“Should I put clean sheets on the futon?” Adam asks, and I think I wanted him to ask that. I think that’s why I haven’t spent my day in a scramble about where I’ll stay tonight, but now that he’s asked, my stomach feels twisted and turned around, and I can’t believe I haven’t made any actual plans.
“I’m fine at the campground,” I tell him.
“No, you’re not. It closed today.”
It freaks me out that he knows, like maybe he was checking up on me. He must see it on my face that I’m freaked, because he says, “Tom Bilford’s in my euchre league,” and points to his head. I don’t know if it’s what he means, but I immediately think of the guy with the earflaps hat, smacking that note against my windshield this morning.
“Euchre’s for church ladies and old drunks,” I say automatically. It’s what my dad would say anytime someone suggested playing euchre instead of five card. I think I should apologize, but Adam looks amused.
“I’m too young to be an old drunk,” he says, laughing. “So I guess I need change for the collection plate.”
“Sounds about right.” I fight a smile. I wonder if Tom Bilford told Adam about me. I wonder if Adam asked. I pick up the coffeepot. “I should get back to it,” I say, pointing to the counter.
“You didn’t answer.” Adam’s eyes are still sparkly from laughing.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say, because I can’t decide, not because I’m trying to be mysterious.
“Will she or won’t she?” Adam says. “I’ll be waiting by the phone with bated breath.”
“Keeps life interesting.” I put the coffeepot on the burner and go into the kitchen like I have something to do in there, when really I just need to get away so I can think.
The kitchen is empty. I swipe a slice of bread from the sandwich station, hoping it will soak up the excess coffee in my stomach so I can figure out if that churning feeling is telling me something about Adam or it’s my own fault. As I’m shoving bread in my mouth, I get the kind of tingle on the back of my scalp that comes from being watched. I look up and realize the Lettuce Murderer is standing against the wall next to the fridge. I don’t understand how I could miss an entire person with flaming red hair, except that he’s very still. I freeze midchew. He looks at me, puts a finger to his lips. And then, with lightning speed, he lunges, smacking the prep counter with his bare hand, so hard it echoes. He looks at his palm, shows me the black smudge. “Spider,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, and try to swallow the gluey wad of white bread in my mouth. It hurts all the way down.
* * *
When Carly comes back from her smoke break her hair is messy and she looks like she just woke up from the kind of thick nap where you drool all over the pillow. She hums to herself and it’s either a totally different song from the one playing on the sound system or she’s tone deaf. It’s hard to tell with the shit music she listens to. Most of it doesn’t even sound like music, just noise and screaming.
She wipes down the espresso machine and checks the paper roll on the register.
“April, May, June,” she says, smiling at me when she looks up. “July, August, September.” She reaches over and pushes hair from my face. She’s a little shorter than me, so she rocks up on her toes to tuck the strand behind my ear.
I don’t really know how I’m supposed to react, but since she’s being so friendly, I ask her about Adam. “What’s he all about?” I say, using words I heard from a girl chatting with her friend at a table by the counter this morning. “I told him, point-blank,” the girl said, “that is not what I’m all about.”
“Adam? He’s a townie,” Carly says, waving her hand with a flick of her wrist. She stares at me and sighs. It’s a long stare and I’m not sure what it means, but it doesn’t make me feel better about Adam.
“Can you work all day tomorrow?” she asks.
“Uh huh,” I say, looking past her, out the window. The dark seems so much darker than it did yesterday. I wonder if maybe I should ask Carly if she knows a place I could stay. I try to think of the right words. Maybe I could ask her to let me sleep on her couch. Maybe that would be the easiest thing. Just one night. More time to think and another day of earning money. If I had a couch and she asked, I would say yes, so it’s not the craziest thing.
“Don’t you ever have class?” Carly asks.
“I’m not in school,” I say.
She scrunches her eyebrows so they almost meet. “I thought you went to IC.”
I shake my head and it feels like the wad of white bread is still stuck in my throat.
“Huh,” she says. “Huh.”
I worry I’ve done something wrong even though I never said I was in school. I worry she’ll ask more questions, but she stares into my eyes and says, “I’m going to get a sandwich,” as if she’s making a major confession. She turns on the toe of her boot and stomps to the kitchen like she’s about to conquer food.
I wipe the counter and decide to call Adam after work. But Adam doesn’t leave. He’s sipping coffee that’s probably gone cold, hunched over his notebook, scribbling. I catch his eye too many times when I look over, even when I try not to, and I feel like a deer being watched from the blind. This is the kind of thing Margo warned me about. Someone paying too much attention. But I don’t know how you’re supposed to meet people, how you’re supposed to tell if someone likes you in a normal, friendly way.
Adam has his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms are more muscular than I would’ve expected. He’s not big, but he’s probably strong.
When the kitchen closes, the red-headed kid leaves. Before the door swings shut, I hear the frantic howl of a pack of boys out on The Commons, and that lightning-storm feeling takes over my stomach again and won’t go away.
* * *
At ten p.m. the only people left are Adam, a table of students working on a project, and a guy in the corner reading Stephen King. Carly turns the front door sign to CLOSED, but none of them seem to notice.
I count the drawer because Carly says her brain feels like it’s full of pipe cleaner fuzz. “Not the wires, just the fuzz. Green and yellow, mostly.” Her smile tells me she’s being strange on purpose. This is her humor and I think I get it. Maybe.
Now that she thinks I lied about school I am too scared to make my problem her problem. I need my job too much to risk asking about her couch. But I remember one time some truckers at Margo’s talked about boondocking at Wal-Mart instead of paying for a hotel and you’re allowed to sleep in those parking lots. I decide on the way out, I’ll ask Carly where the nearest Wal-Mart is. She doesn’t have to know why I’m asking. People don’t think about Wal-Marts that way. She’ll probably assume I’m out of toothpaste or toilet paper, because she probably thinks I’m a normal enough person with a normal enough place to sleep.
Carly dumps the rest of the drip coffee and unplugs the espresso maker while I band up bills and slip them in the bank bag.
“Alright, guys,” Carly shouts to the remaining customers, “you don’t have to go home, but I don’t want you.”
I run to the kitchen while they pack up to leave, so I don’t have to talk to Adam.
It’s warm in the kitchen. I wish there was a way to store that warmth inside me. It will be cold in that Wal-Mart parking lot and I will be alone in that car and instead of raccoons there will be truckers.
I hear Carly saying goodbye to customers and then she comes back to the kitchen. We put our coats on.
“Whoo, today felt twice as long,” she says, winding her scarf around her neck as we walk to the front door.
All the words I need to ask are right there in my brain, ready. But Adam is waiting outside.
“Cold tonight,” he says as Carly locks the door. He blows clouds into the air. I want him to go away. In the shadow of the doorway his face is hidden and I can’t remember what his eyes look like.
“Yeah, you’re not kidding,” Carly says, shoving her bare hands in her pockets. “Where a
re you parked?”
“Oh, I walked,” Adam says, even though I’m sure Carly was talking to me.
“That way.” I point toward State Street, but with a vague gesture, so I won’t give Adam too much information.
“Well, I’m over there,” she says, jogging in place. “See you!” Before I can ask about her couch or Wal-Mart, she’s bounding away like she can outrun the weather.
I’m left with Adam and he ruined my chance and I shouldn’t go home with him. You don’t go home with men you don’t know. I am certain Margo would say that. I don’t want to ask him where Wal-Mart is, because if he knows about boondocking, he’ll know where to find me, and maybe asking will insult him. Margo would also say you have to watch out about making men mad.
“My place is up the hill.” Adam points in the opposite direction of my car.
“Have a good night,” I say, trying to keep my words friendly.
“Do you want—”
“I’ve got it figured out. Have a good night.” I run away at the same pace Carly did, so hopefully it looks like I’m running because of the weather, not because I’m trying to escape.
— Chapter 14 —
There’s a party four houses down from where I parked. I don’t have the energy to walk over and see if it’s a place where I could spend time. All the people who came into the coffee shop left words in my head and I just want quiet.
The streetlight flickers. We don’t even have streetlights in Little River. When it’s dark, it’s just dark, and if you need light, you bring your own. I get in my car and don’t start the engine.
I’m not sure where to drive. I could go to the gas station and ask about Wal-Mart, but it feels like so much effort for something that might not be better. I know how to get back to the campground, and from there, if I follow the road north along the lake, eventually I’ll find the sign for the highway. Maybe I could stay at the motorhome again for a few days before anyone noticed. I miss the company of my tiny TV and knowing what the land around me looks like even when it’s dark. I recognize the men who stumble home after Gary’s closes. I know their children. I understand who’s dangerous and how to hide from them, mostly. I don’t know these boys shouting at the party, and the streetlights make me feel like a doll in a display case.
I think about hiding on the back seat, covering myself with sheets and clothes so no one can see me. Once, in the woods behind the motorhome, I turned over a rotting log and there was a tree frog underneath trying to hibernate for winter, his body curled up and tense like he was in a trance. When I tried to put the log back, I worried I might have squished him against the frozen ground or left him too exposed. I wasn’t sure he could snap out of it to move himself. I feel stuck in my brain that way.
The party is getting louder. It’s not like the party at Lion Boy’s house; there’s an edge to the sound. Tears drip into the collar of my coat. I know it’s bad to be wet when it’s cold. I try to picture the times I fell asleep in a booth at Margo’s Diner, pretend the angry noise outside is chatter and kitchen sounds and Margo telling stories. Outside, someone walks between my car and the streetlight. I keep my head down and wait for the light to shine on my face again, but it doesn’t. When I look up, Adam is there, hand raised like he was about to knock on my windshield.
Something isn’t right about how he’s found me, but seeing a face I recognize makes the blood flow back to my fingers. I wipe my cheeks, turn the key in the ignition.
“Are you alright?” he asks as I roll down the passenger window.
“Why are you following me?”
“I was hungry.” He holds up a plastic bag with a box in it. “Calzone. You want half?”
“No.” I can smell the calzone, greasy and warm. I want him to take it away before I cave.
“You sure?” He smiles. “You’ve got to be cold.”
“I’m fine.” I want him to leave, except once he does, I will have sent away the one person in the world who knows where I am.
“Come to my place.” His cheeks are chapped from the cold.
I have thought long and hard about what he would get from this arrangement, and there’s only one thing I can figure out. “No, thank you,” I say, sweetly as I can.
“Park in front of my house at least,” he says. “So I know you’re safe.”
I point at him, at how he found me. “How do I know you’re safe?”
“I’m not stalking you. I was worried.”
“You don’t even know me!”
Adam bends, hands on knees, so he can look at me better. He’s different from Matty, like he’s grown into his body. His stubble isn’t spotted and sparse. “Please. I’ll sleep better.” He shifts a little and the streetlight shines over his shoulder into my eyes, turning him into just the shape of a person.
“I live right up the hill,” he says. “It’s a nice street. Quiet.”
I look through the windshield at the pack of boys collecting outside the party house. One of them is shoving another one; the rest are laughing but it looks like the wind could change direction way too fast.
“Fine,” I say, but when Adam reaches for the door handle, I flinch. I don’t mean to. It just happens.
“Okay.” Adam backs away. “It’s on Hudson Street. Third white house on the left. You know Hudson?”
I shake my head.
“So if you make a U-turn here and then—” He looks away. A car drives by and the swish of tires on the wet road drowns out the rest of his words. I don’t want to hear them anyway. My brain can’t hold the information. I’m just too tired. I am so tired. I hope the streetlights are dim enough that he can’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.
Adam stops giving me directions. “Okay,” he whispers, like he’s saying it to himself. He leans toward the window, careful not to rest his hands on my car. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll walk home and you drive slow behind me. There aren’t many people on the roads right now, and it isn’t far, so it’ll be fine. Okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He gives me a smile and waves his arm like Let’s go.
I start the car, do a U-turn, keep pace with him as he walks on the sidewalk.
He has a slight hitch in his giddyup, as Margo would say. Heavier on his left foot than his right. His shoulders slope forward; the back of his neck is bare. No scarf. He walks quick, swinging his bag of takeout, looking over to check on me again and again.
When we start to climb the hill, he can’t walk as fast and it’s almost impossible to drive slow enough. He waves as I pass, pointing to the left I’m supposed to take. When I see him in my rearview mirror, he’s completely caught up in making sure I go the right way. It is so much more effort than I’m used to anyone giving me and I start to think that maybe it’s fine. Maybe all of it is fine. Not everyone is as squirrelly as my father. Margo was always nice to me for the sake of being nice, so it is a possible thing.
At the stop sign, I lean across and push the passenger door open. Adam runs over. Gets in, his weight shifting the balance of the car. He smells like dryer sheets.
“You don’t travel light,” he says, eyeing the jumble of blankets and clothes and garbage bags in the back seat.
I don’t know how to explain myself.
“Hey.” Adam touches my arm with the tips of his fingers, light, and I don’t flinch. “You don’t have to tell me. I won’t ask. I’ve been there too.”
I nod, wondering where it is he thinks I’ve been.
He pulls his hand away and looks out the window, but I feel the imprint of his fingers still.
On the radio, a low voice says, “Hey, this is Tommy Flash, I’m kicking it live here on ICB. I’d like to send this next one by Pearl Jam out to all my boys in the West Tower.”
Adam laughs. “College station.”
I’ve learned since I got here that the town is in a valley with schools on both the bordering hills, but “College” always means Ithaca College. When people are talking about the oth
er one, they say Cornell, and I think that’s on the other hill, not the one we’re heading up.
We make the turn on Hudson and Adam points to a big white Victorian with a row of black metal mailboxes by the front door. There’s an open parking space out front. He shows me where to make a U-turn. We are quiet as I drive back to the spot. We listen to the song. It’s about a girl telling someone not to call her their daughter.
I park.
Adam opens the car door. “I’m asking one more time,” he says.
My fingers are cold enough to hurt. I have to pee already and there’s no bathroom I know how to find. I get out of the car. Leave my stuff, keep the key clenched in my fist. Adam doesn’t make a big deal about it, which makes it easier to follow him to the front door.
There’s water rushing. A river or a creek. I feel the water in the air, but I can’t see it, even when I strain my eyes to look into the dark behind the house. I can go in and use the bathroom and then tell him I want to sleep in my car. I don’t have to stay. He won’t make me stay, I’m pretty sure.
He lives on the top floor. The stairs squeak when we climb them. There are other doors. Other people. Someone baked cookies. Someone’s listening to reggae.
The lock makes a loud click when he turns the key. He flicks a switch and the apartment is flooded with light. The walls are bright white and the ceiling is high, slanted at weird angles. He has the kind of old metal radiators that make the heat smell like melting crayons. There’s a big desk with a tilted top. A black footlocker for the coffee table. Bookshelves built into the walls filled with books and CDs. The futon is clean and white. The hardwood floor has a rug in the middle that’s woven in bright colors. No one in Little River lives in a place like this. It’s not cluttered with things that were useful once and might be useful again. Nothing is old or worn out that doesn’t look that way on purpose.
Adam kicks off his boots at the mat and I do the same, feeling strange about losing that level of protection. Now I will have to stop for my boots when I leave. Bend over to put them back on or grab them as I flee and try not to slip running downstairs in my socks.
The People We Keep Page 10