A Thousand Voices

by Lisa Wingate

  “I don’t have any people.” Suddenly, I was catching her drift, and I didn’t like it. I felt like I was eight years old again, the kids at elementary school circling around me, chanting smelly Delly, smelly Delly and making Indian whoops because of the way I looked. If the Four Winds hadn’t been potentially the last hotel in town, I would have turned around and left. “I’m here by myself.”

  She reached under the counter and pulled out a receipt book, seeming satisfied that my people and I wouldn’t tear up her cabin. “All right. One night or two?”

  “One for now. Then we’ll see.” Stepping up to the counter, I fumbled with the zipper on my purse. “Do you take checks?”

  “Ukhhh,” she huffed, still writing on the pad. “No. Cash in advance, or credit card. Visa. MasterCard. No American Express.”

  That hardly mattered, since I didn’t have a credit card—another one of those grown-up rites of passage that had been on hold these past two years. Thank goodness for the three hundred dollars Karen had left on the counter. “No problem. I’ll just pay cash. Then if I stay another night, I’ll come back and…” My pocket was empty. My throat went dry as I reached into the other one. Nothing. “I don’t…I had…” Frantically, I checked my back pockets, then my purse. Nothing but the change from the twenty-dollar bill I’d broken at the convenience store. Fifteen dollars and twenty-one cents. Where was the three hundred? “I must have dropped…” Vaguely, I remembered pulling my keys in and out of my pocket at the store. “Oh, no.” I looked up at the woman behind the counter, pleading. “Are you sure you can’t take a check? It’s from out of state, but it’s good, I promise. I have eight thousand dollars in my money market. You can call the bank and check.”

  Wagging her chin, the clerk threw the hair wad over the opposite shoulder, pointing at the fish-shaped clock on the wall. “It’s after five. How’m I gonna call the bank? They’re all closed. Anyway, we don’t take checks.”

  “Shoot,” I muttered, trying to decide what to do. What next? Go back to town, try every hotel, hope to find a vacancy someplace that would take a check? Try to find somewhere that would cash an out-of-state check after five o’clock?

  “Good luck finding someone that’ll take an out-of-state check,” the clerk barked, probably anticipating my next question. “Too many people bouncin’ checks around the lake these days. Hotels are all full anyhow.”

  “I know.” I stood staring into my purse, still trying to come up with a plan. Any plan. “Do the grocery stores around here let you write checks for over the amount?” A favorite teenage after-business-hours trick, one I’d learned from Barry. Buy something at the grocery store and write the check for ten or twenty dollars over to get cash back.

  She tore the partially used ticket off her receipt book, then wadded it up and took a free throw at the trash can. “Some. Ten bucks, max. Too many…people around here write bad checks.”

  I did a quick mental calculation. At ten dollars each, I’d have to visit seven or eight grocery stores, depending on whether I wanted to eat tonight in addition to paying for the room.

  The clerk was in a hurry to have me out of her lobby. In the back room, Inside Edition was coming on, and she was trying to watch it over her shoulder. “There’s a state campground down on Clayton Lake, two-seventy-one, back on the other side of Clayton. Might try there. Better hurry. Later it gets, more the campsites fill up.” Tapping the ends of her fingers together, she backed toward the other room, pasting on a customer-friendly smile. “Anything else?”

  “No,” I said glumly, then walked out the door, got in the car, and headed for the campground. I didn’t have a better idea. There were worse things than sleeping in my car overnight. At least a campground would have bathrooms, showers, other people. If I was going to sleep in my car, I didn’t want to be in some rest stop or deserted parking lot. Tomorrow I could go by the bank, cash a check, and find someplace to stay—hopefully other than the Four Winds.

  Checking the hotel signs wistfully, I drove back through Clayton, then stopped on the edge of town to call home. No telling whether my cell phone would work at the campgrounds. The last thing I wanted was for Karen to get worried because she hadn’t heard from me.

  I dialed our home number rather than Karen’s cell, so that I could leave a message instead of having to talk to her. The fewer questions, the better.

  “Hey. It’s me. I made it. The girls here don’t have a phone, so if you need me, just call my cell. It might not pick up down in some of the buildings, so don’t worry if I don’t answer, okay? Love you guys.” My voice cracked at the end, and I stopped to clear my throat before adding, “Bye.”

  I hung up, then called and quickly left a message on Barry’s voice mail. “Hey, Bear-bear. Listen, I decided to go ahead and make a road trip to Oklahoma today. Don’t mention it to James and Karen, all right? I love you for wanting to go with me, but I just…needed to do this myself, all right? I’ll call you in a day or two. Bye.”

  Setting the phone in the passenger seat, I pulled out of the parking lot and followed two-seventy-one back the way I’d come until I found the campground on a wooded hillside next to a sparkling lake. The good news was that, according to the sign, overnight camping was only seven dollars, which I could afford even if they didn’t take checks. The bad news was that, as I drove in, every space in the campground was full, jammed with groups of tents, RVs, pickup trucks with campers on the back. People sitting at picnic tables and in lawn chairs around barbecue pits paused to watch me as I idled past, finding one site after another full, full, full.

  After circling once, I made the turn and started around again, hoping I could find someplace to pull in. The sign at the campground entrance clearly warned that parking was allowed in campsites only. Even so, as I drifted through a second time, I looked for places to pull off the side of the road, by the restrooms, behind the Dumpsters, anywhere. Maybe nobody would notice me….

  At the end of the horseshoe, I spied an empty picnic table with a broken bench, hidden between a huge RV on one side and a campsite crammed with tents and a couple of small campers on the other. The parking spot in front of the table was empty, so I pulled in, uttering a silent prayer before I rolled down the window to talk to the owner of the RV—a short, bald man in coveralls who was trying to light the charcoal in a portable grill.

  “Is this space empty?” I sounded as desperate as I was.

  “Far as I know,” he answered with a noncommittal shrug that wasn’t exactly unfriendly, just pointedly disinterested. “Those people have the other three spaces on the row. Their danged dogs bark all night and they got their tents further over than they’re supposed to.” Glancing up from his hibachi, he gave the tents a disdainful glance, then turned his attention back to his charcoal.

  “Thanks,” I said, and the man only lifted the spatula in a gesture that might or might not have been a wave.

  Looking in the back of my car, I assessed the possibilities for the night. I hadn’t planned on camping. I had plenty of shampoo and clean clothes, even a swimsuit I’d thought I might use in the hotel pool, but no sleeping bag, no towels for the restroom, and worst of all, no food except for a half cup of melted ice in my McDonald’s cup, some cold leftover fries, and in my backpack, a few airplane snacks, a Snickers bar, and a bottle of water that had been there since the plane trip. It would have to do. If I went to town and bought supplies, someone might take my campsite.

  I climbed out of the car, walked over to the stone picnic table with my McDonald’s cup and bag, sat down with my head in my hands, and tried to think.

  What now?

  CHAPTER 6

  I sat there for a long time, my mind flipping through random images from the past two years like a PowerPoint presentation gone haywire. This is Dell’s life. Two years of finding herself, and she’s still lost.

  I thought of the girls from the Internat mission in Ukraine—lost in every way a child can be lost, abandoned, discarded, faced with a crippling cultural stig
ma, yet filled with hope, with determination. At fifteen, they were sent out into the world, confronted with all the adult realities of life—getting jobs, finding places to live. Most had no one to turn to once they left the orphanage. In the mission, we tried to arm them with functional knowledge of the English language, in hopes that it would help them find jobs that didn’t include prostitution or the drug trade. I read them Tom Sawyer—I didn’t know how much they understood, but they laughed when one of the Ukrainian helpers translated. They understood Tom’s need to find a place to belong, to know he was wanted and loved. Watching them take in the story, I saw myself all those years ago, sitting under the windowsill in Granny’s little house, looking up at the stars and wondering if life was really any different anywhere else, or if this was the way it was supposed to be….

  Somewhere among the tents in the next campsite, music started playing. The melody wound into my thoughts, a diaphanous ribbon of sound from a simple wooden flute. A missed note testified to the fact that it wasn’t a CD, but someone playing live. Right now, the melody was “Bridge over Troubled Water,” one of James’s favorite songs.

  I missed my dad.

  In my mind, I could hear him playing one of his guitars on Grandma Rose’s porch. Karen came out the door with a plate of brownies and nudged him. “Got any Neil Diamond in there, big guy?” she asked.

  James grinned, wiggling an eyebrow flirtatiously. “You’d be surprised what I’ve got in here.”

  “All right, you guys, no PDA,” I joked, laughing. “Child on board. You two have to act like grown-ups now.”

  “This is grown-up.” James winked at me. “You ought to see us when you’re not around.”

  “Eeewww,” I moaned. “Too much information.” I’d forgotten how much I loved his lame jokes, how easy and comfortable it was when the three of us were together as a family, how good I felt inside when the two of them teased and flirted in ways they thought I wouldn’t notice. I’d always noticed, and it had always fascinated me. Until I’d become part of Grandma Rose’s family, I’d never known that men and women could be that way with each other. All I knew of men and women was Mama in the next room arguing with Angelo’s daddy, or the man with the long dark hair coming to pick her up, snaking his arm around her neck and holding her in a chokehold when he kissed her, the two of them staggering and laughing, finally falling down in the weeds on the front lawn and doing things I wasn’t supposed to see.

  If it hadn’t been for James and Karen, Aunt Kate and Uncle Ben, that’s all I would ever have known. I wondered, sometimes, if I’d ever be able to feel about somebody the way Karen felt about James—open, comfortable, passionate yet at ease. I wondered if I’d ever be anything but guarded and stiff. There was a boy in Ukraine—a student on sabbatical from Berkeley. He had beautiful blue eyes, and an easy smile. He liked to sit outside the door at night and talk about becoming a journalist and traveling the world, doing work that mattered.

  He reached across the space between us once, cupped my hand between both of his, and rubbed off the chill of the night. “What about you, Dell? What do you dream about? Where do you go from here?”

  I told him I had a boyfriend back home. I wasn’t sure why I said it, but he kissed my fingers and let go. I felt like I’d failed at something, but at the same time, I felt relief. He tried another time or two before he went back home to California. He even sent a Valentine’s card to my home address, because he’d lost the one for the mission. Karen forwarded it on. She wanted to know if something was up. I told her Tyler was just a friend. She was probably disappointed.

  Over the lake, the sky faded from evening blue to the watercolor pink of dusk. I thought about my parents, and what they were probably doing—James landing a plane somewhere and heading for a hotel, Karen finishing a long day of Jumpkids camp at one of the downtown schools. She and her volunteer helpers from Harrington Academy would pack up the instruments, the leftover snack food, the bin of old beach towels we used for yoga mats, and haul everything to the car. A few Jumpkids whose parents were late would be straggling around, waiting for their ride. Karen would put them to work so they wouldn’t be worried….

  My mind was there for a moment—back home where I should have been, sharing a hug with some kid who needed it, promising we wouldn’t leave anyone stranded at the school building, watching some tiny dancer in gym shorts and a T-shirt practice steps in the fading window light….

  Next door, the flute was playing “Tiny Dancer” by Elton John, another of James’s favorites.

  In the motor coach on the other side of me, the retired couple was talking by the kitchen window, snatches of their conversation drifting through the screen.

  “…wish they’d stop with that danged music.”

  “…imagine they’ve started up for the night again.”

  “We ought to complain to the park ranger. They got too many people over there, anyway.”

  “What’s that girl doing?”

  “Dunno. Just sitting there on the picnic table, far as I can see. Came in about an hour or so ago and asked was there anyone in that campsite. I figured she was one of their people, but she hasn’t gone over there. Just sat down on the picnic table and hasn’t moved since.”

  “…sure looks like one of them…should of told her that campsite was taken. Now she’s probably holding the spot for a whole other batch to come in, and we’ll have a racket right outside our window all night. It’s like their danged powwow’s here, instead of Tuskahoma. Folks ought to have a right to some peace and privacy without a danged powwow right outside their door.”

  “You’d think that girl’d do something beside just sit there. Suppose there’s something wrong with her, or…”

  “…oughta go find the park ranger. Bet she didn’t pay for a campsite when she came in.”

  I turned slowly toward the motor home, and the voices hushed. A moment later, the window slid shut, and the rooftop air conditioner kicked on.

  Over in the tent village, the flute music had stopped.

  In the motor home, Elvis began crooning gospel songs loudly on the stereo. I thought of my dad, who was known for the dubious Elvis impersonation he performed for the Jumpkids occasionally, and more frequently in our living room at home.

  Glory, glory haaa-layyy-luuuu-yaahhh,

  His truth is ma-a-a-arching ah-ah-ah-ahn….

  I could hear James giving the big finish at my graduation party two years ago. The memory made laughter bubble into my throat, and I felt myself smiling at no one in particular, just into the distance toward the lake.

  As quickly as it had come, the joy was gone beneath a wave of guilt. Pressing my hands over my ears, I closed my eyes, shut out the Elvis music, and thought instead about the clear, sweet notes of the wooden flute. I could see the melody, eighth notes, quarter notes, key signatures, ritards, rests, and fermatas floating by like sheet music on an invisible page, pulling me deeper and deeper into myself, toward a place I hadn’t touched in so long. When I was young, every emotion took me there—happiness, sadness, fear, uncertainty, despair, confusion, hope. Every door led to the room where all the music was.

  Lately, I couldn’t find the way in.

  A dog barked somewhere in the tent camp. The sharp sound pulled me away, sent me speeding like a roller coaster in reverse until I was back in the campground, staring at the lake as dusk fell around me.

  The campground had darkened, the insects chirring overhead. My stomach rumbled, and I opened the McDonald’s bag with the leftover fries. Not much of a supper, but between that and the airline snacks in my duffel bag, I could make it. Before tomorrow night, I would find somewhere else to stay. If there was any reason to stay. Going to Tuskahoma might just as easily be a dead end.

  A cloud of smoke blew over from the tent camp, carrying the scent of charbroiled meat. My mouth started watering. Pulling out a soggy French fry, I started dinner. This wasn’t how I’d pictured my first night in the mountains where I was born.

  But thi
ngs could have been worse. Grandma Rose always said, When you’re down, think about how things could be worse. At least I had a place to stay, something to eat, and I had found my way to the Kiamichi Mountains, my mother’s pretty place.

  By the time I’d finished my leftover fries, the tent village barbecue was in full swing. The air smelled like one giant, juicy steak. I could hear the low rumble of men talking, the rhythmic sounds of female voices, the high-pitched jingle of children laughing, running and screaming as they played tag among the tents. Through the colored nylon, their images created a shadow-puppet play in the firelight. Occasionally, one of them ventured outside the camp to hide. As quickly as they came, they squealed and dashed back into the circle, so that they were little more than darting shadows themselves. One little girl with long blue-black hair and soft, dark skin put her finger to her lips when she saw me.

  “Sssshhhh,” she breathed, and I nodded. Her eyes narrowed as she crouched behind a tent, hiding as a shadow hunter towered over her, then passed by behind the thin screen of nylon.

  “Autumn, you better not be hidin’ outside them tents,” a boy’s voice called. Pressing her finger to her lips again, Autumn shook her head, and for a moment our gazes held in the dim light. A memory rushed over me, and I was the dark-haired girl, eight years old, crouching in the dark outside Granny’s house, hiding in the shadows beneath the stream of window light, as Uncle Bobby passed overhead.

  “Girl, you better not be hidin’ out there,” he said, his words slurred and uneven.

  I waited until his footsteps moved to the other side of the house, then I bolted into the night, running down the path by memory, not stopping until I reached the river, where no one would find me. Off in the distance, a mountain lion screamed, and even though it was a bad sound, I didn’t head home. I knew I was safer at the river.