The Spite House(11)

Early in their drive to Degener, when Stacy, who had the backseat to herself, said she wanted to play, she started with the word “apple.” Dess said, “Banana,” since they were both fruits. Their father couldn’t say another fruit, like “cherry,” so he went with “canary,” a yellow bird to match the yellow banana peel, which led Stacy to say, “Dolphin,” and Dess to say, “Evian,” and Eric to say, “Fire hydrant,” which was doubly wrong since it was two words and still water related. Stacy had still seemed a bit drowsy at the time, but perked up when she got to exclaim, “Daddy loses a point!”

“That’s right,” Dess said.

Eric put up a mock protest that “fire hydrant” was hyphenated and that since fire was the opposite of water he shouldn’t lose a point, but the sisters stuck together in judging that his score was down to four while they each still had five.

“You should have just said ‘fire,’” Stacy said, giggling.

“Oh man, you’re right,” Eric said. “Why didn’t I just say that?” After a quick wink to Dess he picked the game back up at the letter “G.”

If nothing else, the game gave Dess something to do besides stare out the window as the scenery passed, singing songs to herself to pass the minutes. There was only so much she could discuss with her dad when Stacy was awake. She had tried to get into other things such as writing and sketching, but those things didn’t appeal to her. The only peaceful, sit-down solo activity she enjoyed was reading, and even that she preferred to do outside of the car, as she was prone to mild car sickness and could never fully focus on what she was reading anyway.

She missed being more active. More than that, she missed being a leader. She hadn’t been All-State or even All-City, and wouldn’t have been up for a track scholarship, but she’d won her share of meets, and Coach had once confided that she was the most valuable person on the team. Even as a sophomore on varsity she’d had upperclassmen who came to her for advice, though most were too prideful to directly ask for it. That was okay. It gave her a chance to exercise her charisma and empathy, understand what her teammates were asking for without them having to say it, and then suggest a solution without sounding like she was trying to give orders. She didn’t like telling people what to do, but she loved being recognized as reliable.

On the road, when she looked out the window, she often saw herself running alongside the car, her stride graceful and measured, less powerful and urgent than rhythmic, and that image would soothe her for a little while, until it depressed her. The first time she had snuck out of a motel a couple of hours past midnight, they had been near Charlotte, and she’d done it because the image of her running had gotten stuck in a loop in her head for several nights in a row, and she had struggled to sleep because of it. She hadn’t gone out looking for a shady way to make a little extra money, she had gone to an open field she had spotted nearby, one that kept its lights on all night, and had run the length of it, back and forth, just to feel the air rush by and her heart pumping.

She wasn’t as afraid of encountering anyone as she probably should have been. She was sure she could outrun the average person who posed a threat. If it came to a fight, it depended on who her attacker was. One-on-one with a girl her size, or even one slightly bigger, she loved her chances. Even if it was two-on-one, she thought she could do enough damage early to make them see it wasn’t worth it. If it was a guy, her best bet was to play helpless long enough for him to let his guard down, then go for something sensitive, like her great-grandfather told her.

“The eyes are a good place to start,” Pa-Pa Fred had said. “Everybody’s scared of losing an eye. You have to really go for it, though, like you’re planning to put it in your pocket for later. Don’t be afraid to use your teeth. Bite a nose, bite their ears. I’ve seen pro boxers who can take a hundred punches freak out when someone bit a piece of their ear off. You’ve got to go after whatever you can get to. That’s how you avoid being someone who let something bad happen to you. Instead you make it happen to them.”

She’d been too young for this lesson, just ten years old, but he’d given it to her one summer while they were visiting him and Ma-Ma Nelle in Odessa. She came home from the park that afternoon with scratches on her arms. She could have told any of the other adults in the house about the older boy who picked on her for “not being from here,” pulling her hair, shoving her to the ground, but she somehow knew the boy would get into more trouble if she told Pa-Pa Fred. She didn’t realize how much trouble that would be until later.

She described the boy to her great-grandfather, and he nodded and said, “I know who that is. I’ll take care of it.” Then he was gone for about an hour or so. Later that evening, there was a knock at the door. Pa-Pa Fred brought her out to the porch to see the boy who had picked on her, his father standing next to him. Pa-Pa Fred stood behind Dess, his shadow blotting out the porch light, darkening the two people in front of her. Still, she saw the struggle between worry and anger in the father’s eyes, and the bewildered fear in the face of the boy, who looked much younger and smaller here than he had at the park.

“Go on,” the father said to his son. “Tell her.”

“I-I-I’m sorry,” the boy said. His father immediately smacked him hard on the back of his neck. The boy bit down on a cry of pain.