Pick up film at Wal-Mart.
It’s like if you sneak the big chore in, maybe you’ll check it off without noticing, only this would be harder because I’d written novels before; I’d never reconciled with my mother.
“Go to her with your heart in your hand,” Maurey said. “Lydia can’t deal with open vulnerability.”
“Beg her forgiveness,” Shannon said.
“Beg her forgiveness for what? She’s the one who lied.”
Shannon patted me on the back of the head. “Jesus, Daddy, you’re so naive.”
The morning was beautiful—fresh snow on the Tetons, royal blue sky above, robin’s-egg blue sky on the horizon. Winter can be real nice from inside a warm Suburban with two wonderful women by your side.
When I stopped at the Jackson Town Square, Maurey said, “Don’t lose your temper. Remember, she’s the childish one, you’re the adult.”
“Yes.”
Shannon giggled. “I’m lots more mature than Daddy, who’s lots more mature than Grandma. Our family must run in reverse.”
“The Callahan clan does everything backward,” Maurey said, opening her door. “Let’s go to the bank first so I can get some money.”
“No need, I still have Dad’s credit card.”
Instead of driving away, I sat with both hands on the steering wheel watching Maurey and Shannon walk toward the nearest tourist trap. From the backside, they not only could have been sisters, they could have been twins. Same dark hair—Shannon’s short, Maurey’s long—same shoulders, as they walked their arms swung the same distance from their look-alike hips. Maurey said something and touched Shannon on the elbow, then Shannon looked back at me and burst into laughter.
I imagine Maurey had said words to the effect of “What do you bet he’s still sitting there, mooney-eyed with sentimentality.” Words to that effect anyway. Women love to think men are predictable; I try not to let them down.
As I made my way across the frozen valley back along the highway to GroVont, I rehearsed possibilities of the upcoming scene with Lydia. What was I supposed to say? You don’t erase twenty years of pain by quoting the back cover of a self-help book.
“Gee, Mom, it’s fine you raised me thinking I was a child of rape when I wasn’t. I can validate the empowerment that motivated your disinformation response.”
“Thank you, Son, I accept responsibility for my actions.”
Then we would cry cathartic tears and join arms around a campfire and sing “Kumbaya, My Lord” in perfect harmony.
Fat chance.
You could tell from several houses down the street that something had happened at Lydia’s. Hank’s truck was backed in the driveway and the tailgate was down. Possessions were piled around the sides—skis, snowshoes, Lydia’s swivel work chair. When I pulled up next to the truck, I saw it was partially loaded with book boxes, a stereo, a painting of Martha Washington burning a bra over the Delaware, and Lydia’s computer.
The cabin door opened and Hank came out, carrying two file boxes. I stood between the Suburban and his truck while he carefully stacked the boxes against the back of the cab.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Hank studied the label on the end of a box. “The Castration Solution.”
“Why is Lydia moving Oothoon?”
Hank turned to me and held his hands up, waist high, in a Blackfoot don’t-ask-me gesture. He said, “She’s joining the feminist underground.”
“Is it because of me?”
“A man from Federal Express telephoned. Said her lost overnight packet had been found under the short leg of a dispatcher’s desk in Hannibal, Missouri. Said the dispatcher is fired, Lydia’s money will be returned, and the packet will be delivered by ten A.M. today.”
“The poisoned chew toy.”
“We’ll hide out on the reservation until whatever happens blows over.”
“I don’t think assassination attempts on the President’s dog blow over.”
Hank shrugged. “Your mother always wanted to be an outlaw.”
“What about you?”
The door slammed and Lydia appeared with two pairs of boots and a lamp made from an elk horn and semi-translucent rawhide. One pair of boots was normal brown with dark stitching, but the other pair had been painted yellow. Lydia herself wore sneakers, jeans, and a Patagonia jacket.
She said, “I’m leaving the TV, the Atari, and my car. You better take good care of her—oil changes every spring and fall. You’ll need new tires if you plan on driving this winter.”
I looked at the lump of snow in the front yard that hid Lydia’s twelve-year-old BMW with something like 180,000 miles on the engine. The two cars she’d owned before this had also been over-the-hill BMWs. Don’t ask me why.
She talked as she transferred her load to Hank. “Periodically while we’re in Canada I shall be mailing manifestos for you to release to the media. Don’t let those twits at Newsweek edit my copy.”
“I thought you were disappearing on the reservation.”
Lydia glared at Hank, who hung his head, shy dog-style. “Somebody’s got a big mouth,” she said, which may be the least true statement anyone ever made about Hank Elkrunner. “Tell the Secret Service we’re in Mexico. Don’t mention Canada until they break out the persuasion devices.”
“Persuasion devices?”
Hank fit the lamp and boots into the back end like pieces into a jigsaw puzzle. He said, “I’ll walk to Zion’s Grocery and pick up some food for the road. You two can finish loading.”
A look of dismay flitted across Lydia’s narrow face. “You’re leaving me alone with him on purpose, aren’t you?” Hank gave his near smile.
Lydia said, “Rat.”
Hank walked up the street, toward what passed for downtown GroVont. Lydia and I stood next to the truck, watching Hank’s back as an alternative to looking at each other.
I said, “Don’t you think making Hank into a fugitive is a lot to ask?”
Lydia turned, her hands on her hips, thumbs forward, fingers back. “Hank believes in loyalty—unlike other members of my immediate family.”
“What’s the chances of us having this discussion without snide sarcasm?”
Her hands dropped to her sides, and for one fleeting moment, Lydia looked profoundly depressed. “Slim. Or none.”
Her first unguarded statement since I don’t remember when—I took it as a good sign.
She looked at the truck and sighed. “Men have forced women to fall back on whatever weapons they have, and I’m afraid I’m down to sarcasm. Come on in and warm up. You may as well be of some use while you’re here.”
Whenever the television screen shows long lines of refugees running from a natural or manmade disaster, it’s always interesting to see what possessions they deem important enough to flee with on short notice. Cooking utensils and bedding seem to head the list, followed by edible animals. Lydia hadn’t packed any of that stuff. Instead, she went into hiding with her Oothoon Press files, most of her Ann Coe art collection, and a suitcase full of Danskins. A pile of political books. An exercise trampoline.
While Lydia finished packing, I wandered the house, taking in cracks in the logs and stains in the kitchen sink. When you grow up in a house, each square foot of wall and floor carries a memory, or not so much a memory as the emotion of one. I couldn’t recall what event caused my strange stirrings at standing in my former closet, but I felt the strange stirrings just the same, as if the past had turned into its own shadow.
Lydia found me standing in the closet and told me to disconnect the VCR in her bedroom and take it to the truck, but to leave the TV. I guess wherever she and Hank planned to hide out already had a television.