Finding Home (3 page)

Unbidden, envy and resentment swelled within Phoebe. Why,
if she had a house like that…if she had a square yard for flowers and vegetables...if she had land...she could send for Ma and Pa and Erlene, get them out from under her brother Joey and his new wife, Vinnie. What with only a four-room house, Vinnie didn’t like the crowded conditions. She wore a permanent frown to prove it. Atop all that Vinnie was mean to Erlene. It wasn’t Erlene’s fault that she was loose-minded.

The truck hit a deep rut. Phoebe let go the wishful thinking and put her
mind back on her present predicament. She needed to hide the truck and find a vantage point from which to spy on G. G. Morgan. The instant he left his truck untended she meant to retrieve her bumper and be gone.

She found a number of sheds and lean-tos, one of which was tilting precariously beyond the bulwark that held back a twisting saltwater
estuary. Beyond the estuary, on the other side was the bayou that fed into the great expanse of the bay.

Phoebe
’s gaze went to the bay and farther, to the horizon. She had never seen the ocean. She had lived all her life in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains where cotton and corn fields backed up to thick evergreen forests made dark and mysterious by creeping kudzu vines that could encroach on a garden or climb a sixty-foot pine—and do it overnight, some old-timers swore. Not a speck of kudzu hereabouts, Phoebe noted. That’d make Ma happy.

She backed the truck between two of the sheds, wedging in as far as she
dared. Getting out of the driver’s seat, she wiped the sweat beads from her nose and forehead with a quick duck of her head in the crook of her bent arm. The wind blew, cooling her more. She sniffed, inhaling the rich smell of warm earth and salt marsh. The air was sweet and delicious. Honeysuckle blooming somewhere or blackberries mayhap. The idea of blackberries boiled up with sugar and dumplings made her mouth water.

As she retraced her path on foot, she noted a coop, disused, the gate hanging. Lor! But she could see hens nesting, eggs gathered.
Tomatoes and turnips sprouting where weeds grew. That one man owned so much—and did so little with it—was beyond comprehension. It was unholy.

“
What’re you doing out there?”

Phoebe froze. Her eyes darted, looking for the source of the voice. There came a squeak of unoiled hinges. She looked to the back of the house and saw a child standing just insi
de the screened door. Phoebe approached the back porch. She didn’t know why, but she never expected the junkyard owner to have relations. More specifically she didn’t expect a wife or child. A stab of disappointment caused the image of sparking eyes and callused hands to flit through her mind. She should’ve suspected it, most hardworking men had already been spoken for.

“
I’m lookin’ for G. G. Morgan,” she said to the girl.

“
He’s not here.”

The child, Phoebe could tell as she got closer, was about nine. She had an abundance of brown hair that needed brushing and a dirt-streaked, sunburned face that needed scrubbing. Altogether the girl looked as unkempt as the yard. Phoebe couldn
’t countenance a straight-minded woman letting yard and house and child lag so. Even Erlene, as cloudy-minded as she was, could do better.

“
Is your ma here, then?” she asked.

The eyes, thick-lashed as G. G. Morgan
’s, became apprehensive. “No. She’s gone.”

“
Where to?”

“
Heaven.”

“
Oh.” That explained it. Child, yard and house didn’t have a woman’s touch. Logic carried Phoebe to the thought that neither did the man. Disappointment fled. Opportunity raised its head and looked Phoebe square in the face. Stepping onto the porch, she chased away logic before it had a chance to gel. The kitchen was visible through the screen. Dirty dishes were on the table, piled on the sink. Dust, so old it had lost its color, lay on every surface from windowsill to chair backs. Hungering for things she didn’t have, Phoebe itched to take up scrub brush and mop, just to have the feel of the familiar in her hands.

The child was staring at her, Phoebe plumbed her mind for what to do or say.
“Is G. G. Morgan your pa?”

The girl nodded.
“You’re not supposed to be in the backyard. You want something you have to pay for it around front.”

“
I was just on my way.” She couldn’t keep from asking, “Who tends to you when your pa ain’t here?”

The child
’s eyes shifted, the brooding stare becoming an angry glower. “I take care of myself. I don’t need nobody. Mind your own business.”

Phoebe bristled.
“You need boxin’ on the ears to teach you manners. It ain’t polite to talk to your elders that way.”

“
You’re not my elder. You look like a rag picker.”

Phoebe gathered all five feet of herself into one proud and stiff frame.
“That’s what I done all my working life until the mills shut down. When I see your pa, first thing I’m gonna tell him is that your tongue needs a set-to with Octagon soap.” She spun off the porch and went to locate Maydean and Willie-Boy. For certain she didn’t want them connecting with G. G. Morgan’s girl. Maydean and Willie-Boy were ornery enough without learning new ways to go about it.

Maydean was still at the mirror, trying out different ways to pucker lips and flutter lashes.
“Where’s Willie-Boy?” Phoebe asked.

“
Droolin’ over that bike.”

“
He ain’t. Maydean, I told you to watch your brother. Get outta there and help me look. No tellin’ what pile of junk he’s hidin’ behind or climbin’ about.”

“
It’s too hot to go huntin’ him up. I’m thirsty.”

“
Dead people don’t thirst, Maydean. And that’s what you’re gonna be if you don’t crawl outta that wreck and help me find Willie-Boy. I don’t want us in sight when Gage Morgan trots back here. I aim to slip our bumper and ride out like lightnin’.”

“
A mule walkin’ backwards can go faster than our old truck. He’ll catch us.”

“
It won’t do him any good. I aim to tape our license tag to the inside back window. If he catches up to us, we’ll just roll our windows up and outwait him. One thing I figure Gage Morgan don’t have is patience.”

She called out for her brother, but met only silence.

“He’s prob’ly playin’ hide ‘n’ seek,” suggested Maydean.

“
If he is, he’ll have to seek a new hide when I get done with him.”

Phoebe
’s own patience was wearing thin. She didn’t like Willie-Boy being out of her sight. The junkyard was rife with paths going every which way around heaps of old tires, wrecked cars and boats. All of which must look adventurous to a five-year-old with the urge to explore.

To Phoebe every pile
of rubble held danger. Willie-Boy could be suffocating under a mountain of old tires, lying broken beneath a slide of metal, dead in high weeds, snakebit. With a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she sent Maydean one way; she went another.

She couldn
’t help thinking that it had all been too easy. Outside of G. G. Morgan setting his sights on her bumper, being led straight here by the police when he could’ve just as easily given her a ticket, finding a good place to hide the truck...
Things just don’t go easy for people and even if it did, something’s bound to come and spoil it.

“
Knew it!” she muttered when she found Willie-Boy draped over the prow of an old wooden boat on the bank of the estuary. He was suffering an attack of asthma and gasping for air. “It...come...on me...sudden,” he rasped.

Phoebe
’s spirit sagged. She was running out of money, hadn’t found a job, hadn’t found a house and she had two kids in hand to feed. One of whom had now gone and got sick.
If the Lord is watching over me, where’s my share of help?
she wondered, feeling a stab of pity for herself. But she felt sorrier for Willie-Boy. Asthma was a beast, a hungry beast, and it sapped his strength, took away his good times, kept him sitting up at night, kept him housed when he’d rather be playing, seeing to little-boy junkets and adventures. The attacks scared him. He always thought he was going to die.

“
I’m going to pick you up, Willie-Boy,” she crooned. He hardly weighed more than a tubful of wet washing. “There’s a nice shady porch out back of that house yonder. Soon’s we get out outta this hot old sun, you’ll be fine.”

Maydean
’s path had led her back to the old car. Anxious to practice puckering again no doubt, Phoebe thought. Willie-Boy’s gasping was getting worse. She yelled at Maydean. “Don’t you even think once of climbin’ back in that wreck, Maydean Hawley! Get round here where I parked the truck and get the inhaler. Willie-Boy’s havin’ an attack.”

Phoebe put Willie-Boy on the back porch, propping him against one of the supports. The terrible sucking sounds he made trying to draw in oxygen made her wince. His face was red and sweat was pouring off him. Hesitantly, the girl cam
e out of the house and stood beside Phoebe. Interest had replaced her sullen expression.

“
What’re you doing? What’s wrong with him? You’re not supposed to be back here.”

“
I need a bowl of ice and a rag,” Phoebe told her. “A clean rag,” she added recalling the state of the kitchen.

“
My daddy won’t like—”

Phoebe glared at the child.
“You get me a bowl of ice and a clean rag. What your daddy might not like is my brother dyin’ right here on his back porch. Quick now,” she said more gently when the child’s eyes flared with fear. Maydean brought the inhaler. Phoebe shoved it in Willie-Boy’s mouth. It took him a half dozen good gasps to get the medication into his throat and down into his lungs. The terrible sucking sounds abated.

“
What’s your name?” Phoebe asked when the girl returned bearing ice cubes and a rag, gray and musty smelling.

“
Dorie Morgan.”

“
Well, you done good, Dorie Morgan.” Phoebe began to wipe Willie-Boy down with rag-wrapped ice. When he began to take interest in his surroundings, when she saw his gaze go curiously to the girl, she handed him the rag and told him to keep at it himself.

“
I almost died, didn’t I Phoebe?”

“
You didn’t even come close. But when I whollop you for running and scampering in the sun like that, you’re gonna wisht you hadda died.”

“
What the hell’s going on here?” G. G. Morgan came out the screened door letting it slam behind him.

Phoebe
’s heart sank. All her advantage lost. She stood tall and glowered at him, sloe-eyed.

“
You said to meet you here to get my bumper back. I’m here.”

The junkyard owner looked at his daughter, at Maydean, at Willie-Boy before settling once again on Phoebe.
“You turned up seventy dollars that quick?”

“
Ain’t turned up nothin’ but here.”

“
This is private property. When you get the money, come to the front. That shed by the gate.”

“
Can’t,” said Phoebe, latching onto a blameworthy reason to give her some leverage. “When you hit us that lick this morning the excitement made Willie-Boy come down with a spell of asthma. After we got here, like you told us to, invited us practically, he knocked himself out on a piece of your junk. He can’t be moved unless it’s to a hospital. Reckon you want to pay the hospital bill?”

“
Pay! Lady, I’m not paying for a damn thing. Your careless driving caused that wreck. And there’s a sign on the gate that I’m not responsible for accidents.”

“
A sign don’t mean nothing except that you know your property ain’t safe. Willie-Boy’s the proof of that I reckon. Anyhow, it’s your word against mine. More so the word of a Hawley is as good as you can get since the beginning of America. You want to call it even and give me back my bumper, we’ll just be on our way.”

Gage was aware that he didn
’t know a lot about handling women or children. It seemed to him that the caustic-tongued redhead didn’t fit either category. She was too old to be a child and too rail-thin to be called a woman. What he did know was the bottom line. He spoke it, “Seventy dollars or no bumper.”

“
Ain’t got seventy dollars--yet.”

Phoebe watched his mouth get thin-lipped. The thinner it got, the deeper became the frown between his eyes. The frown didn
’t hurt his looks any. But now wasn’t the time to study on the man’s looks. Still, her eyes strayed to the laundry-made creases in his shirt, his tanned, muscled arms, the balled fists propped at his belt line. She had the notion that a virtuous woman never stared at a man below the waist, so she dragged her eyes back to his face.

“
You’ll have to leave,” said Gage. “When you get the money to repair my truck, you can have your bumper.”

Phoebe heard him, glared at him and thrust her chin out. She knew the set of her jaw didn
’t make her look her best. Ma always said a body could set a dime on her chin when Phoebe’s dander was up. Well, her dander was up. She could feel bile racing through her veins. When a woman got mad, a woman could get anything she wanted—if she just had the gumption to stay mad and not let up.