Walk Me Home (3 page)

Carly sits gingerly on a big tire that’s half buried in the dirt against the fence. Extra big, like a tractor tire. She has to use her hands to ease herself down.

“We have food,” she says.

Jen comes and sits with her.

“What do we have?”

“Two more Snickers bars.”

“Breakfast! Score!”

Carly takes off her own backpack and roots around in there until she finds the two candy bars at the bottom. She hands one to her sister.

“Make it last,” she says.

“I’d rather have it all now.”

“But then you’ll be sorry later.”

“But maybe we’ll get more food later.”

“But maybe not.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Look. I’m the grown-up now. And I say just eat half.”

Jen rolls her eyes, but she breaks the candy bar in half, folds the wrapper over the half she’s been told to save, and slides it into her shirt pocket.

“You’re as bad as Mom,” Jen says.

Carly can feel the darkness in the air between them, the sense that Jen would snatch the words back inside if only she could.

“I can’t believe you just said that, Jen.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“But you didn’t mean it in a good way, right? When you say I’m as bad as Mom, that’s not a compliment to Mom. You’re saying Mom was bad.”

“Hey! You’re the one that—”

“That’s called speaking ill of the dead, Jen. And it’s a thing nobody is
ever
supposed to do,
ever
. And you’re the superstitious one, so I’m really surprised you would speak ill of the dead.”

Jen looks up and around, as though trying to identify a particular area of sky.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

Then she takes a bite of her breakfast.

The paint horse leans over the wire, snuffling his muzzle in the direction of the food. His lips make a popping sound that causes Jen to turn around, and she laughs out loud to see him there.

“Horses don’t eat Snickers bars,” she says.

But a minute later a strong breeze upends the long, dark strands of Jen’s curly hair, and both of Jen’s hands fly up to her head to brush it back into place. And the horse, seizing an opportunity, leans farther over the fence and nicks the candy with his teeth.

Jen screams laughter again and holds the treasure close against her chest.

“Ick,” Carly says. “Now you have to throw away the part he touched.”

“No way. I’m not wasting it.”

“You’ll get a disease or something.”

“People don’t get diseases from horses.”

“How do
you
know?”

Jen raises the candy bar and chomps off half of what’s left in one big bite.

“If my neck starts getting longer,” Jen says, her mouth full, “and my feet get hard, you can throw a saddle on me and ride me all the way to California.”

“We’re not walking all that way. Teddy’ll come get us.”

Jen doesn’t answer.

Remembering something, Carly grabs one of Jen’s ankles and pulls her leg out and up, until she can examine the bottom of Jen’s sneaker. Even though she can’t remember which foot it was.

“Ow,” Jen says. “What?”

On the bottom of Jen’s sole is a hole about the size of a quarter, worn clear through. Carly can see the dusty dark green of Jen’s sock. She drops that ankle and grabs the other. The bottom of that sole has a hole the size of a dime. Carly gives Jen her feet back.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had holes in your shoes?”

“It’s not like you could have done anything.”

“We could put cardboard inside or something.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.”

A minute later Carly stands up, using her hands for support, and tugs on Jen’s sleeve.

“More miles,” she says.

“Right,” Jen says. “I know. More miles. How did I guess? Because it’s always more miles.”

Jen leans over and kisses the horse on his nose before they walk on.

The paint ambles the fence line with them, loose-kneed and confident, until he runs out of pasture.

Jen waves sadly to him.

“Bye, pretty.”

“He’s not your boyfriend.”

“Says you.”

Jen gazes over her shoulder at him three more times before the road dips, obscuring their view. Then she looks one more time, as if it helps her remember.

Half a mile later they pass a ranch house with a garden hose coiled on the side. No cars. No garage to hide a car. No one seems to be home.

They drink their fill before moving on. It’s the first day they’ve been without a gas station bathroom for more than half a day. It scares Carly to be so far from a source of water. And a phone.

They make it over the low mountains that same day. They crest the top and look down into the next valley. Carly expects to see more of the scant food, water, and shelter sources that have lined their path at intervals so far.

What they see is more nothing.

They stand on a sidewalk together, Carly marveling at how long it’s been since they’ve had a sidewalk to stand on. Carly appraises what thin opportunities this place has to offer. Gas station with tiny convenience store. Thrift shop. Ice cream stand. Hardware store. Native American blankets, Hopi and Navajo, both.

“What town is this?” Jen asks.

“I don’t know. I never saw a sign, did you?”

“I don’t think so. But I was busy looking at those rocks. They’re pretty.”

Beyond this stretch of highway imitating civilization, the landscape is made up of tumbled rocks, big and small, some forming tumbled rock mountains, others going it alone. All the same shade of ordinary rock brown.

“What’s with you and rocks all of a sudden?”

“I dunno.”

“Maybe it’s too small a town to even have a name,” Carly says.

“All towns have names.”

“How would you know? You’re twelve.”

Jen says nothing, and Carly knows she’s crossed a line. And then she knows she’s been crossing a line with Jen for days, being meaner than situations require. But she’s not sure she has the energy to fix it just yet. Or even knows how.

There’s a rough bench on a dirt lot near the sidewalk, made with a plank on two cut tree stumps. They hobble over to it and slide off their packs. Carly eases herself down and unties her shoes, pulling one off.

Jen flops on her back in the dirt and puts her feet up on the bench.

“You’re lucky you’re not a redhead,” Carly tells her sister.

“Don’t take your shoes off. Why is that lucky?”

“I have to take them off. My feet are all swollen.”

“You’ll never get them back on.”

“I can’t help it. They’re killing me.”

“Why is it unlucky to be a redhead?”

“Because they burn so easy. They have that fair skin. Can’t take any sun at all. Like my friend Marissa. You didn’t know her. She was from my high school.”

“Which one? New Mexico or California?”

“California. We can buy more sunscreen.”

“With what?”

“I’ll get somebody to give us some money. I always do.”

Jen has the back of one hand thrown across her eyes. Probably to shield them from the sun, but it makes her look dramatic. Like one of those old-time movie actresses depicting angst. Though angst was never Jen’s style.

“Carly,” she says. “I’m hungry. I don’t care if I burn to a crisp. I don’t care if I burn till I blister. Do not waste…like…
four dollars
on sunscreen. You know how much food we could buy for
four dollars
? You want more miles—I need more
food
.”

The holey soles of Jen’s sneakers keep calling Carly’s eyes back.

She squeezes her eyes closed, and when she opens them, there’s the thrift store. Right in front of her. As if she’s been trying to conjure something, and now it’s arrived, just as ordered.

She pushes her feet back into the shoes, but they barely squeeze in. It hurts. It would be easy to cry out, but she doesn’t. She can’t even bring herself to lace them up again. She’ll just have to be careful not to trip.

“Come on. Walk with me.”

“We’re resting!” Jen howls.

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean we’re going in that thrift store.”

“For what? We don’t have any money.”

“Just shut up and walk with me.”

“You go. I’m tired.”

“No. You have to come, too.”

Jen sighs deeply and rolls over, pulling to her feet. A couple in their twenties strolls by. Each has an ice-cream cone. Two scoops apiece. The woman smiles at them. Jen stares at the ice cream until it’s too far away to ogle.

They cross the street together to the thrift store. The window is hand-painted and says all proceeds go to benefit Saint Ignatius Hospital.

A bell jingles when Carly opens the door.

“How’re you girls doing today?” the woman asks.

She’s maybe forty, reading a paperback book. She looks Indian. Native. Native American, Carly should start saying. Indian might offend somebody. They’re getting close to Navajo country, the big reservation, but Carly doesn’t think they’re quite there yet. But at least they’re finally over the border into Arizona.

Carly never answers.

“Anything special in mind?”

Carly sees a birdcage hanging near the woman’s head, with two blue-and-green parakeets. They make a chirping racket, almost like singing.

“Shoes,” Carly says. “We were looking for some shoes for my sister.”

“Go all the way down that aisle and then left. They’re on the floor in the corner back there. All two dollars unless they got a tag says they’re more.”

“Thanks. Want us to leave our backpacks here?”

People don’t like for kids or teens to come in their stores with backpacks. They’ve learned that for sure.

“It’s fine. I’ll trust you. Let me know if you need help.”

Then Carly feels bad. The lady’s trust makes her feel extra bad.

Jen tugs at her sleeve as they walk down the aisle, but Carly knocks her hand away again. She shoots Jen a warning look. The
shop is small. The woman won’t be able to see them once they’re back in the corner with the shoes. But she might hear.

Jen runs straight to a pair of cross-training shoes about her size. She has her hand on them before Carly even sees them. They’re scuffed up pretty good. But when Jen picks them up and turns them over, the soles are nice. Not worn much at all. She turns them back upright, and they both look at the tops of them. They have a tag that says they’re five dollars, not just two.

Carly takes a quick look over her shoulder, then pulls off the tag, breaking its string. Jen sucks her breath in, and Carly shoots Jen another warning with her eyes.

“Try them on,” she whispers.

There’s no place to sit, so Jen sits on the floor and pulls off her holey old sneakers. Meanwhile Carly spots a pair of lace-up boots. She picks them up, considering. She turns her foot over and holds them sole to sole with the shoes she has. They look about right. A little big, maybe. But that would give her feet room to swell.

She puts them on and laces them snug to make up for their bigness, then looks up to see Jen sitting up straight on the floor, the new shoes on. Her eyes seem extra wide. Carly catches Jen’s eye, and Jen nods. Those are the ones, all right.

Carly picks up her old shoes and Jen’s old shoes, and arranges them in the line on the floor with all the others. They don’t look much worse than some of them, at least if you don’t turn Jen’s over.

“OK, well, we looked, anyway. You happy now?” Carly asks in a normal volume and too cheerful.

“I guess,” Jen says, sounding nervous.

Carly reaches a hand down to Jen and pulls her to her feet.

She looks down at the new boots. They’re sturdy. That’ll help. But they’re a risk because they’re more one-of-a-kind than Jen’s trainers. The lady might spot them walking out the door. She looks
back at her old shoes and almost decides to take them back. But her feet have swollen even more by now. She probably wouldn’t get them back on.

“Don’t look at her,” she whispers in Jen’s ear. “Don’t talk to her. Let me do all the talking.”

Jen is a terrible liar. Jen is so honest she busts herself every time.

Carly tugs the sleeve of her sister’s shirt, and they walk. God knows if there’s one thing they know how to do by now, it’s walk.

“Thanks anyway, ma’am,” she calls, prepared to keep walking right by the counter. Then she realizes that’s not the best thing to do. She should stop and talk. Because that’s just what a person who’s stealing something would never do.

“You girls have yourselves a good day.”

Carly stops, close to the counter, where the woman can’t see their feet anyway.

“What’s the name of this little town?” she asks.

“Not really a town exactly. Just part of McKinley County. The mailing address is technically Gallup, though that’s a pretty long way south of here.”

Carly looks to Jen, happy to have been proven right. But Jen is staring up into the birdcage, oblivious. Either hypnotized by the birds or paralyzed by fear. Or both.

“But that’s a different state,” Carly says.

“Not sure what you mean,” the woman says, sounding patient.

“Gallup is in New Mexico, and this is Arizona.”

“No. This’s New Mexico.”

Carly feels Jen’s reaction, at her left side, without even looking. She’s been promising Jen they’ve already crossed over the line into Arizona at long last.

“Really?” As though it could still turn out not to be true.

“You girls lost?”

And then Carly realizes her mistake. She’s raised a red flag, just what she’s been teaching herself not to do.

“No, ma’am. Not at all. We’re on a road trip with our dad. He’s out gassing up the car. He told us we were over the line into Arizona. Wait till I go tell him how wrong he was. How far from here to the state line? You know. Just so I can tell him.”

“Twenty miles or so. Maybe a little more.”

Carly is careful not to look at Jen, knowing how hard that news must be settling in. More than a day’s walking. Just to get to where they thought they already were.

“OK. Thanks, ma’am,” she says.

“You girls have a good day.”

Then the woman puts her nose back down into her paperback book. She doesn’t look at Carly’s or Jen’s feet as they walk out the door.