The Perfect Place (3 page)

Declined.

“There was money on this a week ago,” Mom says. She takes the card from Tiffany and swipes it again. Declined. She rubs the spot between her eyes. The man behind the deli counter looks up at us and then back down at his magazine. He probably didn't feel like making our sandwiches anyway.

“Come on, let's get something cheaper,” Mom says.

“But I—” Tiffany says.

“I said, come
on.
”

Tiffany stomps her foot. “Daddy always lets me have a sandwich.”

“Well, your father isn't here, is he? Now, let's go.” Mom walks away, her head down and her shoulders hunched.

I follow her. We make it to the racks of chips before I realize that Tiffany is not with us. I turn. She's still standing by the sandwich machine, her hands balled up in fists, her mouth open wide as the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. She lets out a wail that could shatter glass.

Mom runs over to grab her, but Tiffany bends at the waist and pulls back, all the while howling, “I want Daddy!” over and over again, until the words don't sound like words anymore. Not letting go of Tiffany's hand, Mom reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. She hands it to me and says, “Grab something.” Then she picks Tiffany up and carries her out of the store, leaving me behind with eleven dollars in singles and the sandwich guy, who peers at me over the counter, shrugs, and says, “The sandwiches here suck, anyway.”

I buy a big bag of chips, three cans of soda, and some Peanut M&M's. The cashier hands me back $4.27 in change, and as I stare at it nestled in the palm of my hand, panic grabs me by the throat. What if this is all the money we have left?

“Is it all right?” the cashier asks.

No. Nothing about our lives is all right. The cashier points at the change. “Is it all there?”

I nod and leave the store.

W
HEN
I get back to the car, Tiffany is curled up in the back seat. She's not wailing, but she's not done crying, either. Mom is sitting beside her, holding Mr. Teddy Daniels.

“Okay, so, Mr. Teddy D. was walking down the street,” Mom says. “Look, Tiffany, look at him walking.” Tiffany raises her head. Mom makes Mr. Teddy D. hop across the seat. It's all wrong. Only Dad knows how to do it right.

“That's not how he's supposed to walk. He's a bear, not a bunny,” Tiffany says.

“O-kay.” Mom adjusts Teddy's hop to a more suitable walk. “So, he's just walking along when he comes upon this pile of poop.”

“
No.
He's not supposed to
see
the poop,” Tiffany whines. She covers her face with her hands and starts crying all over again. “I. Want. Daddy.”

“All right, Tiffany,” Mom says, stroking her hair, but Tiffany is too far gone to stop now. “It'll be all right, Tiff-Tiff,” Mom says, louder now, her voice laced with panic. It's still no use. Tiffany's wails fill up the car until Mom squeezes her eyes shut and shouts, “Look, Tiffany, we'll find him, all right? We'll find Daddy.”

Tiffany sucks in a deep, shuddery breath. “We will?”

“Yes.”

“How?” I ask.

“I'll figure something out,” Mom says. “Lord knows he's not gonna get away with leaving me like this.” She reaches for the door handle. “Come back here and cheer your sister up. I need to make a phone call.”

I climb into the back and pry Mr. Teddy D. out of Tiffany's death grip.

“So,” I say, “one day Mr. Teddy D. was walking down the street.”

I make him look like he's walking the way Dad does, the tips of his tattered plaid feet skimming the seat. Tiffany watches him, quiet now.

“He was just walking along, whistling. Doo-dee-doo-dee-doo.” I say this last bit in a high-pitched voice because I can't whistle. Tiffany doesn't seem to mind.

“He didn't even see it: a big old brown glob of poop. Doo-dee-doo-dee-doo—whoops! He slipped right in that poop and up he went.
Splat!
”

I make Mr. Teddy D. soar up in the air and land flat on his back. Tiffany sniffles, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She lives for the moment when he falls in that poop.

“Again,” she whispers.

I run through Mr. Teddy Daniels's skit four more times before Tiffany cracks a smile. Not quite a standing ovation, but I'll take it. I climb into the front seat and Tiffany follows, planting herself firmly on the armrest, just as Mom gets into the car. She leans back in her seat and runs her index finger down the part in her hair. I want to ask her who she called and will they help us find Dad, but I don't.

“I'm still hungry,” Tiffany says.

I hand her the bag of snacks and she goes right for the Peanut M&M's and a can of Sprite.

Mom watches her. “Didn't you get anything besides junk?” she asks me.

I shake my head.

“They had fruit cups in that fridge in the far corner.”

“I didn't see them. I can go back in and—”

“It's too late now,” Mom says as Tiffany tears open the M&M's. I reach into my pocket and hand Mom the change.

She doesn't count the money. She just balls it up in her hand.

“Is that it?” I ask.

“Is what it?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

We sit in the parking lot, not talking, the silence heavy and uncomfortable, like a coat I can't shrug off.

“Mom,” I say, but she holds her free hand up, palm out, and says, “Just give me a minute to figure this out.”

In the end it is more than a minute before she mutters, “It's the only way,” and puts on her seat belt. Tiffany climbs into the back and buckles up. I strap myself in next to Mom. Mom dumps the change into the cup holder, turns the car on, and puts in her old-school-jams CD. Billie Holiday fills the car, crooning,
“Baby, won't you please come home”
in a voice like worn leather. We've heard this song a thousand times. Mom taps her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the rhythm, and Tiffany almost drowns Billie out, singing at the top of her voice in falsetto.

Mom puts the car in drive and pulls back out onto the highway. A million questions tug at my mind, but Tiffany is smiling now and we're going to find Dad, just like Mom said. So I sing along with Billie and keep myself from asking Mom how we're going to do that with three-quarters of a tank of gas and four dollars and twenty-seven cents.

I fall asleep on some stretch of highway. When I wake up, the sun is up and we're on a road. A dirt road big enough for only two cars. The clock on the dashboard reads 5:46 a.m. The Explorer rocks us to and fro, rattling the change in Tiffany's Disney Fund. Tiffany sits up sleepily and asks, “Where are we?”

“I'm all turned around,” Mom mutters. She pulls over to the side of the dirt road.

“All turned around where?” I ask, but Mom ignores me.

“If my memory serves me correctly,” she murmurs to herself, “Iron Horse Road is . . .”

Mom throws the car into drive, as if she's suddenly figured something out. She makes a left at the next corner, and for a moment we're on a paved street. Then she turns again, and we're bumping along another dirt road.

“Is this Iron Horse?” she says, peering into the rearview mirror. “I didn't see a street sign or anything. Did you?”

“Who lives here?” I ask. “Is this the country?”

“It's not really
country
country,” Mom says, and slams on the brakes as a woman darts across the road in front of her. The woman's wearing a long flowered housedress and a big sun hat, and carrying a stack of papers.

“Is that lady crazy?” Tiffany asks.

“
Country
crazy,” I answer. “Where are we, Mom?”

“Black Lake, Virginia.”

“And who lives here?”

Mom sets her jaw. “Great-Aunt Grace.”

“
What?
Why are we here?”

“I need money to find your father, don't I? Great-Aunt Grace owns her own store, which means she has money.”

Tiffany pokes her head between our seats. “Is she the lady you make us talk to every Christmas, the one who sounds like a man on the phone?” she asks. “She calls me ‘girl.' My name is Tiffany Onika Daniels, not girl. How would she feel if I called her ‘old lady'?”

“Don't you dare,” Mom says.

As we drive, we pass little boxes. You could call them houses if you were generous with the meaning of the word. They're all one-story and look like something Tiffany would draw. On the other side of the road is nothing but trees, thick and dark. Their leaves and branches throw spiked shadows on the road.

“Here we are,” Mom says as she makes a sharp right. And now we're face-to-face with a green and white two-story house that looks like the victim of a serious beat down, with grubby aluminum siding and a porch screen with more holes than screen. Great-Aunt Grace may as well lay out a welcome mat for the mosquitoes.

The car comes to a halt, and Mom hauls herself out. Then she crosses to open the door on my side. The driveway isn't even paved. We've just pulled up onto the lawn.

“Let's get this over with,” she says.

We stumble out, half blinded by the sun, and the heat hits every square inch of my body. It's humid in Jersey in July too, but this—this is like being on the inside of somebody's mouth.

“Okay,” Mom says, as she crouches down until she's looking up at both of us. She's in full powwow mode. “Listen to me and listen good. Great-Aunt Grace does not tolerate nonsense, so from the minute you enter her house until the day you leave, you need to be on your best behavior and more grateful than you've ever been. Understood?”

“What do you mean, until the day we leave?” I ask.

“Understood?” Mom says again.

No, I don't understand, but Mom is already walking up to the house. She pulls open the screen door, crosses the porch to the front door, and rings the bell. “Get over here,” she calls to us impatiently. Tiffany streaks across the lawn. She's on the porch in no time. I walk like I've got bricks strapped to the soles of my shoes.

Once I've joined them, Mom turns to us again. “When you see her, show her how happy you are to be here.”

I will not show Great-Aunt Grace any such thing. In fact, I won't even look at her. I'm good at that, keeping my eyes on the ground. I will know her crumbling walkway and stairs, her shoes. I won't look up into her face, though, I vow. Not the entire time I'm in her presence.

But I do. Of course I do, the minute we ring the bell and she steps out onto the porch. She is tall and broad-shouldered, with big, thick-fingered hands and feet like stretch limos in black leather sneakers. It's as if God set out to make a mountain, changed his mind, and made a woman instead.

Dad told me how he and Mom went to the jail to pick her up that day eight years ago. They got there with a wad of tens and twenties and told the sheriff's deputy they were there for Grace Washington. He rocked back on his heels and said, “You really ought to leave her here. She's gone and stolen property from one of Black Lake's finest citizens. That woman is Public Enemy Number One.” Dad said he thought about taking the deputy up on his offer, seeing as how Great-Aunt Grace had never liked him, but Mom wouldn't have it.

“Are you sure?” the deputy asked as he counted the money Dad had given him. “The town sure would appreciate it if she stayed here a while longer.”

“We're sure,” Mom snapped.

The deputy shook his head and went off to fetch Public Enemy Number One.

To hear Dad tell it, Great-Aunt Grace came strolling out of lockup with one hand in her pocket and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She was taller than the deputy and almost as tall as Dad, but that didn't stop her from looking Dad over from head to toe. She said, “I see she hasn't left you yet.” Then she looked at me and said, “So this is that little girl you been tellin' me all about, huh, Lisa? Let's pray she grows into that head.”

“Surprise!” Mom shouts now. Great-Aunt Grace doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow and she doesn't say a thing. The silence stretches like a canyon between us, and Mom starts filling it with words.

“So, I probably should've called first, I know, but we're in a bit of a crisis. Darryl left again, and I have absolutely no idea where he went but I'm going to find him except I have no money and two girls to take care of and—here they are!” Mom sounds completely delirious. She nudges Tiffany and me forward. Tiffany, wide awake now and always ready for a close-up, smiles up at Great-Aunt Grace like a fool.

Great-Aunt Grace does not smile back. Instead she takes a pack of cigarettes from her shirt pocket, pulls one out, and lights it. She stares down at us through a cloud of smoke, her eyes sweeping over us like a searchlight. “Gonna be a storm,” she says.

T
HERE
is a storm. Its name is Grace Washington, and she rains down on Mom with questions and judgments in a voice like thunder.

“You lost your mind, Lisa? You could've called first.”

“I know. I'm sorry, but I need help.”

“You sure enough do. Can't just show up on somebody's doorstep at six in the dang mornin' with all this baggage.” Our stuff is still in the Explorer. The baggage Great-Aunt Grace is talking about is Tiffany and me, but why? We're here only till she hands Mom some money.

Great-Aunt Grace shakes her head. “So, that no-'count man left you again, huh?” she says.

“Yes, he did.”

“And you gonna find him?”

Mom nods.

“But you said you ain't got no money, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“And what about these kids?”

Mom says nothing when she should be saying something, so I do the talking for her. “We're going with her. Aren't we, Mom?”

Mom's eyes are on the porch floor. Wood painted white, dirty and scuffed in most places. There is an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts on the table and a plastic wastebasket filled to the brim with trash. Does she really intend to leave us here?