“I see,” I say, but I don’t really. I’m wondering why my name wasn’t his idea. “Thanks, but I’ll call you FJ.”
He remains quiet for several more minutes. “I tried to keep in touch, but … well, I got busy with things.”
I translate “things” to mean his new wife and four other sons.
“And there’s something else …” His voice sounds funny, like he’s choking on a french fry. “Lizzie’s the only wife I ever had. Legal wife, that is.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It, uh, it means your mom and I never got married.”
I understand. His other sons are legitimate, and I’m not.
“But we used my name on your birth certificate,” he says. “So legally, your name is Huckaby.” He looks at me. “Okay?”
I say okay, but I don’t feel better. I stare out the window at dark space lit up by an eerie white light, feeling like I’ve been kidnapped. Then I remember that it won’t be for long—only ten months. Just until Mom gets out of jail.
Sunday, September 20
8:37 A.M.
“Are we there yet?” I rub the sleep from my eyes.
“Not by a long shot.”
A sign alongside the road tells me we are now on I-44. A different Triple-A map is lying open on the console, and I discover we’re in Missouri, west of St. Louis.
FJ pulls into a drive-through at the next McDonald’s. “Hop out and wash up. I’ll get breakfast sandwiches to go.”
When I get back, he folds up the Missouri map and hands me another one. “We’ll be crossing into Illinois soon.”
Back on the road, I see corn growing—really tall corn—and something else I don’t recognize. “What’s that stuff?” I point to bushy plants growing in arrow-straight rows that alternate with the cornfields.
“That? Why, that’s soybeans. Corn and soybeans are the major crops here. They pay the bills.”
I stare at him.
“I work as a grain inspector for the state,” he explains. “Farmers have to comply with laws to make sure what they grow is safe for consumption and other uses. I visit farms, inspect grain for quality, and analyze it for chemical content. Round here, that grain is corn and soybeans.”
“So … you’re pretty important, huh?”
“Well, it’s an important job. Making sure grain doesn’t contain bacteria and disease is a big responsibility.” He nods out the window. “Corn and soybeans are what puts the food on our table.”
I look out the window again, imagining corn and soybeans on the table. Sometimes I make bean burritos for Mom’s supper. Refried beans rolled up in a corn tortilla that I warm up in a skillet.
“You like burritos?”
“Burritos?” He pauses. “Not really, least not as a regular diet. Why?”
“Oh, nothing.” I’m disappointed because I want him to like burritos, too. Then I decide that it’s okay if he doesn’t, because Mom does. I decide to fix her bean burritos the minute she gets back home.
2:45 P.M.
We exit I-39 North and weave our way down narrow asphalt roads that run alongside big white farmhouses and huge red barns and tall metal silos painted blue.
Silo blue … barn red. Finally! Colors Mr. Lopez will like. I can hardly wait to describe them to him.
A few minutes later, we pass a sign pointing the way to Chicago. “Aren’t we going through Chicago?”
Mr. O’Hare has told me about Chicago. It’s called the Windy City, and the street vendors sell Chicago dogs—hot dogs with tomatoes and dill pickles on them.
“Bypassed it.” He points toward the east. “Chicago’s that way, on Lake Michigan.”
Great. I missed Chicago, too.
Out the window, I see herds of cows penned up next to red barns. Not skin-and-bone cows like those in Texas—huge black-and-white cows. Some with spots all over like dalmatian dogs; some with white stripes around their middles like Oreo cookies.
“That’s dairy cattle,” FJ says as I crane my neck looking at them. “Some farmers still keep a few on their farms. Most dairies are run different these days, though. Cows are kept in big barns, never let outside. Lights are kept burning all night to improve milk production. Did you know that? That light improves milk production? At night the barns look like flying saucers that have landed in the middle of the cornfields.”
Cool. Things are looking up.
“How far is it to those barns? Close enough to bike?”
He gives me a look. “That would be trespassing. Besides, can’t go disturbing the cows—could affect milk production.”
My adventure is feeling like a roller-coaster ride.
“Well, here we are,” he says, tapping a spot on the map. He slows down as we pass a sign that says CLEARVIEW. “We are now five miles from the Wisconsin state line. Wisconsin’s known as the Dairy State. They make a lot of butter and cheese up there.”
Clearview is circled on the Illinois map, and I can see that it’s right at the top of the state. We’ve almost driven across the entire country, from bottom to top.
Just past the town sign is another one that says BUSINESSES IN CLEARVIEW. I glance at the dozen-or-so names on the sign. There isn’t a McDonald’s or DQ or Taco Bell or movie theater listed. Not even a Walmart. In fact, I don’t recognize the name of a single one of the businesses on the sign.
“Where’s the McDonald’s?” I ask, feeling panicky.
He laughs. “Don’t have one.”
“Dairy Queen?”
Another laugh. “Have to drive twenty-five miles east or west to find a McDonald’s or a DQ.”
Twenty-five miles? Why would anyone want to live in such a place?
He reads my mind. “Clearview is close to my work. And it’s a good place to raise kids. First-class school district, good things for kids to do. You know, like Scouts and 4-H.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumble.
“That’s the school you’ll go to.” He points to a sprawling yellow-brick building. “There’s three wings for the different grades. Primary, Middle School—that’s fifth through eighth—and High School. The primary and middle-school principal’s name is Mr. Arnt. We’ll get you registered tomorrow.”
I look at the side streets that run off the main one, hoping to see something that looks familiar. The two-story homes on the side streets have porches that stretch around the front and sides of the house. There isn’t a dirt clod or scrap of trash anywhere.
FJ turns off the main street and drives a couple of blocks. Not as much as a candy-bar wrapper clutters the gutter in front of the two-story house with green shutters where he parks the van. On the front porch, I see shiny, new-looking bikes lined up and remember the money he supposedly sent for my birthday.
I don’t care, I think. I bet my bike’s every bit as good as those—no, better.
In a field at the end of the block, I see corn and soybeans growing.
“Where do your kids ride their bikes?”
“Why, on the street. But there is a park a few blocks away with a paved bike path, in case you’d rather ride there.”
Paved bike path? The Chihuahua Desert doesn’t have an unpaved bike path, much less a paved one.
“Meteors ever fall out of the sky around here?”
“Meteors?” He looks confused.
I was afraid of that.
3:30 P.M.
Four boys burst out the front door and grab FJ around his shoulders, arms, middle, and knees.
Matt, Mark, Luke, and Little Johnny.
They’re wearing Tshirts and jeans like I am, except theirs are clean. Mine have mustard and catsup and grease down the front and are wrinkled because I’ve worn them for two days.
The second-shortest boy wears glasses, but other than that, the four legitimate Huckaby sons look pretty much the same. I don’t look anything like them. Their eyes are chocolate brown, not blue like mine; their hair and eyebrows are thick and brown, too.
I hear a door slam agai
n. A short, round woman with curly brown hair and chocolate-brown eyes runs down the front steps. She’s dressed in slacks and a plaid shirt, which billows when she stretches out her arms. A tent with legs.
Lizzie.
Mom is about as opposite of her as you can get. Mom’s hair is short and blond, all shiny and spiky, and she likes capri pants and bright Tshirts. Lime green is her favorite color because her eyes are green. Sometimes she paints her fingernails and toenails to match what she’s wearing. Just thinking about her makes me homesick.
Squealing like car brakes when someone stomps on them, Lizzie reaches over the four boys and grabs FJ around the neck. I wonder how he’s able to breathe, but he just gathers them up in his long arms as if trying to squeeze the life out of them. When he lets them go, they turn and stare at me.
“Hey.” I nod, holding tight to my suitcase.
“Oh, yeah,” FJ says. He walks over to me, puts his arm around my shoulders. “This is Frankie Joe, my … my oldest son.”
“That’s why he’s named after you,” the boy with glasses says. “Right, Dad? ’Cause he’s the oldest.”
“Does that mean he can boss us around?” the smallest boy asks. “Like Matt does?”
“Do not,” the tallest boy says.
“Do too! ’Cept now, he can boss you around.”
“Can not.”
“Can too—”
“Enough of that.” Lizzie gives me an ear-to-ear grin. “Why, he’s the spitting image of you, FJ.” She frowns suddenly. “Except he’s thin—way too thin.”
My face burns. What does she mean, too thin? Mom always told me I was tall for my age and would fill out sideways when I stopped growing skyways. I begin to squirm, waiting for someone to notice that I’m just tall for my age. But FJ and Lizzie say nothing, while the four boys just stare at me some more.
Finally Lizzie cuts short the staring, saying, “I can fix thin. People don’t stay thin for long in my house.”
Before I can blink, she’s pulling me up the steps, the half brothers hot on my heels like a posse keeping herd on me.
I brace myself for my first meal of corn and soybeans.
3:55 P.M.
Lizzie sets out a spread the likes of which I’ve never seen before: crispy fried chicken, mashed potatoes with cheese sprinkled on top, gravy shiny with pan drippings, orange Jell-O with shredded carrots, hot rolls with butter, and apple pie for dessert.
“Did Frank tell you I’m a quilter, Frankie Joe?” Lizzie smiles at me.
I figure out that FJ is Frank and shake my head no.
“My Quilt Circle meets here every Saturday afternoon. A quilt takes hours and hours to make. My quilts have won many a blue ribbon at the county fair.”
“The fair is held every August,” FJ explains. He helps himself to another helping of chicken and lets Lizzie talk on.
“I work part-time at the JCPenney store, that’s in the next town over. But I’m home by six o’clock, soon after the boys get home from The Great Escape—that’s what the after-school program is called.” She pauses to catch her breath. “I get a fifteen-percent discount on anything I buy, which helps out a lot with four boys growing like weeds.”
Lizzie smiles around the table at her four “weeds,” who respond with ear-to-ear grins of their own. I notice she stops short of giving me a grin, and I wonder what I am if not a “weed.”
“I’m the best colorer in first grade,” the youngest boy says, taking over. He’s the one called Little Johnny. “My teacher puts all my pictures up in the room for everyone to see ’cause I never color outside the lines.”
“I’m really good at math,” Luke says next. He’s the one who wears glasses. He announces that he plans on being a “gazzillionaire” when he grows up. “I can count to a hundred, and count by twos, and count by threes, and count by fours, and count by fives. I can even count by sevens!” He looks at me. “Can you count by sevens?”
I stare at him, wondering what’s so important about counting by sevens.
“Of course, he can count by sevens,” Lizzie says, laughing. “Frankie Joe’s twelve years old.”
“I’m the smartest one of all,” Mark chimes in. “I skipped third grade and went straight to fourth. I have an excellent brain. You like games? We have a Game Boy. What’s your favorite game? Bet I can beat’cha.”
That would be a safe bet. A couple of my friends back in Laredo have Game Boys, but Mom doesn’t make enough money to buy me one. Besides, who needs pretend games? I’d rather do real things—like help Mr. Lopez. Or important things—like finding space rocks with Mr. O’Hare.
“I don’t play those games,” I tell him.
“You don’t play games!” Mark looks at me like I’ve just admitted to crossing the Rio Grande illegally. “We knew you’d be a freak!”
Freak? So that’s why I’m not a “weed.” I’m a freak.
“More potatoes, Frankie Joe?” Lizzie shoots Mark a look to kill as she plops more potatoes on my plate. I concentrate on eating, listening to the rest of them talk. Which, except for FJ, they sure like to do.
Oldest-brother Matt is the least talkative of all the brothers. I learn that he’s in the fifth grade, but he makes no announcement about being the best at anything. What bothers me about him is the way his eyes spark when he looks at me. They’re like two chunks of smoldering charcoal, ready to ignite. I haven’t been here thirty minutes, and already I feel like I’ve stepped on his toes.
“So,” Lizzie says, “tell us what you’re good at Frankie Joe?” She gives me the big smile again.
Everyone grows quiet, waiting for me to speak. I feel myself blink. And blink some more. I blink a lot before FJ takes over.
“That’s enough talk for now. It’s been a long trip, and Frankie Joe’s got to be worn down to a nub. I know I am.” He looks at me. “You get enough to eat?”
“Yes sir.” I’ve had seconds on everything—even thirds on fried chicken. If corn and soybeans were any part of the meal, I don’t know which part it was.
I turn to Lizzie. “It was good.”
Her eyes glow. “If you want a snack later, I made cookies. Chocolate chip.”
Chocolate chip!
Mom bought packaged cookies, Oreos mostly because that’s her favorite kind. She doesn’t eat sweets much, though. She’s been on a diet as long as I can remember. “Guys don’t like fat girls,” she told me once when she was getting ready to go out on a date.
“Chocolate chip’s my favorite,” I tell Lizzie.
Even if I am the freak in the bunch, I begin to think Clearview, Illinois, might not be a bad place to bunk … for a few months.
5:05 P.M.
“Matt and Mark share a bedroom, you see.” FJ talks as we make our way upstairs, the posse of half brothers right behind us. He opens a door to a room on the second floor.
I see two corner desks loaded down with school-books. Math. History. Science. English. Under bunk beds, I see a Battleship game and a Game Boy, plus a stack of disks.
Four alien-looking creatures wearing eye masks leer at me from the wall: a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles poster. Mom took me to see the movie when it came out. The four dark-eyed half brothers remind me of the turtles.
I eye the crowded room, wondering if I’ll be sleeping on the floor. On the drive from Laredo, I never dreamed I would be sharing a bedroom with one mutant ninja, much less two—and sleeping on the floor.
“Luke and Johnny share another room,” FJ says. He opens the door across the hall. “The rooms are small, you see.”
Inside are two more desks, crayon drawings taped on the wall, books and games stuffed under bunk beds—and another Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles poster. It makes sense: FJ tests grain for chemicals, and the ninja turtles mutated because of toxic waste. I figure I’ll be hearing kowabunga, dude! a lot.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, looking at the floor again for space to roll out a sleeping bag. When FJ walks farther down the hall to another door, my heart starts doing flip-flops.
Cool. I get my own bedroom.
But through the door, I see a flight of steep, narrow, dark stairs and have another thought: Dope, they’re gonna to stick you in a dark, drafty attic.
“So,” FJ says as we climb. “We thought—Lizzie and me, that is—that this might be better for you. Being the other rooms are so small.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumble. I know small rooms are not the reason I’m being isolated. It doesn’t take an excellent brain to figure that out.
“You can use the boys’ bathroom there on the second floor. Lizzie and I use the one on the first … and it doubles as the guest bathroom.”
The steps are steep. I bounce my suitcase off the wall like a basketball. Reaching the top, I step into a large, open space. Walls slant to a peak and there are windows on opposite ends. An old metal bed sits under the back window, and beside it is a chest with an alarm clock on it. A small desk sits under the other window, a bookshelf beside it, and a calendar on the wall. Cardboard boxes stacked in between tell me that the attic is normally used for storage.
All this is mine? It’s bigger than our trailer in Laredo!
FJ says, “You think this’ll do all right? I mean, you’re just here temporarily, you know.”
I like the sound of that word temporarily.
“Yes sir,” I say. “This’ll do all right.”
“Stairs are hard on Lizzie,” FJ says. “You’ll need to run the vacuum and keep things picked up. Change the sheets once a week and carry them downstairs to the laundry room. But take your dirty clothes down every day so Lizzie can keep up with the wash. She’ll iron your clothes and fold your socks and underwear. You’ll need to haul them back upstairs. The other boys have to do the same thing.”
Ironed clothes? Folded underwear? At home I use things right out of the dryer.
“That clear, Frankie Joe?”
“Yes sir.”
“Those all the belongings you got?” Matt points to my suitcase. The ninja posse is clumped by the stairs, watching us.
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