Melody (40 page)

My daddy wasn't really my daddy. He could be anyone. Is that what Grandma Olivia had said, with spite? How could Mommy have left me drifting in such a hellish place? She really was selfish. I didn't want to believe the terrible things Grandma Olivia had said about her, but in my deepest soul I knew it all made sense. If I honestly faced up to what and who Mommy was now, I would have no trouble believing who and what she was back then. But to make such a disgusting claim, to blame my grandfather for my existence . . . I almost sided with Grandma Olivia and Uncle Jacob.

I don't know how long I walked or how far I actually had gone before I heard a continuous horn blaring and turned to see Cary in his father's pickup. He pulled to the side of the road behind me and hopped out.

“Where are you going? I've been crazy with worry. Everyone has, even Grandma Olivia.”

“She told me the truth, Cary,” I said.

The sky had become almost completely overcast. The wind was even stronger and the temperature felt as if it had dropped a dozen degrees. I had been shivering without even realizing it. Cary quickly peeled off his jacket and put it around my shoulders.

“Come home,” he said.

I shook my head and backed away from him.

“That's not my home, Cary. Your father is not my uncle and your mother is not my aunt.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, a confused, half-silly grin on his face.

“Just that. My daddy was . . . my daddy—”

“What?”

“He wasn't my daddy. Mommy was pregnant with me by someone else and she accused—” I had to swallow first before I could continue. “She accused Grandpa Samuel. Daddy believed her and that's why they stopped talking to him. Your father and—my—” It suddenly occurred to me who he was. “My stepfather had a fistfight on the beach and never spoke to each other again. You didn't know that?”

I saw from the expression on his face that he knew something.

“I knew that they'd had a fight, but I never knew why,” he admitted.

“Why didn't you tell me that?”

“I didn't want you to hate us and leave,” he confessed.

“Well, that's what I'm doing. I'm leaving this place.” I turned and started away. He caught up and took me by the elbow.

“Stop. You can't just walk down this highway.”

“And why not? I've got to go home,” I said. “I've got to see Mama Arlene and Papa George.”

“You're going to walk back to West Virginia?”

“I'll hitchhike,” I said. “I'll beg rides. I'll do chores to get people to give me lifts or money for bus tickets. But I'll get home. Somehow, I'll get there,” I said, my eyes seeing him, but looking beyond and seeing the old trailer house, Mama Arlene waving goodbye, Papa George smiling at me from his bed, and Daddy's grave, the tombstone I had hugged with all my heart before I was forced to leave. “Somehow,” I muttered.

“Won't you come home and get your things first? Have a good meal?”

“I don't want to eat and I don't care about those things,” I said. “Tell Aunt Sara I'll send this dress back first chance I get,” I added and started walking again.

“Wait a minute, Melody. You can't do this.”

I kept walking.

“Melody!”

“I'm going, Cary. Not you, not anyone can stop me,” I
said, full of defiance and anger. I walked and he was silent for a few moments. Then he caught up and walked alongside me. “Why are you doing this, Cary? You can't stop me.”

“I know. I'm just thinking about it.”

I stopped and turned to him.

“What do you mean?”

He thought and then nodded his head. “All right.” He dug into his pocket and came up with a money clip stuffed with bills. “I'll drive you to Boston and give you the money you need for your bus ticket.”

“You will?”

“Of course, I will. I'm not going to let you walk down Route Six and hitchhike, and I can see you are determined. Wait here. I'll go back and get the truck.”

“But your father will be furious, Cary.”

“It won't be the first time or the last, I imagine. He's already going to be mad about my taking the truck,” he added and shrugged. “Don't worry about me.”

He ran back to the truck and drove up to me. I got in and we started down the highway.

“It's a long trip back to Sewell, West Virginia, Melody.”

“I know, but it's the only real home I've ever known where there are people who love me.”

“There are people who love you here,” he said. He turned and smiled. “May and me for starters.”

“I know. I'm sorry about May. You'll explain it to her. Please.”

“Sure. But who will explain it to me?”

“Cary, it was horrible, sitting there and hearing the story and seeing Grandma Olivia's anger. I never felt more like an unwanted orphan,” I explained.

He accelerated.

“She shouldn't have done that. She should have made something up, something more sensible, something that wouldn't have upset you this way.”

“More lies? No thank you. I've been brought up with
lies. I've eaten them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It's time for the truth. It's time to get back with people who don't know what lying is.”

“Everyone lies, Melody, to someone else or to himself,” Cary said.

Raindrops splattered on the windshield. I thought about him having to drive back alone.

“I feel terrible about you doing this, Cary.”

“Don't. I would feel terrible not doing it,” he said. “Tell me more about what Grandma Olivia said.”

I recounted our conversation and he listened attentively, his green eyes growing darker and smaller.

“It makes some sense now, the whispers, the words I picked up here and there.”

“It's terrible. I feel as if my insides will be tied into knots forever. I feel betrayed, fooled, Cary. The man who loved me and called me his princess wasn't really my daddy.”

“Well, being a father doesn't have to be dependent on blood, does it? He was good to you, wasn't he? You never doubted he loved you. You told me.”

I nodded, swallowing back my tears. “Still,” I said softly, “it leaves me feeling . . . incomplete. You've got your family name, your heritage. It's so important to you and your family. I see that, even more than I saw it in West Virginia. I'm nobody. I'm Melody Nobody,” I said laughing. He looked at me. I laughed harder. “Meet Melody Nobody.” My laughter started to hurt and soon turned into tears, sobs that shook my shoulders so hard I thought I would come apart.

He pulled the truck to the side and stopped. Then he slid over and embraced me, kissing the tears off my cheeks and holding me tightly.

“Don't do this to yourself,” he said.

I caught my breath and sucked in some air with deep gasps. Then I nodded.

“I'm all right. It's okay. I won't do that again. I promise.”

“It's okay to do it as long as I can be next to you,” he
said, “but I hate to think of you alone out there, crying your eyes out with no one to comfort you, Melody.”

“There'll be Mama Arlene,” I said.

He stared at me a moment and then slid behind the wheel again. We drove on. Car headlights blinded us in the rain, but he drove relentlessly, firmly.

Cary talked me into stopping for something to eat. I did it for his sake more than my own, although the hot coffee helped and something warm in my stomach gave me needed energy. I lost track of time afterward and fell asleep with my head on his shoulder. When I opened my eyes again, he told me we were pulling into Boston and heading for the bus depot. I sat up and scrubbed the sleep from my cheeks with my dry palms.

Cary went into the bus station with me. We spoke with the ticket seller who, after we explained where I wanted to go, said the best ticket was one to Richmond. There was a shuttle service to Sewell, but he couldn't guarantee the schedule after I had arrived in Richmond.

“Once I get to Richmond, I'll be fine,” I said. Cary paid for the ticket and then insisted I take another fifty dollars.

“Somehow, I'll pay you back,” I promised.

“You don't have to as long as you promise to call me from Sewell and then write letters.”

“I'll promise you that if you promise me you'll pass all your tests and graduate.”

“Big promise, but okay,” he said. “You've convinced me to work harder.” He smiled.

“That's the bus to Richmond now,” the ticket seller announced.

Cary gazed into my eyes, his eyes full of sadness and fear for me.

“I'll be all right once I get home,” I said. “Don't worry.” He nodded.

“I wish that somehow you had come to think of Provincetown as your home.”

“When you have no real family, home has to be where you find love,” I said.

“You found it in Provincetown,” he said indicating himself.

“I know,” I whispered. I leaned toward him and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Oh,” I said. “Your jacket.” I started to take it off.

“No, please keep it.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He followed me out to the bus and watched me get on. After I sat at the window, he held up his hand.

“Good-bye,” I mouthed through the glass. The bus driver started the engine. Cary's face seemed to crumple, his lips trembling. There were tears on his cheeks, and his tears put tears in my heart. I put my hand against the glass as if I could stop his crying by doing so. He raised his hand. The bus started away. He walked alongside it for a few feet and then the bus turned. He was gone.

I knew where he would go when he got home. He would go to his attic and he would curl up on his cot and he would think of Laura and me and wonder why all that was good and soft in his world seemed to slip through his fingers.

I closed my eyes and thought about Mama Arlene's smile and Papa George and Alice and the warm living room in my old trailer home.

Like a beacon in a storm, the light from those memories held out a tiny spark of hope.

17
 
There's No Place Like Home

I rode the bus all night. People got on and off at various stops, but I didn't take notice. I was vaguely aware that someone sat down next to me after one stop, but I curled up and fell back asleep. When I opened my eyes again, whoever it had been was gone. It wasn't until an hour or so later, when I was fully awake and moving around in my seat that I realized so was my purse. The shock of it put electric sparks in the air. I screamed so loud, the bus driver hit the brakes and pulled off for a moment.

“What is it? What's wrong back there?” he called. Everyone on the bus was looking my way.

“I can't find my purse with all my money in it,” I wailed. It had been right at my feet and I had Cary's fifty dollars in it, the money that was supposed to get me home.

Someone laughed. Most people shook their heads. The bus driver snorted as if to say, “Is that all?” and started away. A small black woman with kind eyes sitting two rows down smiled at me. “You ain't much of a traveler, are you, honey?”

“No ma'am.”

“You can't take your eyes off valuable things when you travel, honey. I wear my purse under my dress,” she said. She shook her head in pity and turned away.

I sat there stunned and angry. How could someone be so cruel? Another voice inside me asked, “How could you be so stupid?” By now I should have known to trust no one, to depend on no one, to believe in no one. “Expect nothing and you'll never be disappointed,” the little voice continued.

It was morning when we reached Richmond. I stepped off the bus, still dazed from the trip and from being robbed. I found my way through the depot and could only look longingly back at the ticket counter where I might have been able to purchase a ticket to Sewell. Now, I had to find my way to the right highway and hitchhike.

I was hungry, and even more so when I passed counters where people sat enjoying their breakfast. My stomach churned as the aromas of fresh rolls, bacon and eggs, coffee, and Danish pastries visited my nostrils. I was tempted to finish a chunk of discarded white bread I spotted on a bus depot bench, but the birds got there before me.

I hurried on, getting directions from a gentleman in a gray suit who looked as if he were on the way to work. He was in such a rush he continued to walk as he shouted back the route I should take. I followed him like a fish on a hook. I listened to his directions and then shouted my thanks.

I walked along the street, my head down, my limbs still aching from the cramped position I had been in most of the night. At least it wasn't raining. In fact it looked as if it was going to be a nice day. Some time later I reached a turn in the road and a sign indicating the direction to Sewell. Cars flew by with the drivers glancing at me and my stuck-out thumb, but none so much as slowed down. Discouraged, I walked rather than just stand there and wait for another vehicle. Standing and
waiting only reminded me how hungry and tired I was. Every time I heard a car, I spun around and jerked my thumb in the air, again with no success. One woman driving by glared at me with such disapproval I thought she might stop her car and get out and lecture me.