But then she realizes the absurdity of her threat. Because to call the police, she’d need access to a phone. Besides, if they could afford a run-in with the police, they wouldn’t have wound up here in the first place. Talk about being stuck. Every road she tries to take to freedom loops right around in a circle. Drops her right back here. In hell.
At her left side, she can feel Jen stiffening, feel the stress rolling off her. But Carly can’t stop her own agitation. She feels like a trapped animal. Panicky. Anything to get away, even if she has to chew her own leg off.
She’s halfway aware of a cloud of dust and the sound of an engine. A pickup truck is pulling up the old woman’s dirt driveway. But it can’t seem to break entirely through Carly’s panic and rage.
Why is the world conspiring to keep her from getting back to Teddy? Such a simple request to make of life.
Delores is standing with her hands on her hips, a posture probably designed to remind Carly that she can’t match the old woman’s life experience in the field of indignation.
“First off,” Delores says, “I told you once already. Honor system. Stay or go. I ain’t holdin’ no gun on you. Second of all, you’re in luck. Wanna call the police? Lucky you. You don’t need no phone for that. He’s right there. Just yell the name Alvin, nice ’n loud. Wait’ll he turns off his truck, though. Give ’im half a chance to hear you.”
Carly turns her full attention to the truck. It’s about ten years old, well maintained. Dark blue. It stops in front of the henhouse, and the driver cuts the engine. Carly can hear the gears of the hand brake being set.
The man who steps out is Native American, probably Wakapi like the old woman. He’s maybe in his late twenties. Handsome, with shiny black hair pulled back into a neat ponytail under a wide-brimmed hat. He smiles at Delores, and his teeth are brilliant white.
Carly snatches the silly hat off her head. Because now there’s a boy watching.
He’s no cop. He’s just a man in a pickup truck. Delores must be playing some sort of mind game on her.
“That’s a cop?” Carly asks, sarcastic.
She means to hurt the old woman, but then, too late, she realizes she’s also insulting this man she’s never met. He might be nice. He might be their salvation. Maybe he’ll yell at Delores for taking indentured servants against their will. Maybe he’ll take them to a phone they can use.
“Pleased to meet you, too,” Alvin says. “Who’re your friends here, Delores?”
“Well, the one with the mouth calls herself Carly. This nice little one is Jen.”
“And what brings these lovely young ladies to our neck of the woods?”
“Just passin’ through,” Delores says. “Little Miss Mouthy here don’t believe you’re with the tribal police.”
Alvin says, to Carly, “What, a policeman can’t even take a day off?”
Carly doesn’t think either one of them is telling the truth. He’s just some guy. A neighbor or a friend or a grandson. Or something. They just want her to think he’s a cop to scare her into line.
Carly says nothing. Everyone says nothing.
Finally the old woman says, “Alvin, tell Little Miss Mouthy here why she can’t use my phone.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Alvin says. He looks up over the roof of the tiny house. Points. “How many wires you see up there?”
Carly looks up. One thick wire comes down at an angle from one single pole. It enters the house from the back, out of Carly’s line of sight.
“Just one,” she says.
Then it hits her. Old Delores has electricity. But no phone.
“That’s crazy,” Carly says. “What if you need to call someone?”
“Like who, for example?” Delores asks.
“Like if you needed help or something.”
She doesn’t want to add the part about how old Delores is. She’s not sure if it goes without saying or not.
“Alvin comes by here ever’ mornin’. See if I’m OK. Or if I need anythin’. Ever’ mornin’ like clockwork, on duty ’r off. You could set your clock by Alvin here.”
“I could drive you girls to a phone if you need one,” Alvin says.
“Or she could use your cell phone,” Delores chimes in.
“Well that’s only for official business, I’m afraid. But I could run ’em into the village.”
Delores says, “Yeah, there’s a pay phone at the gen’ral store.”
She puts the emphasis on the word general. Not the word store. As if they sell generals there.
Carly is all ready to jump in his truck and let this nightmare be over. Then it hits her. Pay phones need to be paid.
“Um. Thanks. Maybe tomorrow.”
She can feel Jen trying to catch her eye, but she refuses to look.
Alvin exchanges a few sentences with the old woman, right in front of them, but in a native language Carly can’t begin to understand. Then slides into his truck and waves. Jen waves back. Carly doesn’t. Her arm is too defeated, too completely out of hope.
Alvin starts up the truck and backs out to the road in a swirl of dust.
Delores waddles back inside.
“You should have gone with him,” Jen says.
“Me? Why not we?”
“I’m OK here. But you should’ve used the pay phone. I don’t want to walk anymore, Carly. I’m not walking all the way to California. When we’re done here, I want a ride. Even if…”
But then she never finishes the sentence.
“Even if what, Jen?”
No answer.
It’s funny how Jen has these boundaries. Like hidden walls. You never see one coming up. You just hit it. And that’s that.
It’s like there are two of her little sister. The one she’s known since she was four. And then this one. This other person.
“You know why I can’t use the pay phone, Jen. You know that, right?”
“Maybe he would’ve loaned us the money. You know. If he knew how much trouble we’re in.”
“Jen. If he knew how much trouble we’re in, he’d call child protective services and get us picked up and thrown in the system.”
“Oh,” Jen says. “Right. I didn’t think of that.”
“Right. You don’t ever think of those things. You never think of anything important. I have to think of everything. That’s why it’s a good thing I’m the one in charge.”
Jen sighs and goes back to work, cutting a piece of chicken wire to form a base for the plaster. Just the way Delores showed her.
Then Jen says, “You think that Alvin guy was really the police?”
“No. Did he look like a cop to you?”
“I don’t know. What’s a cop look like?”
“Well, they wear a uniform. For starters.”
Carly can hear herself talking to Jen as if Jen were an idiot. And she doesn’t like her own tone. But she can’t seem to break it.
“He said it was his day off.”
“They’re just trying to scare us, Jen.”
“I guess,” Jen says.
They work on the henhouse for at least another hour without talking. Without interruption of any kind. It’s almost a relief. Life may be miserable, but at least for one blessed moment the damned thing holds still.
The sun is overhead when the old woman comes out again.
“Take a break,” she says. “Get out of the midday sun. You can do more later. After lunch. After four. Too hot now.”
Carly straightens up. Leans on her hoe. Stretches her sore back. She looks around the property as if gathering complaints. Making a list of things to criticize.
The junk. She feels like making a big deal about the junk. The rusty bedsprings and the rolls of chain link fencing. The old car or truck parts.
“I don’t see how you can stand to keep all this crap around,” she says. “Place looks like a junkyard.”
It’s harsh, but it feels good. Carly wants to lash out. She wants somebody else on the planet to hurt even 1 percent as much as
she hurts. Especially if that somebody is Delores.
But the old woman only laughs. That strange laugh.
“Helps when you can’t hardly see it,” she says.
“Other people can see it.”
“Well, that’s their problem, then. Ain’t it? It bother you?”
“Yeah. It bothers me.”
It’s only half-true. Carly doesn’t feel much investment in this place. In a little over six days they’ll be gone. Sooner if she can call Teddy. What does she care what the place looks like, as long as she can get away?
“That’ll be your next job, then. When you got that patch fixed, haul all that stuff over to my truck and load what you can in the bed. You drive?”
“Yeah, I can drive.”
“OK. I’m comin’ with you, though. Don’t trust you with my truck all on your own. But there’s a guy about three miles west. Buys scrap metal, just about anythin’ you got for ’im. Don’t pay much, just a few cents a pound, I think, but you can keep whatever he pays. Should be enough to make your phone call, at least.”
She disappears back into the house.
Carly starts gathering up the chain link. It’s heavier than she realized. She looks up to see Jen standing near the door to the house.
“Come on,” Jen says. “We’re on a break.”
“You go. The faster I get this done, the faster we can get out of here.”
Jen shrugs and goes inside.
But after ten minutes or so wrestling heavy rolls of chain link in the midday sun, the break starts sounding good. Besides, she doesn’t want to leave Jen alone with the old woman anymore. Not for long. Not if she can help it.
Delores is casting some kind of spell over Jen.
Carly is already infected with an eerie worry about the situation. About that brand-new bond. She feels as though she’s lent her sister to the old woman, very much against her will, and now, somehow, she can’t be entirely sure she’ll get Jen back again at the end of the week.
Well, that’s not true. In fact, that’s stupid. Right?
But that’s still the way it feels.
“Hey. Jen. You awake?”
“Shoot,” Jen mumbles. Barely enunciating the word. “I guess I am now.”
Carly’s been lying awake in the old pink trailer for hours. The longer she lies awake, the bigger her fears and worries grow. Like she’s been feeding them some kind of super-grow worry food as she tosses and frets. And they’re eating it right up. And it’s doing everything the label claimed it would do, plus a whole lot more.
She even worries about all the work she has to do in the morning. How it will feel on no sleep. The more she tries to will herself to sleep, the more the pressure builds and cements her sleeplessness.
She tried to tell herself, before waking Jen, that she was doing it for a better reason than misery loving company. She hopes that was the truth.
“I’ve got to tell you something.”
“I hope this is not bad news.”
“It’s…not real bad. It’s fixable. Just sort of inconvenient. You’ve got to trust me to fix it.”
Carly waits. But Jen only sighs.
“I tried to tell you this before. Before we even got caught in the henhouse. But then you were asleep, or maybe you were even passed out or something, and I went through the whole speech, and now I don’t know if you heard a word of it. If any of it sounds familiar, say so.”
“Just tell me, Carly. Just tell me what it is.”
The moon is more than three-quarters round. Carly can’t see it through the little trailer window, but she saw it less than an hour ago. And she can see the moon shadows cast by the henhouse and the spooky light the moon throws directly on the big mesa.
“Teddy doesn’t live in Tulare anymore.”
“That doesn’t sound familiar,” Jen says.
“He moved to a little place called Trinity in Northern California.”
“You got his number?”
“No. But I’ll get it. I’ll find him. You’ll see.”
A long silence falls. Jen rubs her eyes. Yawns.
Then she says, “Maybe we just forget about Teddy.”
She might as well have driven an elbow into Carly’s gut, without warning or provocation, knocking her to the floor. That wouldn’t—couldn’t—have been any more of a shock.
“What did you just say?”
“Did you really not hear it?”
“Jen. Teddy’s all we’ve got. Who the hell else is going to take care of us?”
“Maybe Delores would.”
Carly whips back the rough blanket and jumps to her feet, pacing barefoot on the cold linoleum floor. She felt this coming, saw it somehow before it even showed its face, but convinced herself it was impossible. That she was being paranoid and foolish. What does this say for her other worries? Are they all a possibility?
“We’ve known her for, like, one day, Jen.”
“I like it here, though. I really like it.”
“She’s not going to take care of you.”
“How do you know? She likes me.”
“She’s not going to take care of me. She doesn’t like me. And besides, I won’t allow it. I wouldn’t let her. And you want us to stay together, don’t you?”
Jen sits up. “Sure, Carly. Yeah. Of course I do. I didn’t mean what I said. I’m just sleepy, OK? You just woke me up and I didn’t know what I was saying. Come back to bed, Carly. Please. I didn’t mean it.”
Carly sits down on the edge of the bed, and Jen tucks back in again.
Finally, when she’s settled herself a bit, Carly climbs back under the covers. She doesn’t get to sleep for hours.
Jen is snoring lightly in a matter of minutes.
WAKAPI LAND
May 15
Delores Watakobie has a time getting into the passenger seat of her own truck. Carly sits behind the wheel, both doors open, in the shade of the carport, feeling a sense of minor power for the first time in a long time. Driving does that for her. She watches the old woman reach up, reaching for a handle above the doorframe. Delores steps up onto the running board of the truck and grunts out an odd series of sounds as she attempts to pull herself in.
Carly is about to jump out. To go around and help. Push or something. But she’s only just barely flinched toward doing so when Delores stops her with words.
“Don’t you dare.” Her voice is even—doesn’t rise in volume—but the words pack a lot of power. It’s a stern warning. “Day I can’t step up into my own truck’s the day I let my creator put me six feet under. No point hangin’ around if you can’t even do for yourself.”
With one final grunt, she drops into the passenger seat.
Carly looks in the rearview mirror. Checks, again, the way she and Jen have stacked the first load of junk in the truck bed.
“Sure we don’t need to tie that stuff down or something?”
“Can’t go that fast on these roads anyways. Should be OK. You disconnect the batt’ry charger?”
Carly says nothing for a beat or two. She doesn’t even know what a battery charger is or how to spot one, not to mention how to disconnect it.
Delores sighs heavily. “You think I’m gettin’ down ’n then up again, you got another thing comin’. You can do this. Get out. Open the hood. It’s unlatched. See two wires goin’ in. One’s clamped on the batt’ry, one on a strut. Take ’em off one at a time. Don’t touch ’em together whatever you do. Slam the hood real good. Leave the charger where it lays.”
Carly climbs down. Circles around to the front of the truck. Approaches the charger the way she might approach a venomous snake. It’s sitting in the dirt, about the size of a car battery or a little bigger, with a wide, black molded handle.
She opens the hood of the old truck. The squeal of the hinges sounds just like the door of the pink trailer prison. Maybe a little deeper. More bass. But close.
She reaches for the clamp on the battery. Squeezes it. As she’s pulling it off, it sparks, st
artling her. She drops it into the engine compartment.
“Ain’t gonna bite you,” Delores calls. “Just don’t touch ’em to each other, whatever you do.”
Now there’s a mixed message if Carly ever heard one. It won’t hurt you. Just be careful not to get hurt.
She takes hold of the insulated cable and carefully pulls the clamp back up and out again. Sweat drops off her forehead, and she wonders how much is the heat and how much is that jumpy feeling, like she’s disarming a bomb.
She throws the clamp in the dirt. Realizes the other probably has no charge now. She pulls it off and throws it into the dirt as well, near the first one. As it falls, she remembers. They mustn’t touch. Her heart stops beating for the half second it takes to watch it land. Two inches from disaster.
She breathes out her relief.
Mentally, she kicks herself hard. Why are you always so afraid, Carly? Damn you. Why can’t you just do things? Why can’t you handle these simple little things that other people handle all the time?
She looks across the yard at Jen, who’s happily feeding the goats.
Jen could have disconnected the battery charger. No problem. No fear.
Carly slams the hood hard. Too hard, maybe. Climbs back into the truck. Looks down at the gearshift.
It’s a stick.
Carly doesn’t know how to drive a stick. Teddy’s car was an automatic. She only knows how to drive an automatic. She can’t believe that observation didn’t break through in her brain until just this moment. As she was actually ready to start it up and drive.
The moment stretches out.
“What?” Delores croaks.
Carly doesn’t answer.
“Speak up, girl. What’s it this time?”
“How much harder is it to drive a stick shift than an automatic?”
Silence.
Delores rolls her head back, as if attempting to seek heavenly guidance right through the roof of the old pickup. Then she drops her head into both spotted hands and shakes it—and the hands—back and forth three or four times. Slowly.
“Trade places,” she says, dropping her hands hard into her lap.
Carly’s one tiny bit of power is lost. Figures. That’s been her lot for as long as she can remember.
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