Wreath

by Judy Christie

  “No,” Wreath whispered, trying to hide the backpack from his line of sight. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Shut up! I’ve had about enough of your snotty attitude. If you think I intend to let you get away from me, you’re crazier than a bedbug.”

  “All you ever cared about was Frankie’s paycheck,” Wreath cried out. “I will never let you treat me the way you treated my mama. Let me go, or I’ll scream.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” He grabbed her wrist so hard she thought it might snap. “Get in my car. Now. Or you’ll regret it.”

  When Wreath was about ten, she’d seen a pit bull attack a chicken, and she thought she knew now how the chicken had felt. Judging the distance to the edge of the woods, she knew she couldn’t outrun Big Fun. She considered rolling under the car, but didn’t think she had room. Maybe she could jump out of the car once they got started, or push him out and take the wheel.

  Who was she kidding? She’d seen him hit Frankie repeatedly over a few dollars in tips from her mother’s day at the café, and he had backhanded Wreath more than once for defending her. If only her mother hadn’t gotten sick, they could have moved away from Big Fun, the way Frankie had planned. Maybe they could have gotten away from him and his fists and his horrible secret.

  Hope evaporating, Wreath heard a quiet whirring sound. A security guard in a golf cart with a flashing yellow light rolled to a stop and stepped out. “Take your hands off that girl immediately,” he demanded. “What’s all the shouting about?” Although he was ancient and overweight, he spoke with authority and looked oddly threatening with his hand on the spray he wore snapped to his belt.

  Cursing under his breath, Big Fun let go of Wreath but stepped so close to her that his arm touched her shoulder.

  “You in trouble, young lady?” the guard asked.

  Big Fun spoke first. “Teenage daughters!” he said with a weird laugh. “They certainly have a mind of their own.” When he spoke, she could smell the tobacco and beer on his breath, his threats ringing in her ears.

  The guard relaxed his stance slightly, and Wreath knew only her wits would get her away now. “My dad’s upset because I need to go to the bathroom again,” she said, rubbing her wrist. “He gets mad when I throw him off his schedule.”

  “Well, now, missy, why don’t you run on into the bathroom there,” Big Fun said, pinching her back where the guard couldn’t see.

  Her frightened look must have caught the guard’s attention because he nodded, pulled the cart over to the curb, and walked next to Big Fun and her, talking in a grandfatherly way. “Fathers don’t always understand their little girls, and they sometimes handle them wrong. Go on inside and freshen up.” He almost blushed as he said the last words.

  Wreath paused outside the bathroom and looked around for a place to hide, clutched her backpack, and considered dashing behind the counter with the two women. Compared to her mother’s boyfriend, they seemed downright loving.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Big Fun whispered behind her. “You walk in that bathroom and turn around and walk out, or I’ll break every bone in your body.”

  Stepping through the bathroom door, Wreath felt like she was in a completely different place than minutes before. She looked for a way to lock the door or block it, but could see nothing to stop the bull of a man. There were no windows, and she contemplated getting into a trash cart but knew she’d be caught.

  If she screamed, Big Fun would somehow convince the guard she was a hormone-ridden teenager with an attitude, or the police would come and she’d be shipped off to a foster home.

  For months Wreath had observed Big Fun’s every move, anticipating what he would do next. Now she hoped the element of surprise would be on her side. She went into the middle stall, locked the door, secured the pack around her front shoulders, in case he had a knife or punched her, and stood on the toilet, hunching down just enough that her head didn’t show.

  As she suspected, after only a couple of minutes, she heard the creak of the bathroom door, and Big Fun called out in a voice that sounded like something from a family movie. “Wreath, honey, hurry it on up now. We need to hit the road.”

  His slight emphasis on the word hit did not elude her.

  Holding her breath, Wreath heard his steady steps and the sound of the industrial-strength hand dryer. “They won’t be able to hear you yell over that thing,” he said in a normal voice. “I intend to have what’s mine. Give it to me.”

  Still Wreath waited. If her unstable life had taught her anything, it was patience.

  The dryer shut off, and the doors to the first few stalls crashed open as Big Fun made his way down the line. Then she heard the creak of the main door again and the shrill voice of one of the desk clerks.

  “Sir, you shouldn’t be in here. This is the ladies’ room,” the woman said. Wreath’s heart nearly exploded with relief.

  “My daughter’s not feeling well,” he said. “I had to check on her.”

  “Well, make it quick. We don’t want to upset other customers.”

  The bathroom door clicked shut, and Big Fun grabbed the door to the stall where Wreath hid, giving a maniacal laugh when it wouldn’t open. “You’re trapped,” he said. “You have gotten away from me for the last time.”

  Wreath said nothing.

  “There’s no way out.” His voice was more ominous now, and he jerked the door three times, so hard the stall rattled.

  Waiting for the precise moment when he yanked on the door again, Wreath shoved as hard as she could, causing him to stumble back into the row of sinks.

  He regained his balance in only seconds, but by then she was closing in on the bathroom door, which swept open just as she reached it, the security guard entering. Wreath brushed past him and glanced back to see the flustered man spray something into Big Fun’s face.

  Wreath never slowed down, ignoring the calls of the guard and the other employees and diving out of sight into the woods.

  Crouching like a hunted animal, she grabbed the trash bag from its hiding place and disappeared into the thorny vines and thick trees. Wreath plowed through the woods, pausing frequently to loosen her pack from a briar or wayward limb. The trash bag had several large rips, and she rearranged the blanket inside to keep other items from falling out.

  Trying not to cry and desperately missing Frankie, she ran until her side hurt and she thought she would throw up. She stopped behind a large tree and drew deep breaths, her eyes moving from side to side, every sound a terror. After a few moments, she pulled out her new map, the one that was supposed to be free. Instead it had cost her an overpriced soft drink, a bout of second-guessing that tore her apart, and an encounter with Big Fun.

  “Don’t ever let people scare you,” Frankie had often told her. “You’re strong and brave.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Wreath muttered out loud and then felt guilty for the ugly words. A big chunk of faith in her plan had been ripped away, but at least she hadn’t been caught.

  Frankie had once said that Big Fun could talk himself out of any situation, and Wreath figured he was painting her as a juvenile delinquent to whatever authorities had shown up at the tourism center.

  She could almost imagine the conversation. “She doesn’t look like a troubled girl,” he would say, “but her mother and I get painted in this bad light all the time. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t intrude on our family business. She’ll run home to Mommy, and this is something for us parents to work out.” The two women at the desk would swoon over him and tell tales about their bad children before it was over.

  Maybe his ego and argumentative nature would stall the process and throw off the search. The police and Big Fun would then probably focus on the four or five towns in Louisiana and Arkansas where she and her mother had lived over the past eleven years. The little town of Landry with its faraway junkyard seemed promising after all.

  Wreath had chosen Landry because it was where Frankie had been born, close enoug
h—and far enough—from Lucky, where they had most recently lived. She could think of no reason anyone would look for her down in Rapides Parish. Wreath, her mother, and Big Fun had driven through Landry on a fishing trip, and from the backseat, she fretted about Frankie’s illness and considered the town. It had looked big enough to go undetected but small enough to get around by foot, the perfect place to finish high school.

  When a snake slithered over her shoe, Wreath screamed and clutched her belongings, running until she had another stitch in her side. Panting, she collapsed in a clearing, put her face down, and wept. She longed for shelter and one more day to hold the glass to her mother’s lips, to count out her pills, to brush her hair.

  Wreath’s pace was not nearly as good as she got weaker; she was tired and hungry. Red bug bites plagued her, itching at her waist, the back of her knees, and her armpits. She spent three more miserable nights in the woods, a can of Vienna sausages and a bottle of water her only meal. She looked longingly at a bruised banana and a package of peanut butter crackers, but knew she had to save what little food she had.

  The urgent hurt in her heart and need for distance subsided to a tired ache that made her slow and unsteady. She had sometimes felt alone before, with Frankie at work or sick, but that had been nothing like this.

  Wreath constantly swept her eyes about to make sure no one followed. She asked herself questions to make sure she had not gone crazy—and then wondered if that was a sign of losing her mind.

  When she spoke aloud, her voice sounded rusty and scared.

  “What did you love most about your mother?”

  She laughed unsteadily and answered. “She believed I could do anything.”

  “What is your favorite food?”

  The last question made her stomach growl, and she wondered again if she should turn back and confront the known ugliness, rather than hoping for something better.

  If life were a race, she was definitely starting from the back of the pack.

  Wreath walked on.

  Chapter 3

  A woman in a shiny new car pulled to the shoulder of the highway as Wreath tripped over a root, tried to catch herself, and fell backward, cushioning the blow with her pack. “Need a ride, young lady?”

  “No thanks.” Wreath put her head down, not knowing if she could go on and afraid of being noticed.

  “Looks to me like you need help.” She was African American, wearing a fancy shirt. “I’m happy to give you a lift. I’m going toward Landry. Can I drop you somewhere along the way?”

  Wreath needed to get to Landry, and the lady seemed nice enough. Wreath nodded her head and turned toward the car.

  “I’d appreciate a ride,” she said. “I can give you gas money.”

  “Headed that way anyway, no pay necessary,” the woman said. “Hop in.”

  As the car pulled slowly onto the road, Wreath breathed the cool air and tried not to relax into the comfortable seat. Still, she gave a deep sigh, thankful the ride was free. Wreath had read warning after warning about hitchhiking and had memorized Frankie’s lecture about accepting rides with strangers. She’d decided two weeks ago that it would be too dangerous and intended to walk the entire way. But surely accepting this offer did not mean she couldn’t make it on her own, and the woman was probably harmless. It was smart and would save her time and energy.

  Wreath cut her eyes over to the driver and thought she could outrun her or beat her up if necessary and then almost laughed out loud at the thought. This was not the kind of woman who got into fights.

  “You look like you could use something to drink,” the lady said. “This time of year I don’t leave home without an extra bottle of water.” She motioned to the console between the seats. “It’s probably not very cold, but it’s wet.”

  Wreath gulped the water, wiping her mouth and thinking nothing had ever tasted so good.

  “My name’s Clarice, by the way,” the driver said. “Clarice Johnson. I live north of the Wooddale community, close to Landry. How about you?”

  “I’m Wreath.” She winced when she gave her real name instead of the made-up name she had practiced for days. At least she hadn’t given her last name.

  Being on the run was harder than the movies made it look.

  “What a lovely name,” Clarice said. “Were you a Christmas baby?”

  Wreath shook her head and lied to make up for blurting out her name. “That’s what most people guess, but it was my mama’s aunt’s name. My mama always said if she had a little girl that’s what she would name her.”

  “You live down this way?” the woman asked. “Visiting relatives near Landry. I’m meeting my mama.”

  “I see.”

  Wreath turned to look out the side window, inching away on the leather seat, and was relieved when Clarice didn’t ask her anything else.

  A silence fell between them and, despite her best intentions, Wreath dozed, her neck crooked against the door, the shoulder strap pulling, her hair tangled.

  “Wreath,” she heard Clarice murmur, barely above a whisper. “I wonder what in the world your story is.”

  Sleep pulled at her, but Wreath roused herself and sat up straighter. The sound of gravel forced her wide awake.

  Clarice had pulled off the main highway onto a side road and stopped the car. “Sleepyhead, I’m getting close to my house and don’t know where to drop you. Would you like to come home with me for a bite of supper?”

  Wreath sat up straight and tried to shake off her grogginess. She could think of nothing she would like more than a home-cooked meal and a place to wash up, but she had already risked more than she should have by accepting the ride. For her plan to work, she had to survive alone and make quick and good decisions.

  “My family’s expecting me, so I’d better move along,” Wreath said. “I’ll get out here. This’ll be great.”

  Clarice gave the kind of laugh a friend makes when another friend says something stupid. “Here? In the middle of nowhere?”

  “My cousins don’t live far.” Wreath began to sweat, despite the air-conditioning blowing on her face. “This is good.”

  “I can’t leave you here,” the woman protested. “You must be turned around. There’s nothing around here but a junkyard and the state park.”

  Wreath practically leapt from the car, jerking on the back door and panicking when she realized it was locked. She couldn’t leave her backpack! “Just a second, honey,” Clarice said, hitting a button. “Now try it.”

  Wreath yanked the back door open, dragging her pack out and catching the trash bag on the door, tearing it down the side. Her clothes and stash of food spilled into a ditch next to the road.

  Humiliated, she scooped the items up, wrapped everything in the blanket, tied it into a knot, and stuck the trash sack, which was her tarp, rain cover, and suitcase, into her pack. At this point, she could afford to get rid of nothing.

  She lifted her hand for a quick wave and felt a familiar lump in her throat. Her fear, along with Clarice’s kindness, air-conditioning, and the thought of a real meal, made the departure harder.

  “Thank you for the ride,” she said through the open window. Something about the woman made her want to use her best manners.

  “Are you sure you won’t let me take you to your kinfolks’ house?” Clarice asked.

  “I’m good.” Wreath backed away from the car, tripping over her own feet.

  “At least let me give you this.” Clarice held out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I’ve got plenty,” Wreath said. “Thanks anyway.”

  She started walking purposefully, as though she had been here a thousand times and knew just where she was going. She fought the urge to look back.

  “Godspeed, Wreath,” Clarice called out and slowly drove off. Wreath waited until the car disappeared and leaned against a tree, scooting away from a hill of ants.

  She pulled out her map and tried to figure out where she was.

  Clarice had mentioned a junkyard, and th
e teenager hoped that didn’t mean locals paid attention to the overgrown spot. She wished the woman didn’t know it existed, didn’t know she existed. She wished she’d taken the twenty dollars. No, I don’t.

  Her thoughts whirled.

  Stepping into dense woods, she squirmed to arrange the trash bag as a cushion and plopped down. She fished around for her notebook and a pen, her hand brushing against the crackers. She wanted to eat them, but they needed to last. She had so little of everything.

  After making eye contact with Big Fun at the house and catching the eye of the old couple in their backyard—and, oh my, now hitching a ride—she wanted to add “avoid notice” to her list of goals. Her words were printed carefully in a small brown binder, bought for a quarter, including extra paper, at a garage sale. The journal was her treasure and felt like her only friend. In elementary school, she had named it Brownie—and at the moment it comforted her.

  “It’s just you and me now, Brownie,” she wrote in the book, patting it as though it were a pet. “The journey has begun.”

  She tried to remember the date. June 3, she decided it was, wishing she had brought a calendar. “A fresh start,” she scrawled, her hand shaking so hard the writing was almost illegible.

  She flipped through the lined pages for the thousandth time. On the first page, she had written the word CONFIDENTIAL in matter-of-fact capital letters. On the second page, she had used big, loopy, bubble-shaped words: Wreath Wisteria Willis! Plans, Goals, and Dreams! Get Ready, World!

  She had felt full of hope when she started writing in the notebook, but now the words seemed silly. She looked back at the pages labeled WHAT TO DO. She had made note after note, most entries updated and expanded. She had written about the town of Landry and the abandoned junkyard where she would live. She had even sketched the way she wanted her future room to look, copying ideas from design magazines.

  Her main list was basic:

  Choose a place to live. (Done!)

  Do research. (See notes.)