Hush Little Baby (17 page)

My mind wanders to places I don’t want it to go.

Doubt.
The mind’s mechanism that allows for possibility and forgiveness.

I try to squelch it, to force the resolve I had yesterday onto the present, but part of me’s already tired, wants to question my conviction, give up, go home, beg forgiveness. It bleeds like a cancer and feeds off my fear. Yesterday, I was so sure of myself. I had to get away, get the kids away, but today, my mind argues with itself, unable, unwilling, or simply not wanting to fully believe Gordon did what he did.

Like a leak—drip, drip, drip—maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe this is a mistake, a grave mistake, the biggest mistake of my life.

I can’t decide if it is fear of getting caught or fear of continuing on alone that scares me more, but cold feet are setting in simultaneously with doubt and this is no coincidence. If I don’t pull it together, it’s only a matter of time before I convince myself he didn’t do it and that we need to go back.

A chill shudders through my bones as I recall Jeffrey lying dead, and my mind rewinds. I imagine Jeffrey in the gymnasium, probably whistling—he liked to whistle—perhaps scouting for the spot where we could make love, turning at the sound of footsteps, thinking I’d arrived, surprised when he saw Gordon, scared when he saw the shotgun. The blast.

I squeeze my eyes shut to clear away the apparition and return to the moment and to thinking about our future.

Drew wakes, and he half intentionally wakes his sister with his squiggling so he won’t have to sit quietly waiting for her to get up on her own. I smile at the new buzz cut I gave him last night. His sandy curls have been trimmed to within a centimeter of his scalp, showing off his impish grin and the open handsomeness of his face.

My own hair has gone from tawny to deep brunette, and using a pair of sewing scissors, I shaped it into an abstract pixie cut that took a few years off my age and my dignity. Addie’s red hair is a problem.

In the mirror, I don’t recognize myself, and Drew looks like a different boy, but last night as I altered our looks, I couldn’t bring myself to cut Addie’s fiery locks. I settled for letting her pick out any hat she wanted at the truck stop. She chose a green one with a Mountain Dew logo on the front, a strip of yellow lightning on the bill, and the words “I love Dale Jr.” embroidered on the side. It’s man-size and covers most of her conspicuous hair and half her face.

She wears the hat with a pair of too large orange sweats, a dirty white T-shirt that advertises “Stonehenge, Maryville, Oregon,” and purple flip-flops. I cringe at the idea of my daughter growing up thinking Stonehenge is a twenty-first-century tourist attraction in the middle of an RV campground, but it was the only shirt the truck stop had in her size.

“I’m hungwry,” she says.

“We’re going to the diner right now to have breakfast.”

I finish stuffing the plastic laundry bag with our meager wardrobe and head out the door, holding it open for Addie and Drew to follow.

“I want waffles.”

I nod. “Okay. The diner has waffles.”

Drew walks through, but Addie holds her ground, her arms crossed in defiance across her chest, her colt legs wide. Her toes have spots of chipped purple sparkle polish on the big toes, and I wonder who painted them for her.

“Daddy’s waffles.”

I blink hard. “We can’t have Daddy’s waffles,” I manage. “Daddy’s still at home.”

“Then I want to go home.” And in her defiance are sadness and exhaustion, and I feel them, too, all the way from the roots of my newly dyed hair to the soles of my feet.

I walk back into the room, and Drew follows.

I kneel down and take hold of Addie’s shoulders at arm’s length. I give her all of me, my eyes so focused on her green ones I can see each gold speck. “We’re not going home,” I say.

Her eyes get wide, and her lip starts to quiver, and I pull her to me.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I say. “I’m so so sorry.” And I am.

*  *  *

We travel along the Columbia River, and when the highway turns south, I veer onto the 82 in order to prevent us moving backward, and when we see the 12, Drew insists we take it because that’s the number on his uniform.

An hour and a half later, we stop in the city of Yakima for a potty break and to pawn my wedding ring.

Rook Takes Pawn Shop is located on First Street on the east side of town. Its neighbors are a Laundromat and a used furniture store.

The bell jingles as we walk in. I’ve never actually been in a pawn shop, but it feels like I have. It’s exactly what I expected, an accumulated mass of lost dreams and failure—hundreds of instruments of musicians who never caught their lucky break, crowded aisles of exercise equipment that never got used, heirloom engraved Rolexes generations old, and hundreds of wedding rings.

A stout woman greets us from behind the counter. Her hair is the color of black plums, and the lids of her eyes are painted shocking blue.

I set my ring on the counter. It’s a two-carat oval with a platinum halo setting. It was a gift from Gordon for our fifth anniversary, an upgrade from the half-carat ring he’d proposed to me with.

The new ring was not only beautiful and expensive, it was perfectly chosen. Gordon knew me so well.

From a drawer behind the counter, the woman takes a jewelry loupe and holds the diamond to the light to examine it, her blue lid squinting against the lens.

She lowers the ring and the glass to the counter. “Three,” she says, and my heart jumps with happiness.
Three thousand.
I’m sure Gordon paid twice that, but I thought I’d get less than half what she’s offering.

“It’s a good Z,” she continues, “and the platinum setting’s high-quality.”

“Excuse me? A good Z?”

“Cubic zirconium. They did a good job with this one.”

I look for the joke, but there is none—the woman’s face is serious as stone.

I laugh anyway. I laugh so hard my stomach cramps.

“What’s funny?” Addie says, walking over from the keyboards.

“My ring,” I say, still laughing. “It’s a fake.”

“Like pwretend?”

I laugh harder. “Exactly, like pretend.”

“I’m sorry,” the lady says, stopping the humor. Like a war surgeon, she’s used to delivering bad news and offering thin consolation.

“So when you said three,” I ask, “you meant three hundred?”

40

I
t’s our third day on the road, and at noon we arrive in Grand Coulee, Washington. A small town developed around the Grand Coulee Dam. We stop in front of the Tee Pee Diner, and Drew cracks up at the name.

“I don’t want to dwrive anymowre,” Addie demands.

Drew nods.

I can’t help but nod along with them. My butt feels permanently molded to the seat.

“How about a picnic lunch along the water?”

We climb numbly from the car and stare at the wide river in front of us.

“Can we swim?” Addie asks.

I look at the running rapids and shake my head.

Addie looks so crestfallen it breaks my heart.

“Excuse me.” I turn to a man sitting on a bench in front of the diner. “Is there a river near here where the kids can get their feet wet?”

He’s got a great white beard and a round belly that hangs over his belt. He probably poses as Santa during the winter, but today he wears khaki shorts and a shirt that advertises Waylon Jennings. He scratches the beard in thought. “Elmer City,” he says. “It’s a few minutes up the road, but it’s got some great creeks.” He pronounces it cricks. “Flying Goat Kitchen is the place to eat, and they’ll point you to the best watering holes. Good people there and good food.”

“It means getting back in the car,” I say, unsure, but both kids are already skipping back to the parking lot.

*  *  *

Flying Goat Kitchen is a two-story clapboard house that sags in the middle, causing the two dormer windows on the second story to slant like questioning eyes. The sign is so faded you have to squint to make out the soaring goat behind the letters.

The man or woman at the hostess desk sits motionless as a statue. I think, “Sitting Bull,” as we approach. He/she is as wide as the desk, with ink-black, shoulder-length hair, folds of mahogany skin rolling beneath a fleshy face, and two slits for eyes set so deep I wonder how they see.

“Hello,” I say, when he/she offers no greeting. “Table for three.”

There’s a grunt, and the head tilts just the slightest to let us know we’re permitted to enter and choose our seat.

We move into the packed dining room, and every table is occupied. A few faces lift to look at us; most are white, a few are the color of our host. One scruffy, outback-looking man with whiskers at least a week old and a shirt that’s older than me gestures us over. Tentatively, I approach.

“Kids can join me,” he says, “and you can lunch with Fred.”

A man sitting at the next table over, dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers, acknowledges me with a mouthful grin and pulls out the chair beside him.

I’m ready to turn heel and leave, but the kids have already assumed their spots on either side of the mountain man. Dining with them is a well-dressed woman in her sixties reading the
Seattle Times
. This gives me some measure of comfort as I move to sit at Fred’s table.

I glance around for menus.

“Lunch today’s roast chicken, fritters, and peas,” Fred says.

Again, I’m ready to bolt and find the nearest Subway, but when I glance at Addie, the pickiest eater in the universe, she’s popping one of her neighbor’s corn fritters into her mouth and smiling. I reconsider and settle back to my seat.

“Not from around here?” Fred asks.

I shake my head. “Is this place always this busy?”

“Every day but God’s day and Monday.”

“Why not Monday?”

“Closed, and let me tell you, it’s a shame. Starve on those days. Get used to Goat’s cooking and it’s like a drug; can’t live without it.”

“Always only one thing on the menu?”

“What Goat cooks is what you eat.” Fred is probably forty. His hair is still dark, but thin on top. His body holds the remnants of an athlete, but his middle is soft.

A small woman, thin as a girl, brushes past carrying three plates; she plops one in front of each of my kids, then whirls and plops the third in front of me. Around me, people come and go, empty plates are snatched away, and full plates replace them. Fred continues to make pleasant conversation. He owns the general store in town, moved here when he got married a dozen years ago. He liked it, so he stayed. His wife didn’t, so she left.

I crane my neck to see how Addie and Drew are doing, and they’re just fine. The peas aren’t being touched, but the fritters and chicken might as well be M&M’S. I dig into my own food, and my taste buds burst to life. If I hadn’t chosen to be an architect, I’d have wanted to be a food critic.

Throughout my childhood, my dad and I traveled the country in search of lost treasure, adventure, genius (man’s and God’s), and good food. And I wish he were here to taste this. The chicken falls off the bone and tastes like it’s been basted in syrup, the corn fritters are light as air, and the peas tossed with sweet onions and roasted almonds—the entire meal cooked to perfection.

“No dieting in this place,” I say to Fred as I guiltily inhale another fritter.

“First three letters in diet’s a warning, I always say.” Fred chuckles, then stands. “Well, gotta go. It was nice chatting with you.”

He lays a ten on the table where his plate was, tips an imaginary hat to me, and leaves.

A man dark as pine bark and as craggy takes his place. The man has a long black braid down his back and is dressed in a suede shirt with fringe along the seams and hem. He eats his food with focus and doesn’t say a word.

I set my fork down, and the skinny girl whisks the plate away. I duly lay a ten in its place and sidle from my seat so the next waiting customer can have it. I put bills where my kids’ plates were, and they stand and follow me through the crowd.

As we leave, Sitting Bull holds out three brown bags to us—no words, just an extended arm with the bags.

We step into the sun and open our prize—each bag contains two bite-size chocolate macaroons. Addie has my sweet tooth and pops hers into her mouth in quick succession. “These awre soooo good,” she says through a mouthful of chocolate, then her mouth turns upside down when she realizes hers are all gone. I’m about to hand her my remaining one when Drew beats me to it. “Here, Ad,” he says. “You can have mine. I’m full.”

It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever seen him do for his sister.

She takes them like he’s handed her the moon, her face beaming.

“The man I was eating with says there’s a river behind the restaurant. Should we go explore?”

We follow the worn dirt path that leads along the side of the Flying Goat. As we pass the back of the restaurant, a strange language lifts and falls through the open window of what I assume is the kitchen. Two voices, a man’s and a woman’s, argue and laugh—the woman’s is old, probably Goat, the man’s is young. Their banter, though I don’t understand it, makes me smile.

*  *  *

The river is wide and lazy and sparkles with the early afternoon sun. We hike downstream until we find an inlet that’s still with a flat rock beside it baking in the sun.

I sit on the edge as the kids wade in the shallow water. I take off my shoes and socks and wriggle my toes against the stone to soak up the heat, and for the first time in two days, I breathe. So much nothingness surrounds me that if I forget about my store-bought clothes and my modern-day problems, I can almost imagine I’ve stepped back in time. A pair of Canadian geese float by, the male bigger and more beautiful than his mate, the current carrying them effortlessly to another place.

Drew crouches on a boulder beside Addie to watch the pollywogs. Their heads—Addie’s bright as a new copper penny, Drew’s old gold—are bent so close they touch.

“Look.”

I follow Addie’s finger. A hawk soars for the sky, a trout at least ten inches long flapping in its beak.

“Wow,” I say. “I bet there’s tons of fish in this river. That’s amazing. I bet people fish here all the time.”