Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls(13)

You ever try a steak before? Uncle Whack asks me. Filet mignon? Best of the best?

I don’t think so, I say. Mostly I eat a lot of pigs. And Campbell’s soup. And lobster.

Well, tonight’s the night, he says, clapping his palms and rubbing them together. I got the Mad Man’s cash, and a hot date!

We’ll share a filet, he tells a waitress. Rare.

When the steak comes, I watch Uncle Whack slice it and fork a cube on his tongue. I watch him chew with his mouth open, the way I am always told not to do, with fleshy fibers of red flashing between his teeth. A pool of oily blood shines around the meat, and I slice off a piece of my own. I take it between my teeth, then into my mouth. I suck the juices, bite. The saltiness sticks in my molars as I grind my jaw and slice some more.

This is the best moment of my life, I say, looking at him. I mean it.

After dinner, Uncle Whack pulls us into a Red Roof Inn. The red neon letters look like cartoon daggers. Can we stay somewhere else? I want to know. I don’t think I like it here.

We’re not rolling up to the Ritz, ma, he says. You’re not with mommy and daddy.

There are two beds inside the room. A brown, sticky carpet between them. When I sit on the foot of the bed, I feel the other half of the mattress rise up. The ceiling is covered in a popcorn plaster, and I imagine a chunk of it falling into my mouth in the middle of the night, choking me. I do not want to die in a Red Roof Inn.

Look, a TV, says Uncle Whack. You’re used to those. He flips through the channels—a rainbow of static, a weather report, Nickelodeon, a lion tearing up a zebra. Fun! he says. Make yourself comfortable so you can sleep, okay ma?

I go into the bathroom to change into my lavender silk pajama set. I look in the mirror, examine my crooked bangs, the holes in my ears pierced too high up, the hair sprouting between my eyebrows. My buckteeth peek out so far from between my lips that it’s difficult to close them. I do not want to look like a baby anymore. I do not want to die in a Red Roof Inn.

When I walk back into the bedroom, Uncle Whack is counting the wad of cash on his bed.

Listen to me, he says, sitting down. I’ve got to go find Lacey now. That cool?

That is not cool, I say. That is definitely not cool.

I won’t be long, he says. You’ll fall asleep and I’ll be back. You’ll wake up tomorrow and Uncle Whack’ll be right here, ready for the roller coasters, okay? You like that Kumba ride, don’t you? That big blue?

I feel it in my throat first. The tight knot that always unfurls itself into a shakiness all over my face. From there I can never stop the tears from coming, and I hate myself for it. I slam my fists into the mattress.

Don’t leave me, I wail. Please, I love you, don’t leave me.

It’s okay, ma, he says. He moves over to my bed to hug me. He pulls my face into his chest. Shhhhh, it’s okay, girl. Damn, damn, you’re just a kid.

I kick myself under the covers and tell him I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll tell my parents that he kidnapped me for ransom as soon as I can find a phone. I’ll run away. I’ll drown myself, facedown, in the motel bathtub. La la la, I sing. I’m not even listening to you. The thought of him leaving feels worse than any other time I’ve ever been left; I didn’t know this one was coming.

I’ll be back soon, he says, promise, and the door slams before I can take any of it back.

The next morning, I wake up to Uncle Whack smoking in the corner of the room. His eyes are swollen, staring out the window, and his skunk stripe is dangling down on the side of his head. His beeper is on the coffee table in front of him, dark and still.

How was Lacey? I ask.

She didn’t come through, he says. He won’t look at me. Maybe today. Maybe at the park. Come on, get dressed.

Uncle Whack delivers on exactly what he promised. He lets me ride all the roller coasters I want to ride—the Kumba, the Montu—twice, and then three times, over and over again. I hold his hand in the line for every ride, and stand next to the wooden height requirement signs to show him that I’m okay. On the Congo River Rapids ride, we get so drenched our shirts suction our bodies. Uncle Whack checks his beeper constantly, but it’s not hooked on his belt loop anymore; it’s tucked away in his pocket.

So where’s the famous Lacey? I ask.

She’s caught up, he says.

We stop at a concession stand. Uncle Whack buys me a turkey leg and a pack of Sour Punch Straws that I zip up in my fanny pack. We sit down at a picnic table under an umbrella, and I gnaw the meat off the bone, offer him a bite.

Can we see the giraffes? I say. I hear they have purple tongues.

Sure ma, he says.

I had a good time on this trip with you, Wendall, I say.

I’m your Uncle Whack; don’t forget it. He looks more serious now, his eyes covered by thin, black glasses. I can tell by the shade of his nose that he’s been crying under there.

Okay, Wendall, I say.

This’ll stay a secret between us, right ma? he says. Tampa and all.

Yes, Wendall.

Listen, I love this girl.

It’s true that I’ll keep this secret, always, until now. Secrets are the only kind of love I know. It’s also true that my parents will never ask much about what we did. Years from now, I’ll ask whatever happened to Uncle Whack, and my mother will say, I remember him. The nicest boy.

I open my fanny pack and take out a Sour Punch Straw. I bite into it again and again until the foot-long candy is just a few inches of gritty sugar hanging out of my mouth.