The Wonder Bread Summer (21 page)

“Dad, will you call me when you get to Oakland?” Allie asked. “Will you let me know when it’s all worked out?”

“We’ll call,” Frank said. He pointed at the ignition key, as if to move things along. Jorge started the engine.

“But Dad,” Allie said. “You never call. You never called me at school. And when I call you, you only sometimes answer the phone.”

“Jorge will call the house,” Frank said. “And I’ll meet you there first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Promise?” Allie asked.

“See you tomorrow, Allie.” Frank adjusted the rearview mirror, then rolled up his window as the van pulled out of the lot. Luis followed in the truck. He gave a fluttery wave out the open window. Allie waved back and then, finally, got in the Prelude.

All this time, the past four days, Allie had been waiting, hoping, praying for someone—her mother, her father, Marc, her rabbit foot even!—to step in and save her from this quagmire. But now that she had gotten what she wanted, it didn’t feel as good as she had imagined it would. In fact, Allie felt defeated and depleted. Maybe this was a sign, Allie thought, that she should grow up and clean up her own mess. Be her own guardian.

Allie sat up straight and held the depression pamphlet in the center of the steering wheel. The words looked scattered and abstract—a pile of pick-up sticks. Allie focused in.
Turn right after you come out of the parking lot
, she read. Allie drove out of the parking lot. And turned left.

Chapter 16

S
he only got lost once, and when she did, Allie pulled into a gas station, filled up the Prelude, and was re-pointed by a woman with a bandana tied around her neck the way a golden retriever might wear one.

Allie’s heart beat faster when she finally saw a sign for the 405 to the 5. She figured that was the route her father and the others were taking. Depending on how long it took to pick up Hans, she was maybe ten minutes behind them. But she already had gas, and if she didn’t stop to go to the bathroom and they
did
, Allie might be able to catch up.

Mike was silent most of the drive, but every now and then a barrage of bouncing thumps would erupt as if he were mule-kicking his bound feet against the inside top of the trunk. He gave a particularly startling kick just as Allie was accelerating into the fast lane of the 5. Allie turned on the radio as loud as she could take it in order to drown out the sounds of her prisoner.

The first three stations she hit were playing Mexican music. And then, on the fourth station, Allie heard Mighty Zamboni. The song was “Weency Willie,” a ballad her mother and Jet had written together years ago about a tiny maimed boy who brings homemade potpies to a Native American tribe, which, in turn, brings peace between the tribe and the white townspeople. Jet always claimed Penny’s voice wasn’t strong enough to do anything but backup, so they hired Olivia Newton-John to sing the harmony and a couple of phrases on the song. Even as a little kid, Allie always wondered if the reason Jet wanted Olivia Newton-John instead of Penny was simply that he had a crush on her.

Allie listened to the song. Each time a spray of tambourine came on, she imagined her mother slapping that instrument against her hip, wearing the single-feather headband she liked to wear when they performed “Weency Willie.” During concerts, of course, Olivia Newton-John was never there and Penny took the front-center of the stage beside Jet. Allie could barely tell the differences between the Olivia version and her mother’s.

The song ended and a female DJ, whose voice reminded Allie of whispery Tracy, said, “Now there’s a blast from the past! Mighty Zamboni singing ‘Weency Willie’ with Olivia Newton-John. One of my favorite Zamboni classics for sure. The Mighty Zamboni were here at the Hollywood Bowl just last week and will be performing at the Cow Palace in San Francisco tonight, opening for the amazing Billy Idol. Tickets are still available, so if you missed them in L.A., catch a People Express flight to San Francisco—fifty bucks round trip. I flew up last week for the Eddie Money concert—”

Allie punched the button back to Mexican radio. She thought of Consuela. Allie hoped Consuela wouldn’t worry about her too much or wouldn’t be angry that Allie wasn’t there to eat the food she’d prepared. She’d hate to bring any bad feelings into that warm, peaceful household.

S
ix hours later, Allie was in Oakland, then Berkeley. Her intention was to go straight to Beth’s, but, almost without meaning to, she bypassed the exit and instead went to Emeryville, where Marc lived. She drove past the mudflats, where artists, or anyone who claimed to be an artist, had constructed hundreds of sculptures made from trash, tires, wood, shingles, anything. Allie loved looking at the mudflats art. There was a sheet-metal-and-plank-wood woman rising up from the muck. She wore a pleated skirt of two-by-fours and looked as high as a house, her arms reaching toward the sky, head thrown back. Other sculptures stuck out haphazardly from the marshy, silty soil like aliens emerging from the ooze.

Marc hated the mudflats. He claimed the only reason he bought his loft in Emeryville was because one day the mudflats would be filled in, bulldozed, and developed, and then his piece of real estate would be worth as much as a place in San Francisco or the Berkeley hills.

Allie parked the Prelude in the lot outside Marc’s building. Mike gave a resounding kick just as Allie was walking away from the car. Allie went to the trunk and slammed her fist onto it, then glanced around to see if anyone had seen. There were two guys getting into a car three spaces away, but they didn’t even turn their heads.

T
he
Trapper John, M.D.
theme song was playing behind Marc’s door.
Trapper John
was his favorite show; he wouldn’t go out on Sunday night until after it was over.

Allie knocked three times. The volume on the TV went down. Seconds later, Marc was standing in front of Allie. He stepped into the doorway and pulled the door back against himself, as if he didn’t want Allie to peek in.

“Hey!” Marc said, with more cheer than was natural for him. His face seemed to redden slightly. Allie could see his eyes focusing on the lump on her forehead.

“Hey,” Allie said.

“What happened to your head?”

“Can I come in?” Allie tried to peer over his massive shoulders but Marc stepped out into the hall and firmly shut the door.

“I kinda have someone over,” he said.

“Oh.” Allie felt a small punch in her gut. “I don’t care,” she lied.

“You don’t care?”

“No. I don’t,” Allie said, even as the punch expanded into an open palm trying to find its way out of her body.

“So, we’re, like, friends?” Marc asked.

“Something like that,” Allie said. “You owe me money. You need to pay me back.”

“Yeah, did Beth tell you I called? I sold the bar but—”

“Let’s not talk about it out here,” Allie said, and she pushed past Marc, opened the door, and slid inside.

On the couch was a tiny girl with long blond hair and enormous brown eyes. She looked like a puppet or a doll. Allie thought she was beautiful, and this made the feeling in her gut even worse.

“Hey,” Allie said.

“Hey!” the girl stood, went to the TV, and turned it off. She was wearing a red dress and red pumps, as if she had an event to go to. Marc was in jeans and a green T-shirt that had a hole at the corner of the breast pocket. Together they looked like Barbie and an underdressed Ken.

“Cute dress,” Allie said, eying the girl’s impossibly tiny waist.

“Regan, this is Allie. Allie, Regan.” Marc spoke as if he wanted to get this meeting over with. “So what’s up with your forehead?” he asked Allie.

“Something fell on me,” Allie said, fingering the lump. The true story sounded too unbelievable to be told. Allie sat on the couch. Regan sat, too.

“Must have hurt,” Regan said.

“Are you Reagan spelled like our president?” Allie asked.

“No, Regan like in
The Exorcist
.”

“Oh,” Allie said. “Never saw it.”

“Seriously?” Marc asked. He was still standing. “Who hasn’t seen
The Exorcist
?”

“Me,” Allie said. “My dad wouldn’t let me go.”

“What about your mom?” Regan asked.

Marc laughed. “Allie’s mom is a head case!” Allie wanted to pick up the blown-glass plate on his coffee table and discus-throw it toward his neck. Yes, Penny was a head case, but that was for Allie to say, not Marc. And how had Marc come to that conclusion anyway? Allie had told him only two facts about her mother: (1) tambourine girl, (2) lived in no specific place (obviously, because she traveled with the band).

“She’s Chinese,” Allie said. “Chinese people don’t see those kind of movies.” Allie had no idea why she said that. It was entirely untrue.

“Your mom’s Chinese?” Marc asked. “How come you never told me?”

“Wow,” Regan said. “I had no idea the Chinese were like that.”

“I need your help,” Allie said to Marc. “I need you to pay me back the money you owe me, so I can pay my rent.”

“How much do you owe her?” Regan asked.

“Not much,” Marc said to her. He turned back to Allie. “How come you don’t look Chinese?”

“I just don’t,” Allie said. “So if it’s not much to you, can you give me a check now?”

“Well, how much is it?” Regan asked.

“Seven thousand dollars,” Allie said.

“Seven thousand dollars!” Regan whipped her head toward Marc. “You didn’t tell me you owed seven thousand dollars!”

“I have it!” Marc said. “It’s not a problem!”

“Not a problem for you!” Regan said.

“Why is it a problem for you?” Allie asked.

“We moved in together,” Regan said. “I live here now. We’re getting a joint checking account.”

For a second, Allie felt like she had to vomit. Then she blinked, changed the channel in her head, and looked down at Regan, in her little red dress and high-heeled shoes. “Is this how you dress when you’re just hanging around the house?”

“No!” Regan said. “I sell cosmetics at I. Magnin in the city. I went out with friends after work and just got home.”

“Oh. Cool.” Allie had always wanted to work in San Francisco. It seemed glamorous and grown-up.

“Where are you getting seven thousand dollars?” Regan asked Marc.

“I have it from the sale of the bar,” Marc said.

“But I thought that was going into our joint savings?!” Regan’s voice sounded stretched and taut.

“I’m about to get kicked out of school for not paying tuition and I was evicted from my apartment because I couldn’t pay rent,” Allie said to Regan. “He’s owed me this money since December.”

“So where are you living?” Regan asked.

“In a car, lately,” Allie said. “How long have you two been dating?”

“It’s been a while now,” Regan said.

“Six months,” Marc said.

“It hasn’t been six months!” Regan said. “More like two years!”

“You’ve been dating for two years?” A fire burned behind Allie’s eyelids and spread down her spine.

“Well, let’s see, I had just started at I. Magnin’s and he was still in school then so, yeah, I guess it was two years last month.” Regan looked up at Marc.

Allie stared at Marc, too. Marc turned his head away. Allie could feel things shifting in her mind. It was like her thoughts about Marc had been tilted at the wrong angle and her brain was suddenly, desperately, trying to refit these thoughts into the right place. Marc had been with Regan the entire time he was dating Allie. No wonder his schedule had been so limited. They never saw each other more than two nights in a single week, Marc always claimed he had work obligations. And often they’d go days without speaking as Marc would leave messages for Allie with Beth, and Allie would call back to a phone that was never answered. While she had been living in a fantasy, he had been juggling two realities. Even her love for him had been a fantasy—no more based on a truth than her love for John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever
. Allie had the same feeling she’d had as a kid, when her father showed her a series of optical illusions, one of which was a picture of an old woman hidden in the picture of a young woman. Once the old woman had been revealed, Allie was unable not to see her.

“Give me the check now,” Allie said. “I need the money now.” Her voice was like stone, like Frank’s voice when he had said that Allie wouldn’t be working for Roger.

Marc went into the other room. Regan looked at Allie. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know he owed money.”

“Not your fault,” Allie said. She looked around the room as if waiting for something to happen, a light show on the walls, or fireworks out the window, anything to distract her from having to make conversation. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Regan doing the same.

Marc returned and held out a check. Allie took it and tucked it deep into her jeans pocket. “I need you to help me with something in my trunk,” she told Marc. “Consider it the interest you owe me.”

“It’s the least you could do, Marc,” Regan said, and Allie could tell from her voice that he was going to have a rough few hours with her tonight. She was tiny. And very blond. But Allie could see how fierce she was. Allie was going to take that from her, carry it with her like a contagious disease. Allie was going to be fierce, too.

“Come on,” Allie said, and she walked toward the door. Marc followed behind.

“I
sn’t that Beth’s car?” Marc asked, as they approached the Prelude.

“Yup. She’s CAL GIRL, not me.”

“She’s a cowgirl?”

“CAL GIRL. The license plate. Haven’t you ever noticed it?” Thirty minutes ago Allie would have been shocked that Marc hadn’t ever noticed Beth’s license plate, but now that she knew about Regan she figured Marc had probably always had a lot on his mind when he was around Allie, and therefore Beth and Beth’s Prelude.

Marc leaned back and looked at the license plate. “Could be call girl, too,” he said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Allie said. She clicked the unlock button. “Get in. This will only take a minute.”

“What?” Marc stood at the door.

“I need you to dump the thing in my trunk into the mudflats.”

Marc laughed and got in the car. “What? Did you make a sculpture? Express yourself?”

“Yeah,” Allie said. She started the Prelude and rolled out of the parking lot. “I expressed myself. It’s a sculpture of you.”

“Me? Seriously?”

“No. But it represents you. It’s an artist’s rendering of you.”

“And you’re the artist?” Marc was smirking. Allie ignored him.

It only took three minutes to get to the mudflats. Allie parked the car along the desolate road. The sculptures were eerie in the moonlit darkness. Giant phantoms frozen, halted, standing by.

Allie walked to the back of the car and waited for Marc. When he came around to the trunk, she popped it open.

Marc jumped back. “What the fuck?!”

“That’s the other guy who owed me money,” Allie said. “Help me get him out.”

Mike, with his taped-shut mouth, looked defeated. He stared quietly at Allie and Marc. Allie bent closer to him and he blinked. Even though Mike had been nothing but mean, racist, and downright dangerous, Allie was happy he hadn’t suffocated.

“We’re setting you free here,” Allie said to Mike.

Mike blinked. Allie could feel his gratitude in the flicker.

“This is fucked up,” Marc said. He was standing beside the trunk, running both hands through his thick hair, his eyes marbled out, mouth open.

“It’s reality,” Allie said. “Deal with it.”

“Deal with it?! I could end up in jail!”