Rules of the Road (2 page)

Still, I nearly collapsed during those first weeks wondering how I was going to remember everything. But you know how it is when you start something new; you mess up for a while and then gradually you find the rhythm. Murray Castlebaum’s a good, patient boss except when his diverticulitis acts up and then you steer clear because the man becomes Frankenstein, or Frankenbaum, as I call him. At the end of each week, Murray asks me, “Okay, kid, what did you learn?” At first I’d just shrug and say something about handling customers better, but Murray didn’t like that because he’d been selling shoes for twenty-three years and figured something big should have rubbed off.

“The number one thing you gotta know to sell shoes,” Murray said, “is that every shoe has a story. You know how it’s made, you know how to sell it.”

So I made it my business to know what was good and bad about each shoe. You can put four pairs of sandals in front of me and I can tell you which one to wear on the beach, which one to wear for a walk, which one to buy for the long haul, and which one to avoid altogether. And when it comes to selling sneakers you better have done your homework or you’ll get blown out of the water. You sell road traction and heel alignment, and don’t let anyone tell you that a cross-trainer is going to give you the strength of a long-distance runner. It’s a bold new shoe world out there and not everyone knows how to compete.

I sat on the folding chair by the helium tank and the boxes of Gladstone’s Shoe Store balloons with the Texas star that were blown up and given to every child who walked through the door. I turned the helium gage on, took a quick gulp of funny gas, and squeaked out, “Cat Woman lives.”

“Watch the gas,” Murray said to me, looking through boxes of loafers.

I let loose a high-pitched helium giggle, opened my purse, and took out what had become my most prized possession.

There it was, nestled between my Chicago Public Library card and my Red Cross CPR certificate—my own, personal driver’s license—six months old today.

Jenna Boller

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Red

Height: 5′11″

Weight: None of your business

An official Illinois driver.

If only the photo wasn’t so awful—my flat nose looked flatter, my round face looked like a globe, my auburn hair hung frizzed and heavy on my shoulders like too much fur. My dark eyes (one of my best features) looked guilty. My sister got the beauty in the family. I got the personality.

I held up my license and chirped out, “My passport to new worlds, Murray. Adventure. Romance. Freedom.”

“The romance dies, kid, the first time you’re wedged between two Mack trucks at rush hour on the Eisenhower Expressway.”

Murray lumbered out as I cradled my license. I was a good driver, everyone said so. Cars never scared me. I had respect for their power, but I worked hard to learn the rules.

My big plan at the end of the summer, after clocking in many full-time hours at Gladstone’s, is to buy a car—a red one—with a sunroof and leather buckets. Then, I’m going to explore all of Illinois, and then Wisconsin, and then—

“
Where’s my Jenna girl?
”

I froze at the voice coming from the sales floor.

It couldn’t be.

“
Jenna girl, this is your father calling you!
”

I looked for a place to hide. There was no back door.

“Sir . . .” It was Murray’s voice. “We can’t have you—”

“I’m here, sir,” my father announced, drunk, “to see my daughter.”

I couldn’t move. Murray, bless him, said, “She’s gone for the day.”

“Now don’t give me that now.” My father swirled the words together. “Just want to see her for a little minute. Haven’t seen her for a long time, very long.”

Two years and seven months, to be exact. But who’s counting?

Not me. Not anymore. I used to count the letters I sent him that he never answered, the presents I mailed on his birthday and Christmas.

I got up from the stool like I was dragging lead weights. I could get another job after they fired me. I was a good worker, everyone said so. I could sell anything to anybody. I stood at the door and watched my father in dirty jeans and an old golf shirt and grubby sneakers scratch his head and fall into a plaid chair as Mrs. Gladstone snapped her long, bony fingers at Murray to
do something
.

“Jenna girl! You got tall there.” His cloudy eyes tried to focus.

Please, God, let the helium have worn off. I said, “It happens,” but I still sounded like a cartoon mouse.

I walked up to Mrs. Gladstone, could smell her light perfume wafting up from her navy blue pin-striped suit. No customers in the store. That was something. I looked her straight in the eye, tried to aim my voice low.

“I’m sorry about this, Mrs. Gladstone. I’ll take care of it.” Better, but still Disney.

Her gray eyes blasted through me. She stood rigidly erect, every thick, snowy curl in place.

My face sizzled hot. I walked slowly toward my father, not
looking at the mirrors on the blue walls on either side of me, not looking at the white sign above the door,
WE’RE NOT JUST SELLING SHOES, WE’RE SELLING QUALITY
. I looked at the blue carpet with the white stars, took my father’s arm to lead him out of the store, onto the street, somewhere, anywhere but here.

“Did you miss your old man?”

I led him out to Wabash Street, underneath the elevated train tracks. Dad was never a mean drunk, you could put him places, lean him against things and he’d pretty much stay put. That helped when I was smaller and I had to put him places when Mom had had enough.

I arranged him on the station steps, put his hands together to grip the rail. I was really glad that I was one of those people who had delayed reactions to trauma.

“Well,” he blubbered, “watcha been doing?”

An El train barreled by overhead, shaking the street. Steel scraping steel, the train screeched around the corner. I gave him two years and seven months worth. “Stuff, you know.” The gas had worn off. I’m definitely off helium for good.

“Me too.” He swayed down on the steps as two old women moved quickly past us. “You probably think I’m drunk, Jenna girl, but I’m not.”

“Really.” He always called me “Jenna girl” when he was plastered.

“I’m on medication that makes me . . .funny.”

I focused in hard at the Lemmy’s hot dog poster (steaming
dog with everything, including grilled onions) so I wouldn’t have to look at my father or see the staring people looking at me like I’m some poor, pitiful case.

Drunken Dad Disgraces Daughter.

We stayed there for a while not saying anything. When I was nine, Mom had sent me to a therapist, Ms. Lynch, after she and Dad got divorced so I’d have a place to yell and scream, which I never did. Ms. Lynch had a puppet, a brown furry chipmunk named Chester, that I’d put on my hand and tell him the story of my dad’s alcoholism and how I’d never known if he was going to be a good dad one day or a bad one. One time, Ms. Lynch made Chester’s voice and said it was okay if I got angry. I got angry all right, but not at Chester. I told Ms. Lynch that Chester was a chipmunk and
didn’t
talk. Then I told her I knew that storks didn’t bring babies so stop trying to snow me.

Dumb as it seems, I could have used Chester now.

“I’m going to have to get back to work, Dad.” I said this low, mature.

Dad belched. He was wearing the Timex watch I’d sent him last Christmas. Nice to know it arrived.

“Jus wanted to see you, honey. I meant to call.”

He always said that.

“Yeah. I know.”

I felt the armor going over my heart and mind, the steel rod shooting through my back. I didn’t ask where he was working now. The jobs never lasted long. He was always selling something—aluminum siding, screen doors, toasters, used
cars—I got my gift for selling from him, that’s what people said. He had a brief stint as a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman; kept a ball of dirt in his pocket to throw on the carpet when the front door opened; got bit bad by an irritated pit bull who didn’t appreciate the Eureka suction. Part of me wanted to walk away and leave him there, the other part couldn’t. I’d worked hard at seeing his alcoholism as a disease he was stuck in. Love the person, hate the bad things they do. Sometimes loving from far off is a whole lot easier than eyeball to eyeball.

“Is there someplace you’re staying, Dad? Someplace you need to get to?”

He tried standing up to reach in his pocket, fumbled badly, finally pulled a matchbook out, opened the cover, handed it to me. “Sueann Turnbolt, 1260 Wells Street, 555-4286,” it read.

Another girlfriend probably.

“Is she there now, Dad?”

“S’waiting for me.”

Mr. Romance. I hailed a cab, got him inside, gave the driver ten dollars and the address. “We can get together when I’m not working, Dad.”

“Okey dokey, Jenna girl.”

I shut the cab door and watched it head down the street. I felt exhausted, like I hadn’t slept for days.

Daddy’s home.

The last time he showed up was when I was a freshman. I was walking home from school with my friends and he pulled up in a broken-down Dodge, jumped out with a big toothy
smile like I should have been expecting him all along. Dad always made an entrance.

He hung around town that summer, drinking, not drinking, making promises, breaking them.

Daddy’s home.

I leaned against the elevated train stairway, closed my eyes, threw back my head.

I didn’t know if I could handle it this time.

Keep going.

I ran back to Gladstone’s Shoes pushing aside pain and anger. Murray said customers are like wild animals—they can tell when you’re upset and they’ll use it against you.

Smile
.

A few people in the store, but Murray was handling it. Mrs. Gladstone was studying the Johnston and Murphy display like it held the secret to life. Maybe I could tiptoe around her into the—

“Your father,” said Mrs. Gladstone in her soft Texas drawl, “is quite a—”

My body clenched. “I’m sorry about him, ma’am. If you don’t want me to work here anymore, I’ll understand.”

Mrs. Gladstone folded her skinny arms across her chest. I was toast.

I would not fall apart if I got fired.

I’d just take my stuff and go.

“What manure,” she spat.

I guess I wasn’t fired.

“Why would I penalize you for something that is clearly your father’s problem?” She stood there waiting.

“Well . . .”

What could I say to her?

What could I say to anyone?

My father has had this problem all my life and if I had one wish in this world it would be that he could beat it.

But you know how it is with wishes. Some you catch, and others are like trying to grab Jello.

Mom’s note on the dining room table to me and Faith read:

My younger sister Faith padded in, holding a box of extra-heavy garbage bags. At fourteen, Faith was beautiful beyond
knowing—blonde, green-eyed, finely cut cheekbones—an example of what God could do if he was paying attention. It used to bug me that she got all the gorgeous genes, but like my grandmother always said, there’s a downside to everything. I can walk into a room looking like I’ve slept in a torture chamber with poisonous snakes, and people mostly ignore it. But when Faith looks bad, she’s got a crowd around her telling her about it.

“You want the front half or the back?” she asked, turning up her perfect nose at the table. Faith always seemed put together—her head matched her neck; her long legs matched the rest of her body. I felt like I’d been glued together with surplus parts—my shoulders were big and boxy, my legs were long and skinny. I had a swan-thin neck that held my round head in place.

I studied the table to figure out which half had the least work. “If we split it lengthwise down the middle,” I said, “you take the one closest to you—”

“That’s got more stuff, Jenna!”

Precisely.

“I saw Dad.”

Faith sat down. “You did?”

I told her.

“Oh, Jenna, you must have been mortified!”

“It hasn’t hit me yet.”

Faith fidgeted on the chair. She tugged at her long ponytail. “Did he mention me?”

“Yeah. Of course.” He hadn’t.

“Well . . .what did he say?”

“He misses you and wishes he could have come around more and wonders how you’re doing.”

I always told her this. There’s a responsibility that comes with being a big sister. I guess she believed me, although you can’t always tell with Faith. Last Father’s Day she was storming around the house, slamming doors, telling everyone to buzz off, she was
fine
. Father’s Day is my least favorite holiday. I can never find the right card. I can’t send the “Dad, I can always count on you” ones; I nix “Thanks for everything” and “You’re the greatest.” What the world needs is an alternative card: “Dad, I love you, even though you haven’t been there for me.”