, Emmy knew how to be quiet in a library with crayons or a stack of picture books. The state allocated more aid when I transferred to Sacramento State University for my BA and eventually my MA. I took out student loans to help pay tuition, child care, and other expenses, but after a decade, I was finally graduated. I’ve been teaching at three junior colleges now for five years, which is a lot of commuting, but I hope I’ll get on full time at one soon. Then I can finally get my wisdom teeth pulled out. They’ve been impacted since I was pregnant. The top ones shift every six to twelve months, trying to emerge. The throbbing lasts for about a week, with the most intense pain coming in waves. Then they settle back down.

Emmy gave me direction and focus, but also determination. And now I want to help her get into a U.C., I hope U.C. Berkeley, which is the top public university in the country, and it blows her dad’s WSU out of the water. Does Emmy
really
plan on looking for her dad? For her sake, I hope not. I know how devastating it is to be rejected by the likes of Jamie Kagen. But if Jamie were to meet Emmy this summer, how could he turn his back? I used to think the same thing after first giving birth to Emmy: if only Jamie would come and actually see his baby girl and hold her and smell her. During my first year in California, the only way I could fall asleep at night was to imagine myself back on that lake at camp. I’d hold Emmy close and pretend my bed was the canoe and Jamie was rowing us. By morning he’d always left us adrift. I made it through college without the help of a man, including my dad, and so will Emmy.

Well, okay, one man helped me, two actually, but both early on, and for relatively short periods of time. The first was a married professor at American River College. He helped me financially for a while. That is to say, three times he bought me groceries, and once he paid the rent. He was intrigued by my “profound” biblical knowledge yet total lack of Christian beliefs. Also, he liked my young ass. He stimulated my love of literature, which, in the end, was about all he stimulated. But
what
a gift. Next there was Hector, an airman stationed at Mather Air Force Base. He was every bit as poor as I was. For months he visited nightly after Emmy had fallen asleep. He’d play me his favorite Hendrix songs, but mostly we listened to Journey while he cooked us homemade beans and rice and sometimes tamales on payday. He brought me 800 mg Motrin, which the military handed out like candy, for my teeth. He also helped me with math. We were more than compatible in bed. If it hadn’t been for my daughter, I could’ve stayed under the covers with Hector’s hands on me all weekend. Amen.

I almost called Beth after Hector got restationed. If he’d asked me to marry him and move with him to his new base in San Antonio, I probably would have. But alas, he didn’t. I felt so alone at night, my bed so cold. I worried the God of my childhood and of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob was punishing me for my moral laxity, to say nothing of my disbelief. The Hebrews wandering in the desert had nothing on me as far as lack of faith. I didn’t call Beth after Hector flew away on a C-5 because I didn’t want to break the promise I’d made to myself: to never look back. I was stronger than Lot’s wife—right? No more crusty tears. If my Baptist upbringing taught me anything, it’s the notion of “all or nothing.” God spews the lukewarm from his mouth.

After Hector, I occasionally dated fellow Sac State students. But I never invited them to the apartment when Emmy was there. I dated mostly ethnic men. I didn’t need a white man to remind me of Jamie or of all the boring church boys I’d grown up with. I had an intense two-month affair with a state lobbyist who swore he wasn’t married. I had a much longer but less intense affair with a U.C. Davis medical student. Finally he admitted there was no way his family in India or in San Jose would accept a woman who’d had a child out of wedlock. My litany of men ends with Spencer Hensley, who is in my bed now. We’ve been dating for four years, with one significant breakup. He’s white, and though he doesn’t have a degree, he’s skilled and works hard at more than sounding smart. He owns a small but reputable custom home-building business with his brother. They do beautiful work, especially in kitchens, which they don’t contract out. In my apartment, the kitchen is the least charming room. Emmy and I compensate by hanging postcards of places we’d like to visit, art, and vintage scenes on the cupboards, walls, and fridge.

Emmy took to Spencer instantly. I think it was the way he relaxed around her from the beginning. He didn’t push her to interact with him, but he also didn’t ignore her. At times their comradery gets under my skin. The first Sunday Spencer took Emmy to a Sacramento Kings basketball game, I cried after they left. I wasn’t jealous. That would be ridiculous, and he’d offered to buy me a ticket. No, thanks. I was just moved deeply by his appreciation of Emmy, and scared by it. Until Spencer, I’d managed to keep Emmy off the emotional roller coaster of a single mom’s boyfriends.

“Kate.”

He’s slept over every night since Emmy’s been gone, despite the fact I invited him to stay only the first three, and despite my lack of an air conditioner, which Spencer always claims, half-jokingly, makes my landlady a slumlord. He invited me to stay at his place, but all my books and Emmy’s things are here.

“I think I’ll take off,” he says, “if it will help you sleep.”

“What do you mean?” I put down my glass of wine next to a stack of student composition papers: two on cloning, two on gays in the military, three on health care reform, four on the death penalty, and, even though it’s almost a new century and I teach in the capital of California, sixteen on abortion. I know exactly what Spencer means. I’ve begun to feel agitated by his constant presence in the apartment—not that I want to be alone and certainly I don’t want him sleeping naked in another woman’s bed. But he can’t replace Emmy. The thought unnerves me. I tried to let him at first. I tried to be a better helpmeet: to cook for him, seek his advice, bring him cold ones, snuggle. But it’s not that simple. Or if it is, it’s not enough. What is wrong with me? Other single moms—single women, period—would bend over backward for Spencer. Maybe that’s just it. If only he were a little chubby or balding, or if he weren’t such a fine craftsman and lover. What can a woman do, really, when a man like Spencer walks into her life? She has to play hard to get. And keep on playing it. Or so I’ve convinced myself.

He heads to the table for his rolled blueprints. “Emmy’s okay, you know,” he says.

“How do
you
know?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking. You swear your sister and brother-in-law are good people, right?” I nod. “So maybe other than that absurd healing ceremony, this summer will turn out to be just what Emmy needs.”

Ten days ago Spencer was mad as hell at me, and he doesn’t get mad that often, for making Emmy go. Why the about-face? And what does he mean: “just what Emmy needs
”
? I ask him to elaborate, please.

He stops gathering up his prints. “Maybe being away from you this summer will force Emmy to grow up a little—a lot.”

“She’s pretty mature for her age.” I press on the back part of my cheek and jaw to ease the tooth pain. “You’ve said so many times.”

“In some ways, yes, Emmy’s
too
mature.” He moseys over and sits beside me on the couch as if I’d just popped in a VHS. “And she certainly has direction.” He pauses. “But it’s your direction, Kate. Not hers.”

I take a deep breath. “This comes from a thirty-five-year-old bachelor. Don’t presume—”

“I’m not presuming. I
know
Emmy.”

“You really don’t.” I laugh. “You know her good side. Her cheery, I-want-a-daddy, please-take-me-to-a-ball-game side.” That was cruel, even for me.

He stands up. “See you later.”

I didn’t mean to be an ogress. I don’t know
how
to accept advice on Emmy. I search on the coffee table for my tube of Anbesol. It’s been just my kid and me for so long—for always, except for Emmy’s first seven months.

Spencer takes a few steps, then turns back, as I was hoping. “I know Emmy’s scared-out-of-her-wits side. Her how-can-I-make-it-without-my-mommy side. I saw it at the airport.” He bends and grabs the Anbesol off the floor, where it must’ve fallen, and tosses it at me. “I love your daughter, Kate. She’s going to surprise us both one day.”

“Us?”

“Yes,
us
. Fucking
us
. Christ. Did you push away Emmy’s real dad this hard?”

“Fuck you.” I get to my feet. He’s never dared mention Emmy’s dad, except once, early in our relationship and not in the same context. My bathrobe falls open, and I let it. My body, for whatever reason, seems to hold some power over Spencer. Just as his body does over me. The first time he touched me, I knew there would be no holding back between the sheets with this man. “Fuck you,” I repeat, throwing the tube of Anbesol back on the floor like a child.

“Not to be crude, Kate, but you’ve been fucking me for four years.” He pulls my bathrobe together and starts to tie the belt. “I need more.”

I push his hands away and triple knot the belt. “You have no idea about that man, or my past.”

“You’ve made damn sure of that.”

He’s right. I have. Spencer knows my body more intimately than I do, which is stirring. But my past, I don’t want to dump that crap on anyone, especially not on someone as seemingly unscathed as Spencer. His hands are calloused from years of hard work, sure, which I greatly admire, even if he is the boss. But his heart has never been blistered, let alone calloused. His life, and he’d be the first to admit, has been pretty cushy. He’s made smart decisions, but also his parents gave him a huge leg up. He’s never been part of the great unwashed. He’s never been a single parent using WIC coupons at a grocery store while couples in line behind him flutter or huff. He’s never worried if a box of generic laundry soap will last until payday. He’s probably never spent a single Valentine’s Day alone—let alone ten in a row—pining for a first love, a blinking Appaloosa Inn sign, a shoddy motel room surrounded by a sea of wheat.

I try to move away from Spencer. “I don’t need you,” I say. I’ve been struggling to convince myself of that since the day we met.

He grabs my arm. “You need me, Kate. Feminist or not.” Now it’s his turn to laugh. “That’s what scares you. It’s always scared you.”

I pull free. “Oh, but I don’t.” I gesture toward my books and furniture.

“All I see is mismatched thrift store furniture,” he says. “It looks like a damn garage sale in here. I can provide better.”

That is the first mean thing he’s ever said to me. I try to keep my voice steady as I reply, “Emmy and I do just fine.”

“Emmy’s not here.
You
sent her away.”

That hits me, hard. “She’ll—she’ll be back.”