"Some lady," Herb says and hastily pulls on his windbreaker. "Lady Macbeth is more like it."
"That would be Lady Luck to you," I crack wise.
"Christ—sorry, Father—she probably plays cards every night and shoots craps during the day," says Al. "If I played all the time, I'd be that good, too."
"Yeah, Hallie Capone. You still riding out to the Indian casino?" Herb asks me.
"Nah," I say. "The Feds cracked down on being underage over the summer and I got the boot. They've got my kisser on file at both doors."
"I always said you'd be famous," Al states sarcastically. "Before you go to jail, just make sure to tell us what your favorite kind of cake is so we can bake a file into it. And I'll lay ten-to-one odds it's not angel food cake."
"Funny as a leper in a wind tunnel, Al," I say.
"It takes a child to raze a village," Herb comments wryly.
Choosing to ignore him, I say, "You'd be surprised at who goes to the casino. A few times I saw Brandt and Sheryl Shaeffer's mother there in the middle of the day. Once when they were taking my mug shot up in the crypt I had a chance to watch her play blackjack. And let me tell you, she's no casual cardplayer. She bet big and knew not to split an ace-eight combination."
"I'm glad she's good with numbers," says Al. "She's my stockbroker."
"I hope she makes more money for you than you make playing poker," chimes in Herb.
Officer Rich is just about to take off when he turns to me and the good humor of the evening promptly vanishes from his pillowy face. "Uh, Hallie, I'm getting complaints from the school and it's only the second week of September. Did you forget your homeroom number or else relocate to Randolph County without telling them?"
"I'm sixteen now and you can't make me go to school anymore." This is delivered in my best schools are for fools tone of voice.
Officer Rich studies me with a mixture of exasperation and resignation, as a man might watch his house sink into the ocean during a tropical storm. Then he turns to Pastor Costello as if to say, See what you can do, because I don't get paid enough.
Pastor Costello raises Officer Rich one glance with his Jesus, this is a job for Job look but apparently feels beholden by his occupation to take a stab at it. He leans over and places his arm on the back of my wobbly wooden folding chair and says, "Hallie, why don't I treat you to some cheese and crackers in my study?"
Cheez Whiz on Ritz crackers is Father Costello's on-tap solution to every dilemma, from what size font to use on the weekly church bulletin to a complete loss of faith in God.
"No thanks, Padre," I say. "Save it for the folks who want to be saved." I leap up and dart past Officer Rich, take the stairs two at a time, and make my escape into the crisp fall air.
Herb yells something after me, only I can't tell if it's Hallie or Hellion. Hellion is his nickname for me when we're playing poker. Of course, he never uses it in front of outsiders. In public the guys have to treat me like a regular kid. And I have to be polite and call them Mr. So-and-So instead of Herb and Al. Though we always call Pastor Costello "Pastor Costello." Except for Pastor Costello's mother, who calls him Arthur. Only she puts the emphasis on the "thur." Ar-thur. And it sounds really silly.
I hop on my bike and take the dirt path through the fields toward my house. The night air is rich with the aroma of pine and lingering hydrangea, and underneath my tires fallen leaves and branches crackle and crunch. A dog barks in the distance. Another answers back, as if they're having a conversation. Then a puddle sprays muddy water all the way up to my eyeballs. Gross. One thing is for sure, when I have a car there will be no more pedaling, no more woodland shortcuts with sharp tree branches swiping me in the face, and no more muddy tracks up my ass when it rains, making me look like a frigging inside-out skunk.
The House of Grimm is dark aside from a porch light. Below the picture window there's a rustle in the bushes. Brandt is probably stalking me. When he wants something, like to go to some horrible science fair with me, he keeps popping up every few hours hoping I'll be won over by his persistence. Brandt is a big believer in the Stockholm Syndrome, that given a long enough period of time a captor and his prisoner will eventually fall in love.
But from out of the bushes darts a neighborhood cat. I lean my bike against the cold chunky bark of the oak tree, stand on the seat, and easily hoist myself up to the first branch and then climb up to a higher branch, which is adjacent to the lowest part of our white aluminum-sided house. From there it's a cinch to climb across the eaves and up to the second story. I try jostling open the bathroom window, but it's locked. Shit. I have to shinny up and over the roof and rap on Eric's window with my knuckles.
After a few minutes Eric nudges open the window. He's annoyed, but he pushes it up the rest of the way and moves his desk aside just enough so I can drop into the room and then pull Jane's duffel bag in behind me. "I'm telling Mom and Dad," he threatens.
"And I'm telling them that last year when you said you lost your school ID and had to pay ten dollars for a new one it was because you accidentally dropped Wite-Out on the old one and changed your birthday to make yourself twenty-one instead of sweet-'n'-shady-seventeen. I'm sure that Dad, as a civil servant for the state of Ohio, would keep his job a long time with his darling oldest boy football star, heir, and namesake in the pokey for underage drinking and using fake ID."
"Fuck you," Eric says and slams the window shut behind me. "Get out!" He tilts his head to one side and runs his fingers through his brush cut as if he's checking to make sure the lobotomy scar isn't showing again.
"What's going on?" Teddy, our ten-year-old brother, sleepily inquires from his position as a lump of blanket in the top bunk.
"Shut up!" Eric and I whisper in unison. No matter what we're fighting about, we always stick together when it comes to torturing the little kids. Whenever it rains, we tell them that God is crying because of something bad that they did.
"Now he's going to wet the bed," a grumpy Eric complains.
"So what else is new?" As I leave their room I switch off the overhead light.
"Hallie?" Eric calls softly. "Just Call Me Dick came by this evening, and Dad's shooting to kill."
"Just Call Me Dick" is how all the kids refer to Mr. Collier, the persnickety attendance officer who is constantly playing cat and nuisance with me. Whenever a grown-up calls him Richard he obnoxiously squirts out Just call me Dick before the person has time to finish pronouncing the D at the end of his given name.
"I hope for your sake that you've been busy organizing a Braille book drive for the blind over the past few days."
"As a matter of fact, I was. But thanks for the tip. 'Night."
" 'Night," he says wearily. By the dim glow of the Donald Duck night-light I observe him tentatively poking a finger at the mattress above his to test for any leakage before climbing back into the bottom bunk.
Of course, the real miracle of the day will not be to sneak in without my parents' finding out, but to make it to my room without tripping over a PlaySkool lawn mower. Or get a deadly concussion from an Easy Bake oven and then have my corpse sprayed by sixty-four Crayola crayons while the built-in sharpener lodges itself up my nose.
Chapter 11
Betting Against the House ♦
A note on my pillow says, see dad immediately. Yeah, right. As if I'm going to turn myself in after midnight and get even more murdered.
Instead I lie on my bed like a prisoner counting the cracks in the ceiling of my cell and watch the fan turn slowly around and around. What's wrong with me? Why do I feel like I'm in that Sesame Street song? One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong. I'm part of this family and yet I don't feel as if I am. I never have. From the moment the school bus pulled up on the first day of kindergarten I've felt that everything is wrong—that there's been a huge mistake. And every year it only gets worse. Whenever I read about adopted children reunited with their birth parents I think that something similar will h
appen to me; that my real parents will show up and it will turn out that there was a hospital mix-up and I'll be whisked off to my proper life, whatever that may be. Or else I imagine that I'm an alien who has been put in this ail-American family pod as some sort of an experiment and at any minute a spaceship is going to land and take me back home to Jupiter or the Planet Claire or wherever I'm from.
Last week there was a quiz in Cosmopolitan magazine that supposedly determines if you're suffering from depression. It asked questions such as, Do you worry a lot about money? Do minor irritations overly upset you? Are you easily disappointed by friends and family? Do you take yourself seriously most of the time?
According to the test I'm not depressed. In fact, there isn't too much that worries me, especially now that I've purged school from my life. Sure, I care that I lost the money at the track, but I'll make it back. One day last summer I dropped almost a grand on a pool game. There were also days I'd won over a thousand dollars playing blackjack at the Indian casino. That's how it is with gambling. I just need to regroup and recoup for a month or two. And I need to pay Craig back as soon as possible or else he's going to believe whatever Eric has been telling him about how deranged I am.
However, I do conclude from the Cosmo quiz that my parents would have to answer yes to every question. They constantly worry about money, get overly upset about minor irritations, and are easily disappointed by family. And not only do I think they're depressed, but quite frankly, they're depressing me.
Mom and Dad and Eric think the reason I gamble and won't attend school is that I'm lazy. But I'm not. I just happen to think it's a waste of time to write a paper so some teacher can decide whether or not she likes it. Likewise, it's dumb to get paid five bucks an hour for shoveling snow or putting air in people's tires when I can make an easy hundred knowing that Pastor Costello is bluffing whenever he fingers the silver cross around his neck right before he bets. Gambling is how I paid for my mountain bike and my field hockey stick and a lot of other stuff. And after I buy a car I'm going to start investing some money in the stock market.
Further complicating matters is the fact that my parents think gambling isn't Christian. But then they like to tag almost anything pleasurable as unchristian, for one reason or another. If I were a parent I'd rather know that my daughter was out playing in a friendly poker game than listening to acid rock music alone in her room and painting all her Barbie dolls black. Only they act as if by playing five-card draw in the lunchroom I'm going to wind up pregnant. At least that's what my aunt Alice says, that I'm going to finish high school via correspondence courses from a home for unwed mothers.
And what the hell am I supposed to do in my room for the next four weeks? It drives me crazy to be inside with the kids drawing in crayon all over my shit and singing frigging Barney "I Love You" songs while popping cap guns. You can't walk down the stairs without tripping over a Fisher-Price phone or a plastic potty seat shaped like a damn duck. And if my parents aren't going to help me buy a car, what's the point in staying here at all?
That's when it dawns on me. I can leave. Just walk out the door. Well, I'd never walk out the door. I'm more of a window person. Actually, I had run away a couple of times when I was thirteen, only I didn't have any place to go. But now I have a plan.
Wow. I've been a hamster sitting in his metal cage while the gate has been open the entire time. Besides, they'll probably be happy to have the extra room for the new baby and one less mouth to feed. Before I can change my mind I haul my knapsack out of the closet and pack up some clothes. Then I toss in Jane's duffel bag—which turned out to contain an Ace bandage, a padlock, some athletic tape, and a mud-encrusted pair of sweatpants.
As for where to go, gosh, I have tons of choices. There's always Gwen's house. Her parents are really cool about extended sleepovers. In fact, I have a couple friends whose folks wouldn't mind having me live with them full-time. I'm a good guest, too. I do the dishes and they tell me to stay as long as I want.
The only problem with living at other kids' houses is that eventually their parents want to reform me as well. It starts small, with trying to get me to do homework after dinner and watch the Discovery Channel instead of true-crime shows. And then before I know it they're chasing me with Where There's a Will There's an "A" educational videos and Bible verse, just like Aunt Polly laying into poor old Tom Sawyer.
Then there's Jane's mom, who was raised in Georgia and can find a way to work scripture into absolutely any conversation, even one about the weather. In the hopes of prodding her into offering one of her delicious root beer floats, you might say, "It sure is hot out, Mrs. Davenport." And she'll reply: "But we know a hotter place, don't we?”
However, you always got your ice cream float. Everything has a price, at least that's what Cappy says. Gambling. Even people. Or rather, especially people.
I finish packing quietly so that I don't wake Louise. Though she's used to me climbing in and out of the window at all hours. In many ways I actually envy Louise. She's content to attend school, be a cheerleader, edit the yearbook, and go shopping on weekends. Some evenings she sits at the computer writing instant messages to her boyfriend and giggling, or else they have a fight and then make up.
Of course, I don't want to be like that. It's my worst nightmare. And yet, at the same time, I wish I could be like that—that it didn't seem so alien. Louise is happy. She even says so herself. She always asks, "Hallie, why can't you just be normal? You know, just try it, maybe you'd like it."
Climbing down the oak tree, I don't even have to search for my toeholds, I know them so well. The night sky is cloudless and the moon is silvery blue and almost full, and it's easy to retrace my path to Nuthatch Lane. That summerhouse looked awfully inviting. But maybe they use it at night or have floodlights illuminating the backyard. I couldn't remember seeing a dog. A dog could be a problem.
After ditching my bike in the woods I cautiously thread my way around the apple trees. A few lights are still glowing in the main house, but it doesn't appear as if anyone will be coming outside, unless the old lady suddenly runs out of toad's blood or some other ingredient for one of her magic potions.
It's almost ten o'clock. The door to the little fairy tale gingerbread house opens easily. The floorboards creak so loudly that for a second I worry that they might give way entirely. If ever I get to be friendly with these people and can pull them away from their chaise longues and vampire rituals for a minute, I might introduce them to the concept of dry rot.
There's just enough light inside for me to dig out my retainer and lie down on the couch. I don't dare switch on one of the table lamps. However, the glow from the moon casts long shadows on the walls and windows, and I decide that if a person had a faint heart and an active imagination she could start thinking up some pretty spooky scenarios to accompany the sound of energetic night insects sawing away. And from somewhere off in the distance, beyond the dark-topped trees, I hear the faint sound of a choir singing.
Seeing as it's awfully early for me to be going to sleep, I tell myself a story in order to become drowsy. I enjoy updating fairy tales such as "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" or "Rapunzel." For instance, I'll have Snow White become pregnant by one of the dwarfs and then there will be a controversy over whether they should do prenatal testing to see if the baby is also a dwarf. Or I make Rapunzel a prisoner-of-color, with her own cosmetics line that she sells via mail order out of the tower unbeknownst to the witch. And the Prince's father, the King, is in an uproar about the prospect of his son and heir having biracial children with a feminist who runs her own business. As anyone can see, the possibilities are endless………
Chapter 12
An Honest Day's Work ♣
When I raise my eyelids a brilliant sun is smashing through a hexagonal window near the roof and causing me to wonder if I passed out in a tanning bed. It's seven o'clock, give or take ten minutes. I don't wear a watch. It's not that I don't own one. It's just that I always know what time i
t is, even when I first wake up.
In the corner of the room farthest from the door is a large round table covered by a full-length pink and green paisley silk tablecloth, which makes a perfect hiding place for my knapsack. After straightening the cushions on the couch, I attempt to corral my rebellious hair into a braid. Then I retrieve my bike and take the path through the woods back to the street so as not to cut through the Stocktons' yard and risk being seen.
While I wait to pay for my donuts and chocolate Yoo-Hoo at the 7-Eleven, my eyes automatically seek out The Daily Racing Form. Even in my effort to go straight for a couple of weeks, it isn't lost on me that today is a perfect day to hit the track. Only now I'm a day laborer with exactly eleven dollars and fifteen cents left to my name. And if I did have any more money I should probably be putting it toward a tin lunch pail and a red plastic thermos rather than temptation. This will teach me not to listen to some old fart down at OTB. I am now experiencing the ripple effect, the trickle down of an ill-thought-out wager, just like all the rest of those losers who have duct tape covering the holes in the soles of their shoes.
My thoughts are interrupted by a violent blast of flowery perfume mingled with industrial-strength black coffee fumes blowing in from the northeast. Standing behind me is Mrs. Shaeffer, Sheryl and Brandt's mother, holding a large steaming Styrofoam cup and a folded Wall Street Journal in one hand while applying reddish-brown lipstick to her mouth with the other, using the muffin display case as a mirror.
Instinct tells me to drop the donuts and take off. But then I realize the chances of her running into either of my parents are slim to none and Slim just walked away. Besides, after completing the lip-lacquering she's totally wrapped up in the financial headlines and I don't think she even notices me.
On the way back to the Stocktons' I wonder when I'll receive my first paycheck. Not that it's a matter of survival. Fortunately a homeless person can survive quite easily in a small midwestern town, at least until winter. People always wonder aloud why Marty Benson, the town drunk, doesn't move down to Florida. Why bother? The living is easy right here.
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