by T. Greenwood
“What happened?” she asked.
“I don’t know exactly. Green was at the bar, chatting it up with some other fellas. Then he walked out into the alley and somebody shot him.”
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“As a doorknob,” he said. “Folks were running outta there like roaches when the lights come on. Saw our neighbor hightailing it…”
“Our neighbor?”
“LaPlante,” he said, gesturing with his thumb toward the LaPlantes’ trailer. “He comes into the Sky-Vu a lot. Real cozy with my boss.”
“Frank is friendly with Joey Bonds?” Ruth asked, mystified. Frank had said they didn’t know a soul in Dallas. Why would he lie about that?
“Sure. I thought you knew that. He’s the one who set him up with the trailer. Anyway, place is crawling with cops. They shut us down, sent everybody home.”
Ruth’s mind spun with what all of this meant. Frank LaPlante knew Joey Bonds, well enough that he’d arranged for him and Florence to live at the Good Luck. What kind of man was he that he was affiliated with shady types like Bonds and Green?
“What’s the matter, Ruthie?”
“They gonna open up again tomorrow?” she asked as Hank poured himself a beer.
“I sure hope so,” he said. “I can’t afford any time off.”
Ruth nodded, but she was distracted. How on earth did some widower mechanic from back east know a guy like Joey Bonds?
* * *
On Christmas Eve, Ruth had put up a tiny fake Christmas tree. Pink branches. Glittery and soft. She found a radio station playing Christmas carols and made Hank’s favorite meat loaf. She was feeling full of Christmas cheer when Hank came home from the restaurant at 2:00 A.M. (They’d reopened just a day after they cleaned that man Green up off the pavement in the alley.)
She’d asked Florence to spend Christmas dinner with them the next day, planned to make her famous chocolate crinkle cookies for dessert.
“Ruthie,” Hank said, slumping down into his chair at the kitchen table.
“Yeah, hon?” she said, scooping a healthy slice of meat loaf onto his plate. The twinkling lights on the tree made patterns across his face.
“They let me go,” he said. “At the restaurant.”
She felt the joy suck away from her like water down a bathtub drain. “Why?” she asked. “I thought everything was back to normal.”
He shrugged. “Hell, if I know. Said they’re making some changes, got rid of the entire kitchen staff. We’re gonna need to move on. Way I figure it, we can head to California or Florida for the citrus harvest.”
Ruth shook her head. Florence. She couldn’t leave Florence. Besides, she’d hated Florida the one winter they spent there. The mosquitoes and humidity just about did her in. She’d thought that maybe they were settled here for a bit. That the restaurant job, while tiring, wasn’t the backbreaking work he was used to. But here they were again. How could she have been so foolish?
“I talked to another dishwasher about a citrus farm in San Jose. California. Nice little motor court where we can park the trailer.”
There was no way she could leave that little girl here alone with Frank. Florence needed her, and she needed Florence. “There must be something else you can do here? Another restaurant in town? Now that you got kitchen experience—”
“I already asked everybody I know. Nobody’s hiring.”
Ruth felt her heart fragmenting. She couldn’t leave. Not now.
“When?” Ruth asked.
“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning.”
“It’s Christmas tomorrow.”
“And I still ain’t paid the rent yet for December. If we stay here, there won’t be nothing left to get us situated anywhere else. Manager’s going to be at his mother’s house tomorrow, won’t see us go.”
“But what about Florence?” she finally managed.
“She’s got her daddy,” Hank said.
“I got a bad feeling, Hank,” she said, desperate now. She couldn’t leave Florence here. “About that man Frank. A hunch he ain’t who he says he is.”
“You and your hunches. It’s a bunch of hoo-ha.”
“I think he’s lying about her mama being dead,” Ruth said, wondering even as she said it if she should have.
Hank raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
“It’s not just that, Hank. She had a bad bruise on her eye earlier this fall, and the way he keeps her on such a short leash. Never plays with any of the kids here. Plus, you shoulda seen how she was when she had the appendicitis. She was curled up in the corner like a frightened little critter.”
“Course she was terrified. You’d be terrified, too, if your appendix was about to blow up.”
Ruth shook her head. “And how on earth does Frank LaPlante know Joey Bonds? Doesn’t that seem strange to you? We gotta do something. I don’t know what, but I can’t just leave her here. Daddy or no, that man Frank … somethin’ about him ain’t what it seems.”
“Ruthie,” he said. “I’m real sorry. I am. But we got to get on the road. First thing tomorrow.”
SALLY
Sally heard Mr. Warner come lurching into the trailer at 2:00 A.M. on Christmas morning. She curled herself into a tight ball at the edge of the bed and prayed that he was drunk enough to just pass out. But he didn’t come to the bedroom, and in the kitchen he kept cursing and smashing into things. Each slam and bump felt like a blow.
On nights like these, Sally prayed. But the prayers were no longer the foolish prayers of a child or even a penitent. And most of the time, they were not even directed at God. (Who was God now? Where was He? He had abandoned her just like her stepfather had the night he staggered across the train tracks and howled at an unforgiving sky. He was long gone.) When Mr. Warner lay panting next to her, she curled up at the edge of the bed and prayed to be somewhere else, someone else. She was Irene with her beautiful corn silk hair. She was Bess with her pale shoulders and overbite. But most nights she was Vivi. Vivi and her untroubled sleep. Sally dreamed herself into their respective beds. Worn cotton sheets as soft as flesh, fresh nightgowns, and the lingering taste of Pepsodent.
It was Christmas Eve, and tonight she thought of Vivi. Dreamed herself into her life.
Tonight Mother and I made oyster stew for Father. When we came home from caroling, it was so warm and delicious. It took my cheeks forever to warm up, though, even with my brand-new scarf Mother made for me. I don’t believe in Santa Claus anymore, but I hung my stocking on the mantel anyway. Mother gets wistful about me growing up.
She smelled him before she saw him: liquor and gasoline.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Mr. Warner shouted.
Father let me put the star at the top of the tree; he had to lift me up, the tree is so tall!
“Santa has a gift for you.” He was standing in the doorway now. Sally could see his silhouette, listing to one side. He held on to the doorjamb to keep from falling over.
At church, we prayed for those less fortunate. I said an extra prayer for poor Sally Horner.
He pitched forward, and she caught her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, he was kneeling at the bedside, his face just inches from hers. The vaporous fumes coming from his breath, his skin, made her sick.
“Well, what do we have here? Looks like a fat Christmas goose,” he said, laughing.
Dear God.
“Roll over,” he said, grabbing her shoulder. “On your stomach.”
* * *
After, as he lay sprawled and snoring, Sally inched out of the bed and went to the dresser where she kept the brush Ruth had given her. She untied the ribbon, which felt like a wish in her hands. She walked quietly to the window and gently pushed it open just the tiniest bit, and slipped the ribbon partly out before lowering the window again.
Please, God. Save her.
RUTH
As the sun rose on Christmas morning, Hank hitched the trailer up. The air was sharp; it felt l
ike blades in Ruth’s chest.
“Ready?” he said.
“Just a minute. I need to go say good-bye to Florence.”
She walked briskly over to the LaPlantes’ trailer. It was quiet; everyone was asleep. Feeling her pulse quicken, she pressed her hand against the trailer and patted it gently, as if she were patting Florence’s hair.
Knock, knock.
“Who is it?” a voice barked from inside.
“It’s me, Ruth,” she said. Her own voice sounded like shattered glass.
“Come on, Ruthie!” Hank said, leaning out the open truck window. It was cold, and his breath came out in puffs. She knocked again.
“Frank?” she said loudly. “I need to talk to Florence!”
“Ruth!” Hank said from the truck. “You’re gonna wake the whole park up.”
The trailer door swung open, and Frank stood there in his boxer shorts. Shirtless. Concave chest exposed. “What the hell, Ruthie? It’s Christmas morning.”
Ruth tried to see past him into the trailer, but it was like looking into the depths of a starless sky.
“Hank and I…,” she started, tears welling up in her eyes. “We’re heading out. San Jose.”
Frank stepped out of the trailer, shutting the door behind him. “You don’t say,” he said, frowning. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Whatever for?”
“They let Hank go at the Sky-Vu. After the shooting, Mr. Bonds let half the kitchen staff go,” she said, studying his face for signs of recognition. Of anything that might explain who he was.
But his expression was blank. “Well, we certainly will miss you. Especially Florence.”
“Here,” she said. “Can you please give this to her?” Ruth handed him the note she’d drafted after they’d finished tying down their meager belongings. In case this happened and she didn’t get a chance to say good-bye.
“Sure thing, Ruthie. We’ll really miss you two,” Frank said, scowling. “Merry Christmas!”
Ruth backed away from the trailer reluctantly. The sky was starting to fill with light as she got into the passenger seat of the truck.
“Alrighty then,” Hank said. “Off we go.”
Ruth leaned against the passenger window, wiping at her tears. When they drove slowly past the LaPlantes’ trailer, her stomach turned. Then it dropped at the sight of a bit of red sticking out of Florence’s window.
SALLY
Sally stirred awake, her head pounding. She could hear Mr. Warner outside and so she reached up and touched the ribbon. Why hadn’t Ruth come to her last night? She’d promised her if she saw the ribbon, she’d come help her. But it was still there, tucked through the small crack in the window. When Sally pulled it back in, it was cold to the touch. Stiff, almost icy.
She sat up, and her body was aflame with what he’d done to her. The pain was so shameful, it made her want to curl back up under the covers and never get out of bed again. But she knew that he would keep coming back, that he would never ever leave her alone for long.
She conjured the little brass angel chimes her mother always put on the mantel. She thought of the flame that somehow, miraculously, caused the little angels to go around and around, hitting the tiny bells as they went. She recalled the carousel, the brass ring, thought of the endless circles. Angels trapped forever, painted carousel ponies circling forever.
Christmas morning. She imagined her mother in the kitchen making coffee cake. She could almost feel the soft flannel of her Christmas nightgown. When she held her breath she could even hear her stepfather singing “White Christmas.” She dreamed herself down the stairs to the living room, where her Christmas stocking was hung. Where the tree twinkled, and gifts in shiny paper lay waiting.
“Florence!” Mr. Warner’s voice pulled her out of her daydream.
He was outside, standing just below the window where the ribbon had been. Knock, knock. He rapped against the glass and she startled. “Sally,” he hissed.
She got out of bed, limped to the kitchenette, and stepped down out of the trailer.
She was confused. Had they traveled while she was sleeping, moved to a different trailer court? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The space where Ruth’s trailer had always been was empty. Tex was running around, yipping in the vacant space.
“Look at that,” Mr. Warner said, shaking his head. “Left without saying good-bye, huh? Looks like it’s just you and me again, Sally.”
Stunned, Sally tried to make sense of what he was saying, what she was seeing. She scooped Tex up into her arms and ran down the drive toward the canteen, peering at the other trailers all dolled up for Christmas. None of them were Ruth and Hank’s.
“Where’d they go?” she asked when she arrived back at their trailer.
“Hell if I know,” he said.
“She didn’t tell you nothing?” Sally asked.
“Nope,” he said, shrugging. “I woke up and they were long gone.”
As she stood there in that empty space, Tex yipping at her feet, she realized she couldn’t count on anybody. Not her mama, not her teachers, not Lena, and not even Ruth. Lena was gone. Ruth was gone. Mr. Warner, for once, was telling the truth.
RUTH
The trailer park in San Jose was filled with migrant workers. No one spoke English. The women here stayed inside their trailers all day, and when they did come out (to hang their laundry or yell at their gaggles of children), they didn’t acknowledge Ruth. She wished they spoke the same language; she walked all the way to the market just for conversation, lingering in the aisles, at the register, if only to exchange pleasantries with the cashier.
She missed Dallas. She missed Florence.
As she watched the mothers at the motor court, gathering their children at the end of each day, scooping them up into their arms for kisses or in order to swat their behinds, she felt a longing so deep and strong, it sometimes made her wince, as if it were a physical pain instead of heartache.
She wrote letters to Florence. Sent them off, but she knew that in all likelihood they’d never reach her. Not if Frank got to them first. Every day that went by without a response, she became convinced that he was confiscating them. Hiding them from her. And the more time she had to ruminate on everything that had happened in Dallas, the angrier she became. She grew bitter with Hank even for pretending as if everything were back to normal, when nothing at all was.
Then one day in February, when Hank went off to work, swinging his lunch pail, whistling “Dixie,” she felt overcome. As soon as she watched the truck carry him and the other men off to the orchards, she knew she had to do something before she lost her mind. She closed the door to her trailer and picked up the phone. Asked to be connected to the Dallas Police Department. This phone call was long distance, would probably cost them a day’s wages. But she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“There’s a man, name Frank LaPlante,” she said to the woman who answered the phone at the Dallas Police Department. “Hangs out with Joey Bonds at the Sky-Vu. Lives at the Good Luck with his daughter.”
“What’s your complaint, ma’am?”
She felt her body shudder. Helpless. “Please,” she said. “God, please do something.”
SALLY
In February, Doris pulled Sally aside to a small grove of persimmon trees at the edge of the playground. Sally was learning how to do cat’s cradle with a shoelace she’d pulled from Mr. Warner’s old pair of shoes.
Doris had a mischievous look on her face that Sally was coming to recognize. Doris had surprised her before with cigarettes stolen from her mother’s packs, with lipstick pilfered from her older sister’s drawer, with chocolates and once, a single gold earring. But when Doris pulled the pocketknife from her skirt pocket, Sally gasped.
“Where’d you get that?” she said.
“From my daddy,” she said, shrugging as if it were no big deal. But Doris was still smirking; Sally knew it was a very big deal. Girls weren’t allowed to have knives at school.
“Give me your hand,” Doris said, and Sally thought maybe she was going to give her the knife. She trembled. But when she held out her hand, Doris simply opened the knife and took a quick swipe at the soft pad of Sally’s index finger. The blood took a moment before bubbling out of the razor-thin incision. Doris then cut a thin slice in her own finger and pressed it hard against Sally’s.
“We’re blood sisters now,” Doris said somberly. The impish smirk was gone. She leaned forward and touched her forehead to Sally’s. “This is a sacred bond. No lies and no secrets between us. Together, forever. Through thick and thin.”
Sally nodded, her finger stinging.
Doris stood up straight again and reached for Sally’s hand. The cut on Sally’s finger was deeper, and still bleeding. Doris pulled Sally’s hand closer and leaned over, enclosing her finger in her mouth. She sucked at Sally’s finger, and Sally felt her body go warm and soft. Her finger came out with a sucking pop. But it had stopped bleeding.
Sisters, she thought. Through thick and thin.
“Let’s go to your house,” Doris said.
Sally had never brought a friend home before. Not in Camden, not in Baltimore, and certainly not here in Dallas. She couldn’t imagine what someone might make of her and Mr. Warner’s living arrangements. She was ashamed to imagine the small trailer through Doris’s eyes. Still, Doris seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t care that she lived in a motor home.
And so when Doris invited herself over, Sally hesitated but then nodded. “Okay.”
Mr. Warner wouldn’t be home until suppertime anyway. He wouldn’t even have to know. Now that Ruth was gone, there wouldn’t be anybody else to see her and ask questions. Since Ruth left, Mr. Warner didn’t have anybody to keep an eye on her after school anymore, but it hardly mattered. He told her if she so much as thought about taking off he’d hunt her down again. Like she was just one of the swamp rabbits that wandered into the trailer park from over by the river. The only hope she had left was that Lena might return with the circus that summer, though she wondered sometimes if she’d only dreamed the tightrope walkers and acrobats. That little bit of magic and sparkle was hard to recall now. She might be here forever, she thought. She might never, ever get free.