Moonlight on Linoleum

by Helwig, Terry; Kidd, Sue Monk;

  “He’s a rancher, but he’s in the rodeo, too,” Mama chirped on our way to his place. “He ropes calves.”

  The longer we lived in a place, the farther away Daddy traveled to prospective oil fields. Being farther away, he didn’t drive home as often. As Mama teased to a friend, “When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

  Mama was indeed a playful mouse, and I was the mouse’s chauffeur. I was now fifteen and had my driver’s license. When I showed Daddy my new license for the first time, he pretended to wipe dust from his eyes. Mama was happy, too. Not only because I could drive by myself now, but because I could do the grocery shopping, run errands, and drive her to her rendezvous with Mr. Rodeo. She often traveled with Mr. Rodeo to Ruidoso Downs in New Mexico to bet on the quarter horses, and to various rodeos in the region where Mr. Rodeo performed.

  While Mama’s love life no longer surprised me, it grieved me in a new way. My naïveté faded with each passing birthday. In the past, I could feign ignorance when Daddy asked questions about Mama’s whereabouts. Now I knew not only who she was with but the directions to his house. I had to openly lie to Daddy, both on the phone and sometimes even in person.

  It never occurred to me to tell Daddy the truth and, in retrospect, I think he preferred the lies. They allowed him to preserve his dignity; they kept his mirage of hope shimmering.

  It wasn’t until I saw Mama sipping from Mr. Rodeo’s glass real casual-like that I knew she had fallen hard for him. Mr. Rodeo drove a white Cadillac with a trailer hitch soldered under the back bumper to pull his horse trailer. His Cadillac also came equipped with a drink holder in the front seat. I had never seen a built-in drink holder before.

  That particular day, Mr. Rodeo nestled a glass of bourbon and branch, a fancy name for water, into the drink holder; the ice cubes tinkled against the sides of the glass as he lifted it and took a long draft. The sweet smell of bourbon filled the air-conditioned leather interior as Mama reached over and took a sip, too. Something about the way Mama lifted the glass—the familiarity of her touch upon it, the assumption that it was hers for the taking—made me sit up and take notice.

  ONE NIGHT when Mama was out with Mr. Rodeo, James Ray, a boy from our class, came over to visit Nancy. He and Nancy opted to talk outside because privacy inside the trailer was nonexistent; besides, I had just made a concoction of soapsuds to remove houseflies from the ceiling. If too many flies entered the trailer during the day (we didn’t have screens), we shook together soap and water in a jar in the evenings when the flies quieted down. We approached each fly one by one on the ceiling, holding the jar beneath them. The frothy foam acted like a fly magnet, practically sucking the flies into the jar.

  I didn’t worry about Nancy and boys; she was both shy and a bit awkward in their presence. Not that I was an expert. Vicki, Nancy, Ada Beth, and I determined that boys who smoked Camels or read Playboy magazine were fast and should, therefore, be avoided. This narrowed our playing field considerably. Stolen kisses were the extent of our wantonness, and I wasn’t even sure Nancy had stolen one yet.

  Mama, however, usually erred on the side of suspicion. That evening she returned home early before Nancy had stepped back into the trailer.

  “Who’ve you been with?” Mama demanded when Nancy clicked the trailer door closed.

  “James Ray,” Nancy said.

  “What happened out there between the two of you?” Mama asked accusingly.

  It’s possible that the impending train wreck might have been avoided had Nancy thought to censor herself, but she was never one for diplomacy.

  She looked coolly at Mama and said, “Nothing happened. I’m not a whore like you.”

  The word whore struck with shattering force. Mama’s unbridled fury sought only one thing: retribution. She cornered Nancy in the bottom bunk of the middle bedroom and delivered blows repeatedly to Nancy’s body. Nancy fought back, kicking and punching until the two of them collapsed from exhaustion, Mama’s wrath spent.

  Nancy woke the next morning covered in bruises. She looked like she had been thrown under a train.

  In addition to the driving and grocery shopping, Mama put me in charge of signing our report cards and writing notes for excused absences. I signed Mama’s name so often the school would have questioned Mama’s signature as the forgery. I wrote notes for our absences in the format Mama had taught me. In Nancy’s case the note would have read:

  To whom it may concern,

  Nancy was absent due to the fact she was incapacitated.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. Jean Vacha

  If I had written the truth, the note would have read:

  To whom it may concern,

  Nancy was absent due to the fact Mama beat her black-and-blue and she was too sore to come to school.

  Sincerely,

  Terry Vacha

  If Aunt Eunice had seen Nancy that day, she would likely have taken Nancy away from Mama. If child services had seen Nancy, we might all have been taken away. Mama knew she had crossed a line—she returned to Nancy’s bunk crying and apologized. But Nancy turned her back. If Mama wanted absolution, she wouldn’t find it in the eyes of any of her daughters—not even in mine.

  * * *

  IT WAS late Friday night; I wanted to finish my chores so I could have Saturday free. Ada Beth had introduced me to a boy named Darrel and the three of us planned to hang out together on Saturday and cruise the two Dairy Marts.

  I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor when I spotted Mama’s moccasins walking toward me. She pulled out a chair and sank down.

  “Terry, I have something to tell you,” she said. “You’re not going to like it.”

  I stopped and looked up at her. So many things seemed possible.

  She didn’t look at me. She actually seemed nervous. Seconds seemed to tick by.

  “I’m divorcing Davy,” she finally blurted.

  I felt the blood drain from my face and I braced my hand on the side of the bucket, dizzy.

  “Why? After all these years, why now?”

  She turned her eyes on me then. “I want to get married again.”

  “To Mr. Rodeo?”

  She nodded. “Don’t you think we’ll be happy together?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?” she asked indignantly.

  How could she not see it? Mr. Rodeo was a maverick just like her. He was a man who gave orders, not one who followed them. He expected his horses, his field hands, and, I suspected, his women to take their cues from him. I had never seen Mama acquiesce to anyone.

  “He’s more strong-minded than Daddy,” I said. “I don’t think he’ll let you have your way like Daddy does.”

  “I think we’ll be happy,” Mama said almost petulantly. “I’m not changing my mind, so you might as well get used to it. And we won’t be living in this trailer anymore, either.”

  My heart physically ached. I knew in my bones that Mama wasn’t changing her mind. I sat there mute, watching my tears plop into dingy mop water. I couldn’t fathom our life without Daddy. He had been a part of me for so many years. His love didn’t have sharp edges; his love never hurt. Again and again he had forgiven Mama, hoping for the day she might love only him. But that day was like the day after tomorrow; it would never come.

  Mama left me there to grieve and to finish mopping. It seemed appropriate somehow—scrubbing the floor with my tears. It was like penance for Daddy’s pain. When I finished, I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to stay busy. I ferreted out some liquid wax from under the kitchen sink and poured it onto the linoleum floor. I applied it in long, slow strokes to keep myself occupied, to keep myself from wailing, to keep myself from picturing Daddy wailing.

  Later that night, I turned off all the lights and sat on the couch with my knees drawn up underneath my chin. Mama had left for the night and everyone else slept. The moon had climbed into the sky and was now shining inside the trailer window. I looked to where it spilled across the waxed
linoleum floor, gleaming like the surface of a calm lake. I stared at it for a long while. How was it possible that moonlight on linoleum, washed with my tears, could be so achingly beautiful?

  MAMA AND Mr. Rodeo married in Juárez, Mexico, on a weekend that I believe fell before Mama’s divorce from Daddy was final—not that it matters all that much. Mama told Mr. Rodeo when they met that she was already divorced, so he wasn’t too concerned with the dates.

  Telling Daddy good-bye sent me into a state of shock.

  I see myself in a fog, the hurt so deep that I can’t let it out or else I won’t be able to breathe. I clasp my arms around Daddy’s waist and I feel my sisters’ arms there, too. All of these arms and Daddy’s tears, his telling us it will be okay, that we’ll still see each other, that he will always love us.

  According to the divorce settlement, Daddy acquired the trailer and visiting rights; he was also ordered to pay child support for Patricia, Brenda, and Joni. Mama took the six of us, the GE washing machine, the picnic table, the living-room sectional, the sewing machine, and the Volkswagen. In the blink of an eye, seven females moved into Mr. Rodeo’s three-bedroom ranch on the other side of town. In that same blink, seven females disappeared from Daddy’s life. He was left with the trailer and no place to sit or wash his clothes. For the first time, the ten-by-fifty-foot trailer he had proudly purchased in Fort Stockton was empty. We had shed it like a cicada shell, leaving only a tin husk of the family who once dwelt there.

  TRUE TO form, Mama tried hard in the beginning. She wanted to prove to herself, to us, to anyone who thought otherwise, that she could indeed make a good life for herself, us, and Mr. Rodeo. To prove it, she bought a bolt of pink gingham material, western shirt patterns, threads, and snaps. Then she, Vicki, Nancy, and I pinned on patterns of every shirt size in the family—from Joni’s little shirt to Mr. Rodeo’s large one. We cut out yokes, sewed French seams, and pounded on snaps.

  On the first day of the rodeo, we made our debut as a family. We put on our identical shirts (which was likely the first time Mr. Rodeo wore pink), climbed onto various horses, and rode together in the Grand Parade, in a circle around the ring. Mr. Rodeo led the way on his champion rodeo horse, beneath the flapping flag he balanced on his saddle. I can still feel the sun on my back, the wide girth of the horse beneath me, and the murmur of the crowd when they first saw us dressed alike. Mama had scored a home run.

  Mr. Rodeo embraced his new role. He taught me how to saddle a horse, pulling the cinch strap through the cinch ring and rigging dee for a snug fit so the saddle wouldn’t slide. It was important, he thought, for the Denver City Riding Club candidate for Christmas Queen (me) to know how to saddle and ride a horse.

  I wasn’t sure how I had been selected as a candidate, but the prospect of riding on a float in the Christmas parade wearing a formal gown thrilled me. All the candidates would be on floats—right along with the reigning Christmas Queen. It didn’t matter if I won or not. Riding on a float would be about as close as I had ever come to being popular.

  I helped Mama decorate little cans with my picture and we took them into local businesses to place beside their cash registers so customers could vote. People were supposed to vote for the candidates of their choice by stuffing coins and bills into the appropriate cans. Whoever tallied the most money would become the next Christmas Queen.

  Once, when Mr. Rodeo and I went into a store, he stuffed some bills into my can and gave me a wink. He told me that a good many members in the riding club were supporting me, too. Mama and I talked about driving to Hobbs to look for a store-bought gown. Move over, Loretta Lynn!

  Daddy seemed happy for me when I told him everything on the phone. We had visited him once since the divorce. We even stayed in the trailer again, which felt odd. The seven of us tried hard to pretend we were happy that weekend; I took off my sunglasses and propped them on Freckles’s snout and Daddy snapped a picture of all of us sitting on the metal steps outside the trailer. But our unsmiling faces tell the real story. We still missed Daddy terribly. At least he had not been blotted out of our lives entirely; we could still see him from time to time.

  Mr. Rodeo didn’t try to usurp Daddy’s place. He was more like a friend than a father. He refurbished an old blue Packard for us to drive to school. He even agreed to put a fresh coat of paint on the old cinder-block bunkhouse, not far from the main house, so Vicki, Nancy, and I could move into it. His eyebrows lifted when he saw our choice of paint color. Robin-egg blue was not your usual bunkhouse color, but it was perfect for three teenage girls who loved the Beatles. Though drafts blew through the bunkhouse and tiny piles of red sand built up underneath the door during every sandstorm, Nancy, Vicki, and I felt as if we had moved into a college dorm—something I actually hoped to do when I graduated from high school.

  Sometimes at night, I climbed out of bed, pulled on my jeans, and headed for the giant haystack behind the metal barn. The haystack had become my refuge, much like Grandma and Grandpa’s oak tree. I liked to lie on top of it, smelling the sweet grassy scent, as I communed with the stars and moon. I felt safe, anonymous, and peaceful there. I loved the bowl of sky over my head and the feeling that I was part of the land. Sometimes I listened to the plaintive cry of coyotes in the distance, or to a cow lowing to her calf.

  Most of Mr. Rodeo’s Hereford and Angus cows looked after their calves just fine on the range. Sometimes the whole herd circled a calf to protect it from harm. But one mother cow, for unknown reasons, had recently abandoned her calf. Mr. Rodeo scooped up the struggling newborn and brought him home. He asked if we wanted to nurse him by hand. It was a unanimous yes.

  We named our white-faced orphan Whibbles because he wobbled on his spindly feet. For weeks, the six of us took turns feeding him out of a nippled bottle, cooing and wishing we could keep him for a pet. The harsh reality was that someday Whibbles would become a steer, which meant he would be castrated and later sold for meat.

  When Brenda and Joni asked me what would happen to Whibbles, I couldn’t bring myself to tell them about castration or slaughterhouses. I let them believe Whibbles would live happily ever after in a field not far away from the haystack, forever grateful to the little girls who had fed and loved him.

  AFTER SOME months, Mama’s dream of living happily ever after with Mr. Rodeo began to crumble.

  Mr. Rodeo would come to say three things of Mama: (1) She was the most creative person I ever met; (2) That woman had a way with a horse; (3) Everything was fine until she needed a fix; the dope did her in.

  Mama’s nursing career ended gradually, under a dark cloud of secrecy and suspicion. Mama had been dispensing medicines and pills to herself as well as to her patients. She had logged fifty-five hours of Administering Medicine during her internship. I had seen blank prescription pads in her possession. I had also noticed a plethora of prescription bottles from numerous doctors filled not only in Denver City but in the nearby towns of Plains, Seagraves, and Seminole.

  Brief periods of calm in our lives were now overshadowed by long periods of fighting between Mama and Mr. Rodeo. Violent, dramatic battles were followed by tearful reconciliations. More than once, Mama woke us up in the middle of the night and told us to start packing our clothes. We obligingly removed clothing from our drawers, only to have her return to the room minutes later and tell us to put everything back.

  Once, Mama locked herself in the bathroom and yelled to Mr. Rodeo that she had swallowed a whole bottle of pills. He forced open the door and found her lying fully clothed in the bathtub. She had taken some pills, but not the whole bottle.

  Another night Mama bolted during a fight and drove a back road to a bar in Hobbs. On the way home, she flipped the Volkswagen. It was a dark and desolate road. A passerby called the police and reported, “People are lying everywhere.” When the police arrived, they found Mama and lots of clothes strewn about, but no people wearing them. Mama’s dry cleaning had been piled in the back of the van and scattered when the van flipped. Mama was sor
e and bruised, but she walked away from the accident—probably not in a straight line.

  After another fight, Mama called Daddy and told him she planned to leave Mr. Rodeo. She asked if she could come back to him. When Daddy said yes, Mama told him to rent a U-Haul trailer for our things. A day later, Daddy arrived towing the U-Haul. I noticed an unmistakable spring in Daddy’s step as he carried the sewing machine from the house into the back of the U-Haul. He couldn’t hide his pleasure at nearly having his family back. After he had toted out several boxes of clothes, Mama pulled him aside and told him she had changed her mind; she wasn’t leaving Mr. Rodeo after all. Daddy put his head on my shoulder and cried. I stroked his head like a child’s. I cried, too.

  “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I kept whispering. “I’m so sorry.”

  Daddy left and Mama limped on. She was like one of Daddy’s Fords. She still ran even though she badly needed fixing.

  For me, the climax came one night when Mama and Mr. Rodeo scuffled in the house. The girls and I took refuge on a single bed in the back bedroom. Their yelling became louder. We heard running footsteps and doors slamming. A few moments later we heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots in the night, possibly from the barn. Brenda froze, glassy-eyed. I drew her into the center of our sisters’ circle, like a calf being protected by the herd.

  I was overtaken by fear in that bedroom. I sensed danger all around us in a way that transcended logic. The bed became our life raft, adrift in an enormous sea. I felt as if sharks circled us and I had to keep us from being eaten alive. I didn’t want anyone’s feet or arms dangling off the sides of the bed. I tucked Joni’s feet beneath my knee. I had no idea who fired the shots. Mama might be dead. Or she might be a murderer.