by Jodi Picoult
At lunch my mother completely forgets to serve Hadley and pretends that it is an accident. Then, she makes a big deal about giving him a beer, and not giving one to me. �Some of us,� she says, staring at me, �are still too young to drink.�
Hadley gives me half of his anyway when my mother gets up to go to the bathroom. Uncle Joley tells me to ignore her when she gets like this.
After lunch, my mother insists on cleaning up the picnic. She double-bags the garbage and rearranges the leftovers. She refolds used napkins. She shakes the towels off to get rid of crumbs. Sam, who has been waiting for her, jumps into the pond and swims the perimeter twice while she is doing all this. Apparently she said she would go in after lunch.
Finally Sam comes over to the oasis she�s created. She is standingin front of it trying to find something else to do. Uncle Joley, Hadley and I kneel in the shallow end, waiting to see what will happen. Hadley has his hands spread across my rib cage, pressing me back against the floating pockets of his bathing suit.
Sam picks my mother up in his arms and begins to carry her towards the shallow end. She is still wearing her shorts.
�No,� she says, laughing at first. She kicks her heels, and people-around the pond smile, thinking this is some kind of joke. I lean against Hadley and wonder when she is going to snap.
�Sam,� she says, more insistent. They have passed the edge of Second Dock; they are almost at the edge of the water. �I can�t.�
Sam stops for a moment, serious. �Can you swim?�
�Well, no,� my mother says. Big mistake.
Sam�s feet hit the water and my mother begins to shout. �No, Sam! No!�
�Good for him,� Uncle Joley says, to no one in particular.
Sam begins to wade deeper. The water hits my mother�s shorts, spreading like a stain. She stops kicking when she realizes it only makes her more wet. At one point I think she has almost resigned herself to what is going to happen. Sam, a man with a mission, continues to walk into the water.
�Don�t do this to me,� she whispers to Sam, but we can all make out the words.
�Don�t worry,� Sam says, and my mother clutches her arms tighter around him. He stares directly at her, like he has blocked out the rest of the watching world. �If you don�t want to go- really don�t want to go-then I�ll take you back. Now. Just say the word.�
My mother looks terrified. I am starting to feel sorry for her.
�I�ll be with you,� Sam says. �I�m not going to let anything happen.�
She closes her eyes. �Go ahead. Maybe this is what I need after all.�
With measured steps, Sam inches farther into the water until it reaches my mother�s chin. Then, telling her to focus on his eyes, right here -he says- my eyes -he ducks under the surface.
It seems like a very long time. Everyone on the shore of the pond is watching. Several industrious kids with scuba masks swim out closer and peek underwater to see what is going on. Then my mother and Sam burst out of the water in unison, gasping for air. �Oh!� my mother cries. �It�s so wonderful!� Her eyelashes blink back water, and her arms make wide circles in front of her, with ripples that reach us. Sam is triumphant. He winks at Uncle Joley and stays beside her, a personal lifeguard, fulfilling his promise to my mother. Nothing is going to happen, after all, as long as he is there. Well it�s about time, I think. Hadley and I, bored by all the theatrics, check into taking a canoe out onto the larger pond. As we go, my mother is doing the crawl.
At one point my mother and I are the only two awake. We lie on the towels on our backs and try to find pictures in the clouds. I see a llama and a paper clip. She sees a kerosene lamp and a kangaroo. We both look for a chameleon, but there is none to be found.
�About Hadley,� my mother says, �I�ve been thinking.�
I feel my shoulders tense. �We have a lot of fun together.�
�I�ve noticed. Sam says Hadley likes you a lot.�
I lean on one elbow. �He said that?�
�In not so many words. He said he�s a very responsible person.� She picks grass absentmindedly with her left hand.
�Well he is. He takes care of just about everything on the farm that Sam doesn�t. He�s his right-hand man.�
�Man,� my mother says. �Exactly. You�re a kid.�
�I�m fifteen,� I remind her. �I�m not a kid.�
�You�re a kid.�
�How old were you when you started to go out with Daddy?�
My mother rolls onto her stomach and pushes her chin into the sand. I can barely understand her. I think she says, �It was different then.�
�It�s not different. You can�t just keep yourself from falling for a person. You can�t turn off your emotions like a faucet.�
�Oh, you�re an expert?�
I think about saying, Neither are you, but decide against it.
�You can�t keep yourself from falling in love,� she says, �but you can steer yourself away from the wrong people. That�s all I�m trying to say. I�m just warning you before it�s too late.�
I roll away from her. Doesn�t she know it�s too late already?
Sam, awake, sits up between us. To keep up a conversation we�d have to talk across him. My mother, probably against her better judgment, gives me a look. We�ll continue this later, she is saying.
They decide to go fishing in the metal rowboat, and leave me to watch over Uncle Joley, Hadley and the cooler. I take out a nectarine and eat it slowly. The juice drips down my neck and dries sticky.
My mother doesn�t know what she is talking about. I don�t believe I have a thing for �older men.� I think I have a thing for Hadley. I reach down and swat a fly from his ear. He has three birthmarks on his lobe, three I hadn�t noticed before. I count them, twice, fascinated. When I am with him, I don�t know who I am. I don�t know and I don�t care; it must be someone wonderful because he seems to be having such a good time. And he holds me the way I used to hold china dolls as a child. They were so beautiful, their painted faces, that I only let myself take them off the shelves in my bedroom for minutes at a time.
Uncle Joley doesn�t snore, but he breathes heavily when he sleeps. It drives me crazy. It�s a raspy noise that comes in currents. You get into a rhythm listening to him, and then all of a sudden he alters the pattern, and you find yourself hanging, waiting for him to complete what he�s started. After about three minutes of listening to this I stand and stretch. I walk around the pond, dipping my toes in the water and writing my initials in the sand. H.S. + R.J. I realize there won�t be any tide to wash this away.
On the far end of the pond are a thatch of reeds and cattails. They are wheat-yellow and as high as I am. The area is off-limits, a swamp. When the lifeguard isn�t looking I step behind the first row. Once I do this, I am hidden. I take a last look at Hadley; I sift through the reeds with my arms.
The ground is a sponge that closes up around my ankles. I keep walking. I want to know where I will end up. Somewhere, there must be water.
The cry of a cormorant tells me I have reached the edge. I can�t actually see a shore; I have to part the thickest growth here with my hands. I have come to a part of Pickerel Pond that I couldn�t see from the swimming area. It is an inlet shaded by willow trees. In the middle is a rowboat, my mother and Sam.
My mother has just caught a fish, I have no idea what kind it is. Its spine is a series of spikes that grow shorter and shorter; the hook seems to be caught in its cheek. My mother holds the fishing line while Sam smoothes the spikes of the fish and gently removes the hook. As he does this I hear a faint pluck. He holds the fish into the water and they both watch it swim away at an amazing pace. I myself did not know fish could move that quickly. When I look up at my mother and Sam, they seem quite pleased with themselves.
Sam has propped the oars on my mother�s seat. She has her hands on the gunwale of the rowboat and is leaning back slightly. Sam, balancing, comes forward and catches his arms around her waist. When she sits up she doesn�t look startled. She leans forward and kisses him.
I feel my heart beating fas
ter and I think about leaving, but they will hear me then. I consciously try to think of my father, expecting him to jump to mind. But all I can remember is my own reaction, last Mother�s Day, when my father cooked breakfast in bed for her. He woke me up to ask about my mother�s favorite type of eggs and I looked at him as if he were crazy. He was married to her, after all. Didn�t he know she doesn�t eat eggs?
Sam cups his hand around my mother�s right breast and kisses her neck. He says something to her I cannot hear. His thumb keeps rubbing and like magic I see her nipple appear. My mother tightens her grip on the edge of the boat. She opens her eyes to look at him. As the boat turns in the wind I see Sam. His eyes-well, they look like they are growing deeper. I can�t describe it any better than that. He kisses her again, and from this new angle I see her mouth meet his, her tongue meet his.
They move so slowly. I do not know if this is something that has to do with the balance of the rowboat, or with what is happening. My head is pounding now and I don�t know why. I cannot decide if I should be angry at her. I cannot decide if I should try to leave. All I know for sure is that I have never seen my mother like this. It crosses my mind: maybe this is not my mother; check again.
I turn around and run as fast as I can through the swamp. I trip across the chained �KEEP OUT� sign and cut my thigh. Ignoring the lifeguard�s whistle I dive into that cool, anonymous pond. I open my eyes as wide as I can. I imagine water rushing into the back of my head. When I reach the other side I hide under the dock until I am ready. Then I throw myself down on my towel, beside Hadley, as if I really do not care at all.
20 J ANE
It�s seven in the morning and I�m driving on a humming highway with no other cars around me when suddenly I see a big pink truck approaching in the rearview mirror. I think, Oh good, some company. And this thing, this thing, gets closer and pulls next to me and-honest to God-it�s a hot dog on wheels. Well it�s a car, I suppose, but it�s covered with a papier-mâché façade shaped like a large frankfurter in a roll. It has a squiggle of mustard on it too. Etched on the side of the bun is professional sign-painter�s lettering, which says OSCAR MAYER. �Incredible,� I say.
The driver, whom I can see through a little square cut out of the papier-mâché for side visibility, grins at me, showing all his teeth.
�Rebecca,� I say, nudging her. �Get up. Look at this, will you? If you don�t see this you won�t believe me.�
She sits up a little and blinks twice. Then she closes her eyes again. �You�re dreaming,� she tells me.
�I am not, I�m driving.� I say it loud enough to make her open her eyes again. This time the driver waves at Rebecca.
Rebecca, alert, crawls into the back seat. �My bologna has a first name,� she sings. �It�s O-S-C-A-R.� She doesn�t finish the song. �What is this thing?� She is looking for a telltale freezer door, a disclaimer, anything that explains this vehicle.
�Maybe I should slow down and let him pass.�
�No way!� Rebecca cries. �Go faster. See if he can match us with a wiener on the roof.�
So I push the gas pedal a little harder. The hot dog car can keep up with us at seventy-five, eighty, even ninety miles per hour. �Remarkable. It�s aerodynamic.�
Rebecca climbs back into the passenger seat. �Maybe we should get one.�
Then the driver of the hot dog car cuts me off, which makes me really angry because the tail of the hot dog grazes the luggage rack of my station wagon. Then he swerves into the breakdown lane so suddenly I shoot past him, but he quickly catches up to us. He rolls down his window and motions for Rebecca to do the same. He has a nice face, so I tell her it�s okay.
�Want to stop for breakfast?� he yells across the rushing air. He points to a blue highway sign that indicates food is available at the next exit.
�I don�t know,� I say to Rebecca. �What do you think?�
�I think maybe he�ll let us drive the car. Okay! � Rebecca yells to him, and she smiles like she has all the charm in the world tucked into her back pocket.
We follow his car into the parking lot of the Pillar O�Salt diner. There are two windows boarded up, and only one other car, the chef�s, I imagine. However, there does not seem to be a warning from the Department of Health. Do they have one out here, I wonder?
Rebecca gets out of the car first and runs over to touch the material that makes up the bun of the hot dog truck. It is rough and stubbly, a disappointment. The driver gets out of the cab. �Hello,� he says, in a voice that sounds oddly prepubescent. �Nice of you to join me for breakfast. I�m Ernie Barb.�
�Lila Moss,� I say, offering my hand. �And my daughter, Pearl.� Rebecca, somewhat surprised, curtsies.
�Pretty nice truck, eh?� he says to Rebecca.
�Nice isn�t the word.� She reaches to feel the lettering on the bun. The O itself is larger than her head.
�It�s a promo truck. Not real functional but it gets people to notice.�
�That it does,� I tell him. �Do you work for Oscar Mayer?�
�I sure do. I drive across the country just drumming up interest. Recognition is a big factor in the sales of processed meats, you know.�
I nod. �I can imagine.� Ernie touches my shoulder to lead me towards the diner. �Have you eaten here?�
�Oh, lots of times. It�s better than it looks.� Ernie walks first, then me, then Rebecca, through the swinging saloon doors of the diner. I find myself wondering how they lock them at night.
Ernie has a yellow crew-cut spiked in haphazard halo around his face. Although I can only see the stubs of his hair it seems to grow thicker in some patches than in others. His skin is oily and he has three or four chins. �Annabelle!� he calls, and a short fat woman in the clipped dress of a waitress lumbers out of the men�s room, of all places. �I�m back, sugar.�
�Oh,� she says, in a gravelly voice that makes Rebecca jump. �And to what do we owe this honor?� Then, as if on second thought, she kisses him directly on the mouth and murmurs, �It�s good to see you.�
�This is Lulu and Pearl,� Ernie says.
�Lila,� I correct him, and he repeats the word, rolling it around his mouth like a marble. �We were together on the highway.�
�Good for you,� Annabelle says, another mood shift. She slaps three menus on our table and leaves in an unexplained huff.
Except for Annabelle and an absent chef (unless, I think, she is the absent chef . . .), we are the only people in the diner. It�s early, but somehow I get the feeling no one ever really comes to the Pillar O�Salt. Its decor is just a little off: homey ruffled curtains, but cut in a sick green plaid; sturdy wooden tables that have been painted the hazard shade of orange.
�It�s nice to have a meal with people for a change,� Ernie says, and Rebecca and I smile politely. �Lonely on the road.� We nod. Rebecca tries to explode the beads of water on her glass with her finger. �Pearl,� Ernie says, but Rebecca doesn�t need the clue. �Pearl!� It is the noise, not the name, that sparks Rebecca�s attention. �How old are you, girl?�
�Almost fifteen. I�ll be fifteen next week.� She looks at me, askingif this, like our names, is privileged information she shouldn�t be telling a stranger.
�Glory,� says Ernie. �This calls for something.� He squeezes out of his chair and walks into the men�s room, which from Annabelle�s actions, I�ve deduced, must connect to the kitchen. He comes out a minute later, carrying our meals. Rebecca�s scrambled eggs support a birthday candle that systematically drips onto her hash browns. Ernie sings �Happy Birthday� by himself.
�Isn�t that nice, Pearl,� I say. �An early present.�
�And it truly is,� Ernie says. �This meal�s on me.�
�Thank you, Mr. Barb.� Rebecca picks up her fork and Ernie tells her to make a wish-which she does, blowing the candle onto a napkin and starting a small fire that Ernie douses with tomato juice.
Throughout the meal Ernie discusses his job: how he got it (an uncle in corporate); how he likes it (he does); how he�s been rewarded (HOT DOG! Publicity Award, 1986 and 1987). Finally he asks
us where we�re from (Arizona) and where we�re headed (my sister Greta�s in Salt Lake City). Rebecca kicks me under the table every time I lie, but she doesn�t know any better. Oliver can be a very smart man.
This is what Ernie eats: a stack of raspberry pancakes, three eggs, with sausage, a side order of hash browns, four slices of toast, an English muffin, two blintzes, two grapefruit halves, smoke mackerel. It is only during his mushroom omelette that he says he feels stuffed. In the kitchen, Annabelle drops something that breaks.
In the end, Ernie doesn�t even pay for the meal; Annabelle insists it�s on the house. She stands at the doorway as we walk back to Ernie�s hot-dog car. �Ladies,� he says, �a pleasure.� He gives me his card, which has no home address, only the number for his car phone.
Rebecca and I stand in front of the diner, watching the fabricated hot dog disappear at a point on the horizon. We stand just far enough apart to not be able to touch each other.
�It was too red to look real,� Rebecca says, turning. �Did you notice?�
21 J ANE
Rebecca is looking out the window at the flat field of white. It�s mesmerizing. �Do you think this is what Heaven is like?� Rebecca asks.
�I hope not,� I say. �I like a little color.�
It would be easy to be fooled into believing the Great Salt Plains are covered with snow, if it weren�t for the ninety-five-degree temperatures and the gusts of hot wind that hit my face like someone�s breath. Salt Lake City, dwarfed by the huge Mormon Church, is not a place where I feel comfortable. In fact, I feel like I am sinking deeper into this different religion, this different climate, this different architecture. My clothes stick to me. I want to get Joley�s letter and leave.
But the postmaster, a thin middle-aged man with a sagging moustache, insists there is no letter for a Jane Jones. Or a Rebecca Jones. No Joneses at all, he says.
�Look again. Please.� Rebecca is sitting on the front steps of the post office when I come out. I could swear I see heat waving up from the pavement. �We�re in trouble,� I say, sitting beside her. Rebecca�s shirt is stuck to her back, too, and there are circles of sweat under her arms. �Joley�s letter isn�t here.�
�So let�s call him.�
She doesn�t understand the pull of Joley�s words like I do. It�s not his directions I need, it�s his voice. I don�t care what he says, just that he says it. �There are two branch post offices. I�m going to try there.�