Yanking open the door of the van he thrust a dirty blanket at Nick.
"You'll sleep out here," he said gruffly. "No room inside."
The woman pressed forward, trying to get a look at him.
Nick noticed she was dark-skinned, very dark-skinned. With a sudden
jolt he realized she was black.
In the morning the rain had stopped. Asleep across the two front seats
Nick was awakened by a faint scratching sound. For a moment he
couldn't figure out where he was. He sat up, banging his head on the
dash. His gut ached with hunger, and he felt an urgent need to pee.
Staring at him through the side window were two small black boys.
One of them was scraping his fingernails against the window. As soon
as they saw he was awake they ran away.
In the light of day he took in his surroundings. The van was parked in
the middle of a sparsely populated trailer park. A few skinny dogs
loped around a cluster of dilapidated-looking trailers, while all
around was mud, weeds, and, over to one side, a massive garbage dump.
This place made Aunt Franny's rundown house in Evanston seem like a
palace.
He got out of the van. Crouching on the ground a few feet away lurked
the two black kids, still staring at him.
"Hey," he said. "What's up?"
They didn't respond.
"Gotta take a piss."
One of the boys pointed to a ramshackle hut next to the garbage pile.
He made it to the hut and wished he hadn't-the stench was unbearable.
After doing what he had to do he hurried back to the van, his stomach
rumbling uncontrollably. In his pocket he had exactly thirty-five
cents. Not enough to do anything.
Leaning against the van, he thought about his future and decided that
things certainly couldn't get any worse. He was stuck in a strange
town, waiting around in some crummy trailer park while his father
reacquainted himself with the woman he'd been married to for seventeen
years and never told anyone.
One of the boys edged toward him, a handsome kid with bright eyes and
dark chocolate skin. "What's your name, mister?" the boy asked
curiously.
"Nick. What's yours?"
"Harlan. I'se ten. How old's you?"
"Sixteen."
"What you doin' here?"
He shrugged. "Beats me."
After a while Primo emerged from the trailer clad only in his grubby
underwear, scratching his bulging belly, a rare smile lighting up his
unshaven face. Nick knew the look. It was his father's I just got
laid, aren't I a fine stud look.
"Howdja sleep?" Primo asked, as if they'd spent the night in a fancy
hotel.
"I didn't. I was too hungry," he muttered, angry with his father, and
yet not sure how to express himself. What he'd really like to do was
beat his stupid lying brains out.
"Don'tcha worry bout that," Primo said jovially, as if nothing was
amiss. "Aretha Mae's one fine little cook." He clapped his hand on
his son's shoulder. "C'mon, I wantcha t'meet her."
Reluctantly he followed Primo into the trailer, while the two boys
hovered close behind.
Inside it was a crowded mess, with clutter everywhere-clothes,
magazines, old newspapers and junk piled high on every surface. In one
corner was an unmade bed and, on the floor, two moldy sleeping bags.
Aretha Mae busied herself at a kerosene stove, frying ham and potatoes
in greasy bacon fat. She was a sinewy black woman with frizzy dyed red
hair and a wary look in her eyes.
"Sit yourself down, boy," she said to Nick over her shoulder. "You
must be real hungry."
He squeezed onto a torn plastic-covered bench next to a rickety table
stacked with dirty dishes.
Aretha Mae dumped a plate of food in front of him, sweeping the used
dishes to one side. "Eat," she commanded.
along."
"Shut your mouth," Aretha Mae said. "We be talkin' bout who gets along
later. Don't go thinkin' you're movin'" Nick was impressed by her
nerve, although he half expected his father to smack her across the
mouth.
Primo didn't. Primo laughed, a big-bellied laugh. "Still a feisty
bitch," he said. "I like that in a woman. You haven't changed."
Aretha Mae threw him a stern look. "Don't use no bad language in front
of my kids," she said, indicating the two silent boys by the door.
"Listen who's talkin'," Primo said, scratching his stomach. "I can
remember when that's all you used."
"Things was different then," Aretha Mae said primly. "Those was
different times."
Primo continued to laugh and grabbed her ass. "They sure was.
She slapped his hand away and turned to Nick, busy wolfing down the
greasy but delicious meal. "What your old man tell you bout me?" she
demanded. "He tell you we was married? He tell you he ran out on me
when I got pregnant? He tell you bout your half sister he ain't never
seen-let alone supported?"
Nick stopped eating. Sister? What kind of crap was coming his way
now?
"I didn't know Primo whined. "You threw me out. I didn't know you was
pregnant."
"Liar!" she snapped. "The baby in my belly was why you ran." She
glared at him balefully. "An' then whaddaya do? Fix another woman so
you's trapped anyhow. Dumb chickenshit!"
Primo wrapped his arms around her from behind, caressing her bony
body.
"C'mon, lion, I'm back," he crooned. "You always knew I'd be back,
didn't ya?"
Aretha Mae made an angry sound in the back of her throat. Not that
angry. In fact it was becoming quite obvious she didn't mind having
Primo's clumsy arms around her one little bit.
Nick thought of his hardworking mother lying in her grave and the
greasy food turned in his stomach. He hated his father. He hated the
whole stinking set-up.
Abruptly he stood up. "What sister?"
"She be away right now," Aretha Mae said quickly. "She be visiting
relatives in Kansas City."
"I got me a daughter," Primo marveled. "I always wanted a girl."
"You got one, all right," Aretha Mae said. "Oh, yessir me, you really
got one.
Several days later they moved in, after spending a few nights in
Bosewell's only motel. Since there wasn't room for all of them in
Aretha Mae's trailer, Primo made a deal with the couple next door to
take over their rat-infested storage dump-a trailer with no wheels and
cardboard covering the window spaces. "It'll do for the kids to sleep
in," he told Aretha Mae. "Should clean up nice."
Nick spent three days hauling out junk, dodging rats, cockroaches and
spiders. Harlan and his younger brother, Luke, helped out. They were
jumpy little kids, petrified of their mother, who ruled them with an
acid tongue.
The two boys attended school every day, leaving the trailer park at six
in the morning. Aretha Mae left shortly after that to go to her job as
a maid to a rich family in Bosewell. This gave Primo plenty of time to
himself, and although he promised Aretha Mae he'd start looking
for a
job he had no intention of doing so. The moment she left he settled in
front of her small black-and-white portable television, with a six-pack
nearby. Nothing had changed for Primo. He knew his priorities and he
stuck to them.
Nick hung around, he had nowhere to go.
After a couple of days Primo said, "Gotta get you back in school."
"I'd sooner get a job," he said, feeling restless and trapped.
"Maybe-" "I promised your ma," Primo interrupted, staring at the
television.
"So what?"
Whack! Right across the mouth. It caught him by surprise, cutting his
lip. He tasted blood and was filled with fury. There was no Mary to
protect him now. School was in his future and there was nothing he
could do about it, at least for now. As soon as he could he'd find a
job, save his money and get out.
Nick Angelo planned to run, and nobody was going to stop him.
ow exciting!" screamed Meg.
"Darling, I couldn't be more pleased for you," said her mother.
"This is great news," announced her father, as proudly as though she'd
just concluded a complicated insurance deal.
Idiot! She should have kept her mouth shut. All she'd done was tell
them Stock had mentioned they should get engaged, and the next thing it
was the town gossip. Now she was more trapped than ever in a
relationship that totally confused her.
She was sixteen. She was too young. Oh, sure, her mother had gotten
married at seventeen-but that was a love match between two people who
were crazy about each other; they'd told her the story enough times.
Her situation was different-she hardly even knew Stock, and what she
did know she didn't much like.
"I'm not getting engaged," she informed her parents, panic-stricken at
the thought.
Jane Roberts smiled and patted her daughter like she was an excitable
puppy that needed calming. "Nerves, darling," she said. "Marriage is
a big step. You'll have a long engagement, get to know each other.
Stock's a nice boy from a fine family. Your father and I are very
happy." they were happy. What about her? Wasn't she the one be
grinning uncontrollably and walking ten feet above Oh, good, supposed
to the ground?
Love. From everything she'd seen and read it was a magical feeling,
and all she felt was sick.
In third grade she'd had a crush on Sammy Pilsner. She'd been eight
years old and ecstatic. He'd made her shiver and shake whenever she
saw him.
At twelve she'd fallen in love with her cousin Brad, a bony-looking boy
three years older than her. He and his family only visited at
Christmas, so she'd soon grown out of that.
At thirteen she'd had her first date. Disaster.
At fourteen her first kiss. Even worse.
And at fifteen she went steady for a satisfying six months with Sammy
Pilsner.
Sammy didn't make her shiver and shake as much as he had when she was
eight, but he was a good kisser and they got into many long lustful
nights of heavy petting, although she never let him go all the way-she
was too frightened of getting pregnant-even though he drove over fifty
miles to a neighboring town to buy rubbers, and tried to convince her
they should do it.
Eventually Sammy's father got promoted at his job and they moved to
Chicago. She was a little bit heartbroken. She and Sammy corresponded
for a few months, then his letters tapered off, and she realized she
was free to see whoever she wanted. She dated several boys.
They all wanted one thing. If she hadn't given it to Sammy, why would
she surrender it to a casual date?
One thing about Stock, he hadn't jumped her. Yet.
"I don't want to get engaged," she confided to Meg.
"Everyone's so jealous!" Meg squealed. "Has he given you a ring?
When are you going to do it? You'll have to do it now that you're
engaged."
"But I'm not," Lauren protested.
Meg squinted at her. "Not what? Not engaged? Or not going to do
it?"
"Not engaged, asshole."
"Nice talk from a virgin!"
"Asshole," Lauren repeated.
If her father ever heard her say that he'd kill her. Neither of her
parents swore, at least not in front of her, although she'd once heard
her father loudly groaning, "Christ! Christ!" when she was eleven and
listening outside their bedroom door.
At least she knew what men said when they had sex. Although Sammy
didn't. In the throes of passion, when she was doing something to him
nice girls weren't supposed to do, Sammy Pilsner used to yell out,
"Cowboys and Indians! This is an attack! Go for it! Go for it!"
Thinking of Sammy made her grin. His was the first and only penis
she'd ever seen-she didn't count the time she'd walked in on her father
getting out of the shower. He'd gone red in the face and screamed at
her to get out. She was ten at the time. Shortly after, her mother
had taken her to one side and told her to please knock before entering
their bathroom.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Daddy's penis.
I promise I won't look.
Sammy Pilsner was very proud of his penis, he wanted her to look all
the time. In fact he wanted her to do a lot more than look.
She'd obliged, because at the time she thought she loved him, and at
least you couldn't get pregnant that way.
She knew all about oral sex, having read about it in Playboy. Her
father kept copies of the magazine locked in a storage closet in the
basement. She'd discovered his stash one day and over the course of
the next few weeks had read them all. Each magazine was full of naked
women, sexist cartoons and articles about all kinds of sexual
activities. She didn't enjoy looking at it, but it certainly taught
her a lot. - Sammy Pilsner couldn't believe his luck!
But that was the past-now she had Stock to deal with.
A few days later he sidled up to her during lunch break and informed
her that his parents had decided to throw a big engagement party for
them.
She wanted to say, "But I never said we'd get engaged." Instead she
found herself nodding and listlessly agreeing.
Maybe that's what Stock liked about her-her total lack of enthusiasm.
As the football hero and son of the town's richest man, he'd had girls
fawning all over him since sixth grade. Perhaps he found her cool
attitude a refreshing change.
"Saturday night," he said, sliding his arm around her shoulders.
"My mother's talking to yours.
Oh, great! She should put a stop to this now. But somehow it just
seemed easier to go along with it. Like that girl in The Graduate, she
could take it all the way to the church, and then some handsome hero
would rush in to save her and she'd run off with him, leaving Stock
with his mouth open-probably patting his crotch to make sure she hadn't
taken it with her!
One question. Who would the rescuing hero be? Sammy Pilsner?
She didn't think so. Sammy was probably getting his penis
licked by a
cute little Chicago girl with long legs and a big mouth.
Idly she wondered if her mother ever did that to her father. The very
thought made her shudder. No way. He probably didn't even let her
look at it.
"I've got a big surprise for you," Stock said, surreptitiously checking
out her bra strap through her sweater.
"What?" she asked impatiently.
"Never you mind, you see."
Asshole.
On the way home from school she stopped by her father's office.
Once more he'd closed up early. She rattled the handle just to make
sure. Nobody home.
Downstairs she popped into the Blakely Brothers hardware store.
The Blakely brothers were identical twins, both fat and fifty with
jovial smiles and drooping bushy eyebrows. She had no idea how to tell
them apart.
"Hiya, Mr. Blakely," she said cheerily. "How's your wife?"