Melody (41 page)

There was a lull, then another stream of vehicles. This time a light brown van with dents all over it slowed and pulled up just a few feet ahead of me. I hurried to catch up. When I looked into the van, I saw a man with a rainbow-colored headband. He had a straggly brown beard and wore dark sunglasses. An earring dangled from his right ear and he had a necklace made of what looked like bullet shells. His hair was dirty brown and long, but it looked as if he had either chopped it away from his ears himself or had an amateur do it. He wore a faded gray sweat suit.

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“Sewell.”

“I'm not going there, but I'm going nearby,” he said.

I thought for a second. The closer I got, the better it would be, I concluded.

“Thank you,” I said and opened the door, but to my chagrin, there was no passenger seat.

“You'll have to crawl in back. Someone stole the seat last night,” he explained.

“Stole your seat?”

“These seats are in demand and they're expensive. They sell them to chop shops,” he said. “If you're coming along, get in. I got to make Jacksonville before nightfall.”

I hesitated. No one else had stopped for me and I was tired. I decided to go so I stepped into the van and then crouched to go into the rear. There was a mattress with a ragged sheet placed sloppily over it, a pillow with no pillow case, and a thin, tattered wool blanket. Beside that was a small Sterno stove, some cans of food, packages of bread, cookies, jars of peanut butter, jelly, and jam. There was a pile of clothes to the right and two cartons filled with magazines.

He leaned over to close the door of the van.

“Just find a spot,” he said. “You can sit on the bed.”

He pulled away quickly and I nearly fell. I lowered myself gently to the mattress. There was the odor of stale food and general mustiness that came from someone living and sleeping in here for some time.

“What's your name?” he called back.

“Melody.”

“Great name. You sing?”

“No.”

“How come you're hitchhiking?”

“I had my purse stolen while I was on a bus.”

“Boy, if I have heard that story once, I've heard it five hundred times. If you're hungry, nibble on anything you want,” he said.

I gazed at the food, trying to decide what, if anything, looked clean enough to eat. I thought maybe a piece of bread and a little peanut butter might be all right.

“Thank you.”

I dug deep into the package and came up with a slice of bread. It felt a few days old, but wasn't moldy. I wiped off a butter knife and dug out some peanut butter.

“How far you come?” he asked.

“I rode the bus from Boston, but I started out on Cape Cod.”

“No kidding.” He turned to look at me. “How old are you?”

“Almost seventeen,” I said.

“What are you, a runaway?”

“No.” I chewed and swallowed. “In fact, I'm going home,” I said. He nodded with a skeptical smile.

“Ain't we all,” he muttered, and put on some music. I saw him reach over and take something from the glove compartment. When he lit it, I recognized the sweet aroma. “Want a joint?”

“No thank you.”

“Gotta stay cool in this world,” he said. “Don't let the stress get to you. That's the secret.” Then he began to sing it to the tune of “London Bridge is Falling Down”:
“That's the secret of my life, of my life, of my life, that's the secret of my life, my fair lady.” He laughed.

I stopped eating and looked more closely at one of the cartons of magazines. The flap of one was open just enough for me to see what was on the magazine cover. It looked like a picture of a naked little boy.

“Are you in the magazine business?” I asked, realizing he had never told me his name.

“You might say I'm a distributor.” He laughed. “But if you're only seventeen, you can't look at those.” He turned and smiled. “Now you really want to look at them, right? That's the way to get someone to buy into your concept—forbid them to do it. Stupid politicians,” he mumbled.

His dark eyes were slick as oil, scary. My heart stopped and then started to thump. A clump of ice formed at the base of my stomach and telegraphed chills up and down my bones, nuking my hands and feet feel numb. I felt as if I couldn't move and the terror that had begun to take form, like some ugly beast in my brain, grew bigger and bigger with every passing second he stared back at me.

“I've been riding for hours myself,” he said. “And I forgot to eat. I'll just pull over here and get something.”

He slowed the van and turned off the road onto what felt like a gravel drive. I couldn't see the ground because I was so low down, but I did see some trees.

“Here we are, a safe spot,” he said. He shut off the engine.

I couldn't swallow. I couldn't breathe. He got up slowly and turned into the rear of the van.

“How's the bread?” he asked sliding beside me.

“Fine,” I managed. “If we're stopping, I'll just go out and get some air,” I said.

He laughed.

“What's the matter, my house smells?”

I didn't reply.

“You look older than seventeen. I bet you can pass for nineteen, huh? I bet you've done that, gotten into places where you could drink, see X-rated movies.”

I shook my head.

“Hey, I've been there,” he said jabbing his thumb into his chest. “I understand. Don't worry.” He puffed on his joint and then again offered it.

I shook my head. “No thank you.”

“It's good stuff.”

“No, thanks,” I said. He shrugged.

“More for me.” He puffed again.

“Can I get out?” I asked.

“Sure.” He leaned back so I could get by him, but as I started past him, he flipped his joint into the front of the van and seized me at the waist.

I started to scream as he turned me around hard and slapped me back on the mattress.

“Come on,” he said. “Stay inside. It'll be nicer.” He laughed thinly.

“Let me go!” I tried to sit up, but he kept his weight on my shoulders and looked me over. The stink of his marijuana, mingled with the sour smell of his body and clothes, reeked down at me, churning my stomach.

“I can get you into a magazine,” he said. “I know lots of photographers real well. You can make serious money.”

“No thank you. Now let me up.”

“Sure, only first you got to pay the fare.”

“What fare?”

“I forgot to tell you. This is like a bus. You get on, you pay the fare.”

“I have no money. I told you I was robbed.”

“There's other ways to pay.” He smiled, revealing uneven teeth streaked with green and brown stains.

He slid his hands over my breasts and then moved down to straddle my legs. Desperate and terrified, I found the glass peanut-butter jar and clutched it like a rock. While he explored under my skirt, I swung the jar with all my strength and struck him on the side of the head. The jar shattered, but it stunned him enough to drive him off me and I jumped up. He howled as I dove for the door. My hand found the handle just as his found
the hem of my skirt. He tugged, but I flew forward and he lost his grip.

I stumbled from the van, quickly realizing we were a dozen or so yards from the road. When he appeared in the doorway, a streak of blood ran down the side of his face. I got to my feet and ran for the road, screaming for help.

He didn't follow. At the highway, I practically ran in front of an oncoming tractor trailer. The driver hit his horn as hard as he hit his brakes. I got across the road just in time, but his truck came to a stop.

The van backed out of the driveway and spun around, kicking up gravel. It headed in the direction from which we had come.

The truck driver got out of his cab and strutted angrily toward me. He was a tall, stout man about fifty. “What do you think you're doing? Do you know you could have caused an accident and been killed? Who—”

“That man tried to rape me!” I cried, pointing to the disappearing van.

He stopped and looked after it.

“I got out and ran just as you were coming. I'm sorry.” I gasped, trying to regain my breath.

“Who was he?” he asked.

“I don't know. I was hitchhiking.”

“Hitchhiking?” He shook his head. “Where are all the parents in this country?”

I started to cry, the realization of what I had just escaped finally hitting me.

“All right, take it easy. Where are you going?” he asked.

“Sewell,” I moaned through my tears.

“Is that where your parents live?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“All right. Get in my truck. I'm going through Sewell. I'll drop you off. Even though I'm not supposed to take riders,” he emphasized. My hesitation infuriated him. “Get moving if you want to get home,” he ordered. I walked back with him and got in the truck. He checked
the road, shifted, and started away, glancing at me with disapproval. “Don't you kids know how dangerous it is hitchhiking? Especially for a girl!”

“No, sir. I don't do it much, so I didn't know.”

“Well, in a way I'm glad you got a good lesson,” he said. After a few minutes, his anger subsided. “I've got a ten-year-old girl of my own and it's a battle today raising kids.”

“Yes,” I said. He glanced at me.

“How come you're so far from home all by yourself?”

“I—”

“You should be in school, right? You ran away, didn't you? And then you realized how good you had it back home and couldn't wait to get back, right?” he said with confidence.

I smiled to myself.

“Yes.”

“Thought so. Well, at least you're okay now.”

“Thank you,” I said. I told him how I had been robbed on the bus and he felt sorry for me.

“There's some cold orange juice in that jug there if you'd like to pour yourself a cup.”

“Thank you.”

I did. As we bounced over the highway, I lay back. My heart began to beat normally and my body suddenly felt as if I had sunk into a warm bath. I closed my eyes. I heard him talking about his family, his daughter, his younger son, the crazy people on the highways. I must have fallen asleep out of emotional exhaustion, for the next thing I knew, he was poking me gently on the shoulder.

“We're coming into Sewell,” he said, and I sat up. I never thought the sight of those hills and trees would be as wonderful as it was at that moment.

We passed the cemetery and rolled into the center of town. All the familiar stores, Francine's beauty parlor where Mommy had worked, the garage, the restaurants, filled my heart with warm joy. The truck driver noticed my happiness.

“You've been away a while, huh?”

“Yes, sir, I have. But I'm back.”

“Well,” he said, bringing the truck to a stop at a corner, “I got to continue, so I'll let you out. You think twice before you leave home again, young lady. No matter how bad things might seem to be, they're often worse someplace else, especially when you're alone.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I got out of the truck. He nodded and I watched him drive away. Then I turned and looked at the village as if I couldn't drink it in enough. Some familiar faces turned my way and I waved, even to people who had never said hello to me before. Some waved back, some shook their heads in disapproval. I realized why. It was the middle of the day: I should be in school.

I started for the trailer home development, my heart pounding in anticipation. I couldn't wait to set eyes on Mama Arlene and have her set eyes on me. As I walked past the street that led to Daddy's mine, I felt a wave of sadness wash over my renewed jubilation. Going away and coming back didn't change the tragic facts. I climbed the hill that he took every day after work and I thought about how I would wait for him, anticipating, waving, calling him. I almost saw myself ahead, a little girl, excited because her daddy was returning home to sweep her up in his arms and flood her face with his kisses. How she longed for his laughter.

The entranceway to Mineral Acres looked no different, but when I turned up the street to Mama Arlene's, I paused. Her and Papa George's trailer was dark. Its small front patio was covered with fallen twigs, grass, and gravel, something Mama Arlene would never tolerate. I broke into a run and reached the trailer door quickly. It was silent inside. I rapped hard and called, “Mama Arlene! Mama Arlene, it's me, Melody!”

Silence greeted me. I pounded harder.

“Hey,” I heard someone say. I turned and saw Mrs. Edwards, one of Mama Arlene's gin rummy partners. She was a woman of the same age. “What are you doing
over there?” She came walking from her home. “Oh, Melody. I didn't know it was you.”

“Hello, Mrs. Edwards. I was looking for Mama Arlene.”

“You've been away,” she said as if just remembering. “That's right. Well, dear, Arlene isn't here. She's gone, honey.”

“Gone?”

“Gone to live with her sister in Raleigh. She left soon after George passed away.”

“Papa George . . . died?”

“Didn't you know? Yes, I'm afraid so. He suffered so. It was for the best,” she said, nodding. “Where's your mother, honey? She back, too?” she asked gazing past me.

“What?” I shook my head. I couldn't talk. Dead? Mama Arlene gone?

“Here comes that service man to fix my washing machine,” she said, as a truck pulled into the development. “Only two hours late. I got to go see to him. Nice to see you back, honey. Say hello to your mother. Hey there! I'm here!” she called to the driver, who poked his head out of the truck window. She marched away and I turned back to the door of Mama Arlene and Papa George's trailer.

It can't be, I thought. They can't be gone. I peered through a front window and saw the furniture covered and the trailer dark. Disappointment weighed me down. My legs felt as if they were lead. I gazed at my old trailer house. It looked just as deserted.