He Started It(11)

“No,” I say.

“Exactly.”

Eddie holds up his iced tea and we clink glasses.

Of all the things I’ve learned since the last trip, the most important is this: You can’t fight every battle. Otherwise you end up bloodied, drained of energy, and unable to go on. Sometimes it’s better to agree and keep your mouth shut. That’s what I’ve decided to do on this trip. Otherwise we’ll never make it to the end.

“You guys are so weird,” Portia says. But she’s smiling. “And fried bologna is gross.”

Not a lie.

“So are we moving on to Texas?” Felix says.

“Texas?” Portia says.

“Not yet. We’re going north,” I say.

Felix starts to protest and I put up my hand, stopping him.

“North,” I say. “We’re going to Arkansas.”

Grandpa called Arkansas the most underrated state because there were so many weird things to see: the place where Elvis got his hair cut before going into the army, the birthplace of Walmart, multiple historical sites devoted to Bill Clinton, not to mention a monument marking the state’s first legal human dissection. All of these are in Arkansas, along with the Henry Humphrey memorial.

We don’t tell Felix and Krista about it.

“It’s a surprise,” I say. “Just wait.”

“Is there blood?” Krista says.

“Probably not.”

“I don’t know how you guys remember everywhere we stopped,” Portia says. “Most of it’s a blur.”

I think of the book in my bag. It’s the only one I brought with me.

“You were too young,” Eddie says.

Portia sticks out her tongue like she’s six years old. When we get back into the car, she puts on her headphones and disappears, lying down in the back seat.

Felix takes out his phone and I know he’s going to look up tourist attractions in Arkansas. He can’t stand not knowing.

I grab it. “No googling.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

We all retreat to our corners, metaphorically, and the car goes silent.



* * *



–––––

The same thing happened when we were kids. Grandpa didn’t ever tell us where we were going next and it drove us crazy. We whined, begged, and pleaded, finally all three in unison. Grandpa laughed until he didn’t.

“Shut up,” he said.

It was the first sign of his temper.

We ignored it and we kept right on going. The Grandpa we knew wasn’t an angry man. He was nice and funny and he loved to play games. Most of the time, he wasn’t even a bad sport if he lost.

Plus, we were on a road trip, a grand adventure, a quest! Who got mad when they’re adventuring?

Grandpa did.

I had never seen his temper before the road trip, and I wasn’t prepared when it got even worse. He lowered his voice, speaking each word as if it were his last.

“Shut. The. Hell. Up!”

He banged his fist against the dashboard, making all of us jump. That’s what really got me. The fist. None of us wanted that flying in our direction. Grandpa sounded like something right out of the TV, almost like Mom when she got mad, except Grandpa was a lot bigger.

Even Eddie looked scared, and that didn’t happen often. Somehow Portia managed to keep her mouth shut for a while. Not easy for a six-year-old. Not easy for any of us.

When Grandpa spoke again, his voice was normal.

“You guys must be getting hungry. Who wants McDonald’s?”

We were. We did. And when we were alone, we vowed not to pester him like that again.

That’s always the way, isn’t it? The threat of physical violence eclipses everything. As a child, you know it, and as a woman, it’s always in the back of your mind. The slam of a fist can change everything.

It even changed me. I didn’t know it then, when I was twelve. Later, as I started dating in high school and having relationships in college, it became clear. Men who raised their voices, who showed any kind of violence, repulsed me. I wanted the quiet guy in the corner, the one on his laptop or reading a book, or just standing around being awkward.

Felix is like that. Doesn’t scream, doesn’t yell. He either walks out or goes for a drive and he’s never slammed his fist into anything. That’s part of why I married him. I’m never afraid when I’m with Felix.

And he’s so easy to manipulate. He still doesn’t know the real reason we moved from Miami to Central Florida.





ARKANSAS


State Motto: The people rule

We arrive after dark. Small town, quiet streets, and one very special monument. The Henry Humphrey memorial stands in front of the Alma, Arkansas, police department.

“This is it,” Eddie says. He takes out his cell phone and turns on the flashlight. The rest of us do the same, lighting up the etched memorial on the lawn.

“Jesus Christ,” Felix says. “More Bonnie and Clyde?”

True. Henry Humphrey was an unfortunate victim of the gang. They forced him into the local bank and stole the safe. Henry was left alive, which seems like a lucky thing, but it turned out he wasn’t lucky at all. The next day, he got into a shootout with the gang and lost.