Road to Paradise (6 page)

I did make some time for Tony Bergamino, though. Rather, he made time for me. He came up to me after the prom, told me he thought I looked good and danced well. “Gee, thanks.” If I were a peacock, I would’ve opened up my tail.

“I heard you were driving to California.”

“How’d you hear?”

“What d’you mean? Everybody heard.”

I tried not to smile. Tony Bergamino heard I was going to California! I was a ten-inch red balloon with twelve inches’ worth of helium under his unprecedented attention.

“You taking Gina with you?”

“I’m not
taking
her with me. We’re going together. We’re sharing the costs.”

“Of course. She’s a firecracker. I didn’t know you two were friends.”

“Yeah, used to be … friends.”

“Must have been a long time ago.” He glanced at me funny, like he knew things.

“It was.”

He shuffled his feet. Someone called for him (perhaps his lover, Gazelle?).

“Well, good luck. Have a great trip.”

“Thanks. You too.” Oh, idiot! And he smiled at me like I was an idiot.

And then, because he
was
a peacock, he opened up his tail. “Feel like getting together before you go? There’s this great place down the coast, in Newport. We could drive.” He hemmed. “Maybe I could drive?” he asked sheepishly, shining down at me his football-jocky, legs-apart smile.

Hallelujah!

Hallelujah, hallelujah!

“Yeah, sure, you can drive. If you want to. When would we go?”

We went overnight, right before the end. Newport possibly was a nice town. Beachy. White. Quaint, with ships and sails. I heard it was by the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea … but the place we stayed was inland.

“Emma,” I said the evening before I was leaving. “Tell me about my dad.”

It took me thirteen years to ask this question. I thought at first she didn’t hear me. You know, when your own voice is just an echo, and you start to doubt whether you spoke at all; start to doubt whether you
are
at all because the largest, loudest questions in your head are never answered.

She was so quiet. She was listening to the answers on “Jeopardy.”
The largest of the Great Lakes for 10,000
. Apparently it was Lake Superior.

When they went to commercial, she turned the volume down. “You really want to know?” She sounded pained. But no matter how tense her words, her hands were composed and on her lap, threaded together. “He got into a bar fight. It went terribly wrong and he killed a man. The prosecution said he didn’t use equal force. The dead man used a bottle on your father, but your father used a bat. The bottle was broken, though, jagged edges everywhere. Your father clearly felt threatened. No matter. The man he killed was a local and well-liked, and your father was a journeyman, just passing through. He was convicted of first-degree manslaughter and went to prison for ten years. He got sick in there and died. They said pneumonia. But it could’ve been from his congestive heart failure. He always had a bad heart.” She stood, picked up her empty teacup with a steady hand.

I didn’t know what to say. “How come you never told me?”

“You never asked. I told you your daddy had died. I thought that was enough. I didn’t want to upset you. You were always so sensitive. I thought when you were ready you would ask.”

“How come we never visited him in prison?”

“He was too far. He was tried and convicted in California. I didn’t want to take you on the bus. I was saving up my money for us to fly, but then he up and died.” She stood in front of me, still holding her teacup, her gray hair set in curlers, her houserobe clean and smelling of detergent.

“What was he doing in California?”

Emma didn’t answer at first, rubbing her cup. “I reckon,” she said at last, “the same thing you’re about to do.”

She was right. I hadn’t been ready, and was still not ready. Only when she had fallen silent did I catch the hook between the lines:
your father went to find your mother and he ended up dying in prison.
And now you’re going
.

Straining hard to be grown-up, but staring hard to glean her reaction, I asked, “You think my mother is still alive?” I was hoping she’d say, no, Shel, she’s long dead. Don’t go anywhere. Please. Stay here.

I wanted her to say it.

“How would I know, Shelby?” she said. “Perhaps.”

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. What does one say to that?

“Where’s the letter she wrote him before she left?”

“What letter?” Puzzled at first, suddenly she frowned. Her neutral gaze darkened. “Oh my God. Have you been believing vicious gossip all these years? What’s wrong with you? Why are you so eager to make up things about your life? What, life isn’t hard enough?”

Life was hard enough. “
Am
I making it up?” I mouthed.

“What do you think is going on around here?” Emma clunked her cup down! “Who do you think I am? Who do you think has been raising you all these years?”

I didn’t answer, but she glared at me as if expecting an answer. So finally I said, “I thought my father left my mother to be with you. So she left.”

Gasping and falling speechless Emma straightened, her usually kind and casual eyes flushed with incomprehension. “I simply don’t understand who you are. Shelby, your father didn’t leave your mother. Your mother left him. And for your information, I am not your father’s slutty mistress. I am his sister.”

I sucked in my breath. “You are?” I was dumbfounded. “How can that be?” I stammered after minutes of silent shame. “You—you—have different last names.”

“So, expert on names? We had one mother. Your father was ten years younger than me.”

“You are my
aunt
?” This could not have been said with more incredulity than if I had said,
you are a man
?

“Why do you think you called me Aunt Emma?”

“I was just a kid then,” I muttered.

“Yes, and with more sense than now, after twelve years of school. When your father set out to look for your mother, he said he’d be back in two weeks. I agreed to watch over you. Two weeks turned out to be thirteen years. He left you with me because there was nowhere else for you to go.”

I was ashamed and ashen. Humiliation sometimes turns into a parade of pride. It did so with me. To cover up, I said, “Well, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“You called me Aunt Emma!” she nearly yelled.

“Just a name,” I doggedly repeated.

She shook her head. “Yes. Just a name of your daddy’s sister.” She was breathing heavily, gathering her thoughts. “Does it benefit you to talk down your life? To make it up out of damaged cloth? Did you ever ask yourself why a jilted and abandoned woman would raise her ex-lover’s wayward, ungrateful and preposterous child?” I asked myself this a thousand times a day.

“Because that’s you, Shelby,” Emma continued. “Preposterous and ungrateful. You’ve been spinning and believing these lies about yourself, but it’s not to make yourself feel better. It was always to make yourself feel worse.”

I had nothing to say after that.

Neither did she.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I said. “And I’m not coming back till I find my mother.”

“Good,” she said. “By all means, I beg of you, do keep open the questions of youth. As if they’re the important thing.” She turned to go. “That’s what your father said, too, by the way. But perhaps you’ll need your mother’s name, if you’re going to be looking for her, and all.” She fell silent and waited.

Why was she waiting? As if she were holding her breath for me to choose to stay or choose to go. But she gave me a car! I had to go.

I had to.

“What was her name?” I asked, defiantly.

Emma lifted her teacup off the table, her gray face tight, her gray eyes sober. “Lorna Moor.”

Lorna Moor!

My mother hadn’t left a letter. But she did send a postcard. Emma showed it to me. It had daffodils on a Main Street and beyond them cliffs and a hard-breaking ocean.
Mendocino
,
California
, the card’s location read, and in small sloppy handwriting, “
Say hi to Shelby
.”

This is how you move toward the rest of your life: sometimes by repetition and, sometimes, by revolution.

It was a beautiful late June morning when I set off. I got to Gina’s house around nine. It had taken longer than expected to pack up and get out. I had told Gina to be ready at eight. I think I milled around for a few extra minutes to see if Emma would say something to me. What, no words of wisdom? She said, “Do you have what you need?”

And I said, “Yes.”

“You don’t.” She brought something out from my bedroom. “You forgot this.” She was holding my pillow with the pink cotton jersey cover. “You know how you don’t like to sleep without it.”

She was right, I didn’t like to sleep without my pillow. “I don’t want to take it, Emma,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m going to forget it in a motel room. I’d rather have it waiting for me when I come back.”

Emma laid it down on the kitchen table. “Okay.”

Absurdly I kept feeling my cash, all of it in one large manila folder. It made me feel vulnerable carrying it like that; one snatch, the whole trip over. I should have bought a purse. But what was I going to do, carry $2000 in my purse to the convenience stores to get a Coke? But now what to do with it? Leave it in the glove compartment? I opted for the bottom of my suitcase, all except twenty bucks in the back of my shorts for drinks and things.

Emma gave me a pat with a little squeeze. “Be well,” she said. “Be good.” She didn’t even say be careful. Personally I would’ve thought that was a prerequisite, but what do I know. Perhaps a mother would’ve said it.

At Gina’s house, her mother, Kathy Reed, was fussing over her like … well, like a mother whose eldest daughter was taking an unprecedented trek across the country. Morning, evening, Kathy Reed was always exceptionally coiffed and this morning was no exception. Made up and in a soft-knit skirt, she carried Gina’s suitcase to the car herself, stepping across the lawn in her beige three-inch heels. “Shelby! I haven’t seen you in ages.” She hugged me, smiled. “How’ve you been?”

“Very good, Mrs. Reed,” I said, but she was already walking back to the house to fetch another bag. I hoped it would fit in my trunk.

Gina’s grandmother was there, too, hobbling on her cane, muttering, trying to dispense advice. “Bring a jacket. You’ll get cold.” “Bring a book. Shelby, did you bring a book?” “Bring
all
the telephone numbers in case of emergency.”

All telephone numbers? I mouthed to Gina. Like
all
telephone numbers? She laughed.

“Bring quarters.” The dogs were barking, the cat was underfoot.

I kept my distance from the goings-on; to me Gina didn’t look ready to go, and I didn’t want to be in her way. I kept glancing at my watch, hoping that would give somebody a sense of urgency. We needed to get through New Jersey and Pennsylvania today, stop somewhere in Ohio. That was 500 miles away, but we could do it if we left immediately, hit only a little traffic going through New York City, maintained 50 mph on I-78 west, and kept the stops to a minimum. One for gas, one for drinks …

“Remember, don’t eat any of the cannoli,” I overheard Mrs. Reed instructing. “My sister loves these. She can’t get them in Baltimore.”

I came out of my geographical reverie, narrowed my eyes. Suddenly I was paying attention. Mrs. Reed might as well have slapped her hands together at the end of my nose.

“Um,” I said, aptly. “Um, excuse me, your
sister
?”

“Yes, you know Flo, Shelby,” said Mrs. Reed. “Gina’s aunt. You’ve met her many times at Christmas. She lives in Baltimore.”

“Of course. I like her very much.
Does
she … live in Baltimore? When did she move there?” I thought Flo lived right around the corner. Didn’t all aunts?

“Well, Kathy, actually,
near
Baltimore,” the mother-in-law, propped by her cane, corrected her daughter-in-law about the whereabouts of her daughter-in-law’s sister. “Near the airport.”

“Scottie,” said Mrs. Reed impatiently, “Glen Burnie is still considered Baltimore.”

“Well, it’s really its own little town. Probably better to say
near
Baltimore …”

I cleared my throat, trying to catch Gina’s eye and anybody’s attention. “Gina?”

Gina said nothing, busying herself with looking through her bag, muttering, “I hope I have everything …”

“Now, Gina, remember …”

“Wait, wait,” I cut in. “What does Baltimore have to do with us? We’re not going to Baltimore.”

“Not going to Baltimore?” said Mrs. Reed. “Then how are you going to get the Pomeranians to Aunt Flo if you’re not going to Baltimore?”

“The whatteranians?”

Gina was still studiously ascertaining if her bag was ready for travel. We were standing on the brick path near the front lawn, the birds were chirping and she was solemnly bent over, rummaging for hair clips. That’s when I noticed the barking cage. It was pointed out to me by Gina’s mother and grandmother, the latter with her cane, that was now a canine pointer-outer.

“Gina!” That was Mrs. Reed, not me. “You told me Shelby was all right with it. You told me you spoke to her!”

“I was going to, Mom, but we got so busy, and went away to Mystic, and it slipped my mind. Sorry, Sloane. Sorry, Mom.”

“But you told me you spoke to her!”

“Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Sloane. I thought you wouldn’t mind. I thought it was on our way. Isn’t it?”

This coming from a girl who thought Bakersfield and Mendocino were neighboring towns, separated by a mere 500 miles! What was I supposed to do? The dogs were anxiously looking up through the bars of their crate.

Mrs. Reed rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Shelby, I hope you don’t mind. My Rosie had puppies recently and I promised two of them to Flo. And it’s a little on the way, isn’t it?” She said this sheepishly, beseechingly, as if she was pretty sure it might not be
quite
on the way, but perhaps I wouldn’t notice.

“I think it’s a little out of the way,” I said, sounding like such a stickler. “I’m sure it won’t be too bad.”

Mrs. Reed smiled warmly. “I’m pleased. My sister was sick last Christmas and hasn’t seen the girls. Or you. She’ll be very happy.”

“We can stay with Aunt Flo and it won’t cost us,” said Gina, trying to organize her half-dozen pairs of sandals into a small shopping bag. “That’s good, right? We save a little money. And she loves cannolis.”

“Who doesn’t?” I grumbled. Baltimore! I showed them my back so they wouldn’t see me grind my teeth together. Surreptitiously, I flapped open the map. Sure enough, Baltimore was a miserable 200-mile detour south when we were heading west. Well, not anymore. Now we were heading south.

“Come on, Sloane,” Gina said, coming up to the car. “It’s just an adventure. I know it’s not on your list.”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s going to add a day to the trip, get us to California later, but that’s okay, I guess. One day won’t hurt us. I’ll adjust it on my calendar. I don’t mind.”

When I folded the map and turned around, Gina’s mother had her hands on Gina’s shoulders and was dispensing more advice. “Now remember, don’t stop for anyone. Do you hear?”

“I hear.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“Shelby, you promise? Be safe.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Reed. I would never.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about Shelby, Mom.” Gina laughed. “You know there’s no one less likely in the world to pick up a hitchhiker than her.”

“I know. That’s why I’m letting you go with her,” said Mrs. Reed. “And don’t lose your money. And have breakfast every day. Don’t forget to drink fluids on the road. And lock the car when you stop to go to the potty.” I blinked. Did she use the word potty to an eighteen-year-old?

“I will.” “I won’t.” “I will.” “I won’t.” “I will.”

“Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t even look at them.”

“I won’t.”

While still holding on to Gina’s shoulders, Mrs. Reed turned her head to me. “And, Shelby, when the tank is half full, gas up. No reason to wait till it’s empty.”

“We will, Mrs. Reed.” She was preaching to the converted.

“No, no, not we.
You
. Don’t let Gina touch the gas. The fumes will give her a fierce headache. Gina, when Shelby gasses up, you run to the bathroom, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Don’t stay near the pumps. Don’t inhale.” She turned to me. “And remember, she’s allergic to peanuts. So no peanuts.”

“No peanuts, got it. What about peanut butter?” When I saw her face, I said, all teeth, “Just kidding?”

She calmly continued. “Shelby, she’s also allergic to bees and wasps. She’ll swell up something awful if she’s stung. Don’t drive around country roads with the windows open. Just stay on the Interstate. We have such a good system of highways in this country. I heard someone made it from New York to California in three days!”

“Probably without diverting to Baltimore,” I muttered, almost inaudibly.

“Be safe,” she said firmly, after a sideways glance. “Don’t speed. Keep to the speed limit. It’s fifty-five. I don’t care what kind of car you have. And don’t pass trucks on the right. Let the trucks pass. They win all ties. And avoid aggressive drivers. Shelby, okay?”

“Okay, Mrs. Reed.”

“How long have you had your license?”

“My student license for a year. My full license just since this month.”

“Okay. You’ll do well to be careful on the road. You’re a new driver. Don’t drive at night. When it starts to get dark, stop. Have dinner, then stop for the night. No reason to keep going like maniacs. You’re not running to a fire. Better safe than sorry. Remember the story of the tortoise and the hare?”

Did she mean running
from
a fire? I thought it best not to ask. And didn’t she just say someone made it from New York to California in
three
days? Was that the tortoise or the hare?

At no point did Gina say, Mom, we have to go. She just stood there, with her mother’s arms on her shoulders, listening and nodding. After Mrs. Reed appeared to be done by having fallen silent, Gina said she was going to make one last “potty” break and disappeared inside. I was left with the two Mrs. Reeds standing looking me up and down. There was nothing to me this morning. I was wearing jean shorts with silver studs on the pockets the shape of roses and a beige Aerosmith T-shirt. My hair was clean, so were my teeth. I barely had on any makeup. Really, nothing to see here, folks. Yet they examined me, perused me. Mulled, like I was an indecent painting they thought was overpriced. “Shelby, you’ll take good care of our Gina, right?” finally said the younger Mrs. Reed.

I had no idea what that meant. I hadn’t taken care of anything my whole life. I couldn’t get a one-eyed frog to last through winter. Naturally I said, “Yes, of course, Mrs. Reed. But Gina and I are friends. We look out for each other.”

“You’re her keeper now, Shelby,” Mrs. Reed continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know I’ve always thought of you as her older sister.”

“Absolutely. Me, too. Well, actually, she’s ten months older, but I know what you mean. And you know sisters, they take care of each other.”

“She’s in good hands. I know you’ll watch out for her. I’ve always liked you. You really don’t mind taking the dogs to Baltimore, do you?” She offered me fifty dollars for my trouble. I have a hard time saying no when people offer me money (it happens so rarely) and I didn’t say no then.

“And Molly promises she’ll be no trouble.”

Dumbly I said,
Molly
? The time was nearing eleven. I was too afraid to look at my watch. I ripped it off my wrist and threw it in the backseat, as if removing the time counter from my person allowed me the illusion of control, as in, if I don’t know what time it is, then it’s not really that late, is it?

Gina returned. Behind her trailed a grumpy, barely awoken, unbrushed young girl.
Molly
, Gina’s sister! I hadn’t seen her in two years, and since then, she’d sprung things on her body, like boobs and hips. Back when I knew Gina’s sister, she was a kid. Now she was twelve and unrecognizable. Cheerfully, to balance her sister’s sulky pre-teen face, Gina said, “My mom wanted my sister to come along, too.”

“Gina, don’t lie,” said Molly. “You invited me.”

Flushed, Gina glared at her sister and to me said, “I thought it’d be fun, don’t you think?”

“Is she coming with you all the way to Bakersfield?” I asked, not so carefully.

“Shh! Don’t be silly. No, no,” Gina quickly said, not looking at me.

Molly, as it turned out, was even less prepared than Gina. She had gone to get her toothbrush, a book to read (though she didn’t look like the type that read books; that read
period
), her rather large cassette player,
and
her makeup. What else did a twelve-year-old bring to her aunt’s? What else was there? Miniature golf clubs? She said she had to sit in the front. “I get dizzy in the back.”

Gina agreed! Gina was going to sit in the back?

I shook my head. “Molly, do you know how to read a map?”

“Yes,” she said defiantly.

“Oh, good. Because I don’t know where your aunt lives, so you’ll have to direct me out of New York, all right?”

“I can’t read in the car. It makes me dizzy,” said Molly.

“I see.” I nodded. “Perhaps best to sit in the back, then.”

“I can’t sit in the back. It makes me dizzy. Besides, backseat’s too small.”

“Well, that’s perfect, because you’re small, too.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Moll, give Sloane a break, will you?” said Gina with hostility. I suddenly remembered that Gina hated Molly. They never got along. Gina said Molly was spoiled and selfish. Why in the world would she invite her with us to Baltimore? Like children, we stared at Molly, and then pleadingly at Molly’s mother, who pointed a finger at her daughter. “You’ve got one second to get in the back or march right upstairs, young lady.”

Mrs. Reed’s words made no impression on Molly other than to cause a hysterical fit, during which she stormed off upstairs screaming she wasn’t going “Anywhere!” Mrs. Reed soothingly followed. I, for lack of anything to do, other than feel like a dumb ass, brushed my hair. My hair is thin and easy-care, and takes no time at all to brush out. I keep it fairly short for running. I brushed for fifteen minutes. Everyone by this time had left the lawn: the cane-carrying grandmother had gone inside, and Gina had forgotten “one more lipgloss.” Only me and the Pomeranians remained. They had stopped barking and were whimpering now. I knew how they felt.