Where the Forest Meets the Stars(66)

28

Gabe was in a hurry to go home. Ursa wanted to get pizza at the restaurant with the “Purple People Eater” song, but Gabe was in no mood for dinner or conversation. He wouldn’t even leave the car when they went back to the house. Jo told Ursa and Tabby that he wasn’t feeling well, and she made Ursa get in the back seat despite her protests and tears. “We’ll stop for food on the way home,” Jo said. “Maybe McDonald’s and you can have ice cream.”
“I want pizza with Tabby!” Ursa said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Can I talk to you inside for a minute?” Tabby said before Jo got in the car.
Jo followed her into the house, dreading what she had to say. Whether she wanted to discuss Gabe or Ursa, Tabby would be intense, and Jo had little energy left.
“I was surprised you had Ursa with you today,” Tabby said, closing the front door.
“Were you?”
“Don’t pretend it isn’t weird. What the hell is going on? She said she lives with you.”
“I guess she does.”
The whites of Tabby’s green eyes doubled in size. “You have to take her to the police!”
“You know she runs.”
“So you put her in the car and don’t tell her where you’re taking her.”
“She’s too smart. She jumped out of the car when we tried that.”
“She did?”
“We almost didn’t find her.”
“What is this we ? She told me Gabe sleeps over.”
“What about it?”
“You can’t play house with someone else’s kid! You could get in big trouble. And what will you do when your field season is over?”
“I haven’t told Ursa yet—don’t freak out . . .”
“What?”
“I might try to become her foster parent.”
Tabby slapped her hand to her forehead. “Holy fucking shit. You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“Frances Ivey said no kids.”
“Do you think that’s going to stop me? I love this kid.”
They both went silent, Jo as shocked as Tabby.
“Jo . . .”
“What?”
“I think you should call that doctor you saw up in Chicago.”
“I had lots of doctors.”
“You know what I mean,” Tabby said.
“The psychologist—the one you used to call Dr. Death?”
“Yeah, her.”
“You know what she told me? She said survivors can live and love more fully than people who haven’t stared death in the face.”
“Seriously . . . what are you doing?”
“I guess I’m being a survivor.” She opened the door and strode down the walkway.
“I love you, Jojo!” Tabby called from the porch.
“Love you, too, Tabs.”
Suffering wounds large and small, the three of them kept silent during the drive to Interstate 57. Not a word was spoken all the way to the town of Mattoon.
“My dad liked a barbeque place here,” Gabe said.
Jo hit the brake pedal. “Should I stop? We need gas, and Ursa is hungry.”
“I wanted pizza!” Ursa said.
Gabe turned around to look at her. “There’s a good pizza place coming up down the road. It’s one of those old-fashioned places that has a jukebox.”
“I want Tabby!”
“I don’t think they serve that,” he said.
“Shut up!”
“Hey, that’s not nice,” Jo said.
Gabe turned back to face the windshield. The car fell silent again. Jo drove past Mattoon.
“I’m sorry, Gabe,” Ursa said a few minutes later.
“Apology accepted. And I’m sorry I messed up your plans.” He twisted around to look at her again. “Do you want to try the pizza place up ahead? I used to go there when I was your age. I liked to play the jukebox, too.”
“I bet they don’t have ‘Purple People Eater.’”
“We’ll find something good.”
“You better make sure this place is still in business,” Jo said.
“It will be. It was huge with the locals and always crowded.”
He used his cell phone to find the restaurant. Jo glanced in the rearview mirror at Ursa. She was drawing again. The colored pencils and art pad had been great purchases. “What are you drawing?” Jo asked.
“A purple people eater.”
Art was a form of self-soothing for Ursa. When she wanted something or missed someone, she would often draw whatever it was to satisfy her need.
They arrived in Effingham at dusk. At that late hour, Jo would rather have gotten fast food than stop for a sit-down dinner. But if Gabe was up for seeing a childhood haunt, she was, too. Connecting with his dad might be just what he needed.
While Gabe navigated to the restaurant, Ursa hunched over her art pad, wholly focused on her drawing despite the failing light. “Bring your art stuff inside,” Gabe said as Jo parked. “The pizza takes a while to cook, and it’ll give you something to do.”
Jo surveyed the long row of motorcycles parked beneath the multicolored bulbs strung along the eaves of the restaurant. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“This is it,” Gabe said. He opened Ursa’s door. “Thank god they haven’t changed it. The parking lot is still all gravel. And look how many cars are here.”
“Look how many Harleys are here,” Jo said.
“I know. Isn’t it great? It’s straight out of the sixties.”
“I wouldn’t know how authentic it is.”