“What was I supposed to say? ‘My girl ran off with an Indian boy and I came looking for her’?
“‘Not safe for a woman to be hitching,’ he said.
“‘I expect not,’ I said.
“‘You’re quite a talker,’ he said. ‘But you sure are pretty.’ I suppose I looked all right to a weary trucker who’d been keeping company with Patsy Cline for two days straight, crooning in the dark, drinking coffee and popping speed to stay awake. I told him about the dog and he looked like it mattered. He patted my knee, too hard, but it didn’t feel bad. I told him about Nina. I don’t know why. He put his arm around me. I cried on his shoulder. I cried for thirty miles, all the way up the edge of the lake. Your father never let me cry for her. He swore when I said her name. When I was alone the tears never came. Maybe I knew I needed somebody’s arm around me. Maybe I knew I’d cry till I fell apart if I let myself cry alone. My face would crack. My arms would drop off.
“When I saw the lights of Willis, I wanted to tell him to keep driving. I don’t know if he would have taken me. I suppose he would have gotten tired of my sobbing soon enough. But for a whole hour, we were the only two people in the world, and the cab of the truck was my whole life.
“He let me out at Ike’s so he could gas up. ‘I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee,’ he said, just like that, so polite.
“‘Folks know me here,’ I told him. For some reason those words made me feel even worse. Yeah, they knew me. They’d recognize my face. They’d tell my husband I had a cup of coffee with another man. They’d understand if Dean gave me a black eye, but there wasn’t anyone in this town who would let me cry as long as I wanted.
“I put my head on his chest. He kissed my hair.
“I dreamed of the dog that night. And I was the one to heave the stone that split its skull. The children scattered. They hated me. They returned with sticks. They beat my legs. I woke screaming but I couldn’t cry because my eyes were full of flies. Your father snored beside me. Even my yelling didn’t wake him. So I had to wonder. Did I make any sound?”
Mother pointed at the window. “Look, there’s your daddy now,” she said, “just like Mama told me. He’ll always come home.” She crushed the letter her own father had written so many years ago. It came apart in her fist, crumbled like blue dust. “Well, that’s that,” she said.
I had seen too much today. I didn’t want to know Daddy gave away money we needed. I didn’t want to hear that Mother dreamed of abandoning us — not only my father, but her entire past, her memories of Nina, and of me. I was afraid none of that was ever going to change.
Three days later I took a ride on my bike after school. I headed for Ike’s Truckstop though I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I got there.
All I ordered was a Coke. I sat at the counter; two truckers sat at a window table. We were the only customers. Lanfear Deets was outside, resting against a pump, waiting for a cloud of dust to appear on the road.
Miriam set the bottle of Coke in front of me. “Need a glass?” she said.
I shook my head. Her skin wasn’t so pretty anymore; she had a grimy look from working in this place, and I could see why Daddy felt bad about the misery he’d caused her and Lanfear.
Sympathy was getting the best of me, and I almost left without saying anything, but then I got to thinking about my mother and the money Daddy gave to Miriam Deets. She was wiping the counter a few places down. I cleared my throat to get her attention.
When she was close enough for me to talk without the men at the window catching my words, I said, “Miriam, I got something to tell you.” Ike called to her from the back and she glanced over her shoulder. I grabbed her wrist. “Don’t worry,” I said. “This won’t take long.” She tried to tug free of my grip, but I was much stronger than Miriam Deets.
I said, “My mother hasn’t bought herself a new dress in five years. We eat pork fat and beans for three days at the end of every month. There’s been a hole in our couch ever since I can remember. I got a box of colored pencils for my birthday last year. That’s all.” Ike called again. I said, “You hear what I’m telling you?”
Miriam nodded and I let her go. She ran into the kitchen. I wanted to run too, but I didn’t. I sauntered past the men at the window, acting casual though my legs were going soft so fast I could barely walk.
I had a hunch that my father paid Miriam once a week. I waited. On Friday I rode out to the mill and climbed the willow. Daddy appeared at the back door several times; he shaded his eyes and scanned the road. But there was no sign of Miriam Deets. I beat Father home by a good hour. When he finally turned into our drive, he sat in the truck for a long time with the windows up. He wasn’t smoking; he wasn’t doing anything. Mother watched him from the living room. “What’s with your father?” she said. I didn’t answer. For once, I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.
18
BY THE middle of June, Montana rivers ran swift and cold, swelled by snow melting off the mountains. One evening, just at twilight, Freda Graves marched us down to a bend in Bear Creek, a place where water caught in the shallows, tripping itself over pebbles and stones, whirling to a white froth. I’d been sneaking off to these meetings for six weeks. For the most part, I’d stayed out of trouble; my worst transgression was that I had to lie to Mother every Tuesday, embellishing my imaginary friendship with Rita Ditella. My thoughts were pure enough, I suppose, but I’d done nothing virtuous, and I was still looking for someone to show me how to be good in ways that mattered.
Lyla Leona led our parade. Close on her heels, all in black, Freda Graves followed. Lyla wore a white bonnet that tied in the folds of her chins, and a white dress that brushed the ground, turning it gray at the hem. She was going to be baptized. Like the rest of us good Lutherans, she’d had water dribbled down her forehead when she was a baby; now she said she needed something more, a true baptism, because she believed she’d been born a second time, and she was afraid she still carried more than the taint of original sin.
Lyla had been a free woman since she was sixteen. She was the first female to live at the rooming house, the only woman in Willis who had money all her own, not her daddy’s trust or her husband’s goodwill, but solid cash — coins and bills she counted every morning and took to the bank promptly at nine. I’d always admired her independence, her modest fortune, and had never worried myself over the nature of her work.
People remembered her parents. Her mother played the piano. She sang sweetly and off key, with an honest voice. Her father laughed a lot at other men’s jokes. Folks liked them and were sorry to see what became of their daughter. But Lyla’s parents had been dead for more than ten years. It was too late for her to be a good daughter and go home. Lyla sought salvation for her own sake.
Wind beat the trees along Bear Creek, and I knew how cold the stream was this time of year: cold enough to send a dull ache from your ankles to your thighs. But that didn’t stop Freda Graves. She unlaced her dusty boots and led Lyla into the stream. Water swirled up to their knees. Lyla’s dress floated around her and lay like a great lily on the water.
Night rose and walked the earth; leaves fluttered like dark wings. The sky was still desperately blue, but the ground sank into shadow. A fast river could knock a grown man’s feet from under him, throw him on his face and drag him all the way to Moon Lake. A body in this river wouldn’t be found till morning. We all had the same thought. I saw my cousin Jesse’s startled face. I wondered how the angels kept their laughter down when they witnessed the surprise of the dead.