The People We Keep(18)

This picture lady, in her white veil and bright blue eye shadow, plays my mother in every memory. When I think of her now, where she could be, what she might be doing, she’s still wearing her wedding dress and her face always has that perfect grin.

I slip her photo between the pages of my favorite book—the one she liked to read me about Max and all those wild things—and shove it in with the blankets. It’s the last bag. I tie it closed and throw it on top of the pile. I still don’t know what I’m doing. I pace until I do. A plan works its way into my head a step at a time and then it’s all there.

I open the last bag again, tear a page from the book, and sit down to write.



* * *



I walk past the elementary school on my way. My dad’s truck is on the grass even though there are still empty parking spaces. Mrs. Varnick’s car is in a handicapped spot but doesn’t have a sticker. Her grandson plays the violin and he sucks. Matty’s sister plays the recorder. I don’t know what Gary’s son plays, but I see his Harley. I wonder if Margo rode on the back. Those concerts take forever. Long and painful. Squeaking reeds and kids chewing on drumsticks when they aren’t hitting cymbals off beat.

It’s a five-minute trek from the school to Irene’s apartment. The front of the building is lit up nice like it’s an architectural gem, even though the paint is peeling and someone spray-painted WWJD in yellow on the front step. I sneak around the back of the building to stay in the shadows, and get a splinter climbing the rickety wood fire escape. The sliver is thick and grey, stuck right in my palm. When I yank it out, the blood forms a tiny red pearl. I wipe it on my jeans.

It’s easy to get in. Irene leaves the window in the boy’s room open just a crack. He’s got croup or asthma or something like that and always needs fresh air. Waste of heat, if you ask me.

His room is painted dark blue and he has a red bunk bed with yellow stars all over it. I bet my dad built that bed for the boy. His blankets look so much warmer than mine. I take his sheet, just in case, wrapping it around my arm to keep it from trailing.

There’s a Tupperware container of leftover Hamburger Helper in the fridge like it’s just waiting to be my road trip food. I take that, one of Irene’s forks from her good silverware set, and a half-eaten package of Chips Ahoy! for dessert.

By the door, hanging from a wooden rack painted with the words Bless Our Happy Home, is a row of keys. The boy’s house key hangs from a blue and yellow lanyard, next to the one for the mailbox on a paper clip, which is next to Irene’s praying angel keychain. I use the boy’s key to pry open the angel’s ring and circle Mrs. Ivory’s car key around until it slides off.

I turn the knob on the front door to lock behind me so maybe it’ll take them a while to figure out anything even happened. I’m careful to close the door slowly, but the click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in my head. Everything is always louder when you’re trying to be quiet. I spin a story about Irene asking me to take her car to pick up the boy and babysit for him after the concert so she and my dad can go out, but no one stops me on my way across the parking lot.

Mrs. Ivory’s car is backed into a space at the far end of the lot. My dad has Irene trained for his constant getaway plan. The car is spotless. Cleaner than Mrs. Ivory ever kept it. Vacuumed and dusted in all the cracks and crevices. There isn’t even any gunk in the indents of the steering wheel. The mirrors have the same streak-free shine as every surface in Irene’s apartment, and the floor mats are brand new. Irene’s got this angel air freshener strung from the rearview. It matches her keychain, and smells like the bathroom at Margo’s Diner. I pull it off and hang it like a Christmas ornament on the hedge that outlines the lot.

Irene’s legs are shorter than mine, but when I fumble for the lever to move the seat backward, the trunk opens instead. I go out to close it, but grab Irene’s emergency kit first, turn it over and look inside, so if anyone’s watching they’ll think I meant to open the trunk.

Back in the car, I survey the parking lot. It looks clear. I find the right lever, but the seat still won’t move, so I jerk my body forward. The seat gives and I get smushed against the steering wheel. I yank the lever and push back until it feels about right. I mess with the mirrors because I know you’re supposed to, but I don’t know where they’re supposed to be.

Cars start much easier when you have the key. First try, no problem, and I’m out of the parking lot and down the road like nothing is wrong or out of the ordinary. I take the long way so I don’t have to drive past the school and risk catching my dad outside for a smoke. And even though Mrs. Varnick is at the recital, I turn the headlights off when I drive past her house. Just in case.

First order of business is to yank garbage bags from the front of the motorhome and throw them out the door. Then I work on shoving them in the car. When I cram a bunch of bags into the trunk with my foot, something crunches loud in a way it’s not supposed to.

I can’t fit everything and I don’t have time to sort it, so I pull the bags from the trunk, ripping them open to make sure I keep the important stuff: my book with the picture of my mom tucked inside, clothes, empty guitar case, blankets, food, cassettes, rhyming dictionary. I wad up sheets and blankets and stuff them behind the driver’s seat. Clothes go behind the passenger’s seat. The ring goes in the glove compartment. Food up front for easy access. Everything else gets left behind, scattered on the ground. I take a quick pass through the motorhome, pee one more time. Then I leave, pulling the door hard until it clicks shut. Hide my key under the mat. I don’t want it anymore.