always liked this guy. Maybe
because he's so laid-back, so totally different from my dad. His black
hair is long, pulled back in a tail, and tied with a piece of leather.
And he has several tattoos on his arms.
"Hey, you're all grown up, Ruth," he says as I climb into the
truck. "You're getting to be a real pretty girl too."
"Thanks," I say, feeling self-conscious.
"You know, your mom was a real beauty when she was
younger."
"I know ..."
"So how's she doing anyway?"
"Not so good."
He frowns. "That's pretty much what Caleb said. I don't see why
she doesn't just pack it up and leave Stuart for good. Can't she see
that he's no good for her? He's no good for any of you."
"I think she's kind of stuck. I think we're all kind of stuck."
"At least Caleb had the sense to get away"
"But for how long?" I ask. "I mean, Dad's going to find him
eventually."
"There are people who can help." He turns onto the highway.
"Like social services?" I ask. "I've heard about how lielpful they
can be."
"You never know. I had a girlfriend once who was a social worker
for the state. I know she tried to help people. But it wasn't easy."
I want to change the subject. "Are you still doing your art?"
He nods. "Yep. And music too. My hand has been getting some
pretty good gigs lately"
"I'm into art too."
"Really?" He tosses me a sideways glance. "Cool."
So I tell him a little about the art fair and the kinds of stuff I
really like doing. And he tells me about a mural he's working on.
And suddenly I'm thinking, This feels like family. This feels like what
I've been missing. But my dad has made sure that none of my mom's
relatives ever feel comfortable at our house. Mom used to take Caleb
and me to visit them, without letting my dad know. of course. But
we didn't go nearly as much as we got older. And even less when
Mom started getting "sick."
Uncle Rod turns onto Ferris Road, goes about a mile or so, then
turns onto another road, this one is gravel. I'm actually trying not
to pay too much attention, just in case my dad grills me on where
Caleb is. I don't really want to know how to find this place.
Finally we pull up in front of an old mobile home. The kind that
is long and narrow and pretty cheesy looking. But there's a covered
deck attached to the front and lots of good shade trees around, and
I see a barn and what looks like a couple of paint horses back to one
side of it. In a way, this whole place is kind of sweet looking. Kinda
funky, homey. And I remember now that Grandma Donna always
liked horses. My first memory of her is of her putting me on a pony
and leading me around in a circle. I think the pony's name was Sugar.
"This is it," says Uncle Rod. "Mom's brother, my Uncle Lane,
owns this piece of property. But he's letting her use it for as long as
she wants. Needs sonic work, but it's not too bad."
The inside of the mobile home is shabby but cozy. The furniture is draped in several of the same kind of brightly colored afghan throws that my morn uses, giving the house kind of a carnival feel.
My grandma loves to crochet, and she loves wild color combinations. She used to ask me what colors I would want in one, but at
the time I wasn't too interested. Maybe I am now. Maybe I'll be like
Mom and keep one of Grandma's afghans as a security blanket when
my life totally falls apart.
No one seems to be around. "Hello?" calls Uncle Rod.
"Coming," calls a woman's voice from one end of the long, shadowy house. "Is that you, Rodney?"
"Yeah, and I've brought a visitor."
Her dark eyes grow large when she steps out into the living room
and sees me. "Frances?" Then she stops and sort of laughs when she
realizes it's not her daughter. "Well, of course not. Why, this must be
Ruth!" She hurries straight toward me and hugs me tightly against
her bony self. Then she holds me back by the shoulders and really
looks at my face. "You sure threw me for a loop there, girl. I thought
you were my Frances. You
because he's so laid-back, so totally different from my dad. His black
hair is long, pulled back in a tail, and tied with a piece of leather.
And he has several tattoos on his arms.
"Hey, you're all grown up, Ruth," he says as I climb into the
truck. "You're getting to be a real pretty girl too."
"Thanks," I say, feeling self-conscious.
"You know, your mom was a real beauty when she was
younger."
"I know ..."
"So how's she doing anyway?"
"Not so good."
He frowns. "That's pretty much what Caleb said. I don't see why
she doesn't just pack it up and leave Stuart for good. Can't she see
that he's no good for her? He's no good for any of you."
"I think she's kind of stuck. I think we're all kind of stuck."
"At least Caleb had the sense to get away"
"But for how long?" I ask. "I mean, Dad's going to find him
eventually."
"There are people who can help." He turns onto the highway.
"Like social services?" I ask. "I've heard about how lielpful they
can be."
"You never know. I had a girlfriend once who was a social worker
for the state. I know she tried to help people. But it wasn't easy."
I want to change the subject. "Are you still doing your art?"
He nods. "Yep. And music too. My hand has been getting some
pretty good gigs lately"
"I'm into art too."
"Really?" He tosses me a sideways glance. "Cool."
So I tell him a little about the art fair and the kinds of stuff I
really like doing. And he tells me about a mural he's working on.
And suddenly I'm thinking, This feels like family. This feels like what
I've been missing. But my dad has made sure that none of my mom's
relatives ever feel comfortable at our house. Mom used to take Caleb
and me to visit them, without letting my dad know. of course. But
we didn't go nearly as much as we got older. And even less when
Mom started getting "sick."
Uncle Rod turns onto Ferris Road, goes about a mile or so, then
turns onto another road, this one is gravel. I'm actually trying not
to pay too much attention, just in case my dad grills me on where
Caleb is. I don't really want to know how to find this place.
Finally we pull up in front of an old mobile home. The kind that
is long and narrow and pretty cheesy looking. But there's a covered
deck attached to the front and lots of good shade trees around, and
I see a barn and what looks like a couple of paint horses back to one
side of it. In a way, this whole place is kind of sweet looking. Kinda
funky, homey. And I remember now that Grandma Donna always
liked horses. My first memory of her is of her putting me on a pony
and leading me around in a circle. I think the pony's name was Sugar.
"This is it," says Uncle Rod. "Mom's brother, my Uncle Lane,
owns this piece of property. But he's letting her use it for as long as
she wants. Needs sonic work, but it's not too bad."
The inside of the mobile home is shabby but cozy. The furniture is draped in several of the same kind of brightly colored afghan throws that my morn uses, giving the house kind of a carnival feel.
My grandma loves to crochet, and she loves wild color combinations. She used to ask me what colors I would want in one, but at
the time I wasn't too interested. Maybe I am now. Maybe I'll be like
Mom and keep one of Grandma's afghans as a security blanket when
my life totally falls apart.
No one seems to be around. "Hello?" calls Uncle Rod.
"Coming," calls a woman's voice from one end of the long, shadowy house. "Is that you, Rodney?"
"Yeah, and I've brought a visitor."
Her dark eyes grow large when she steps out into the living room
and sees me. "Frances?" Then she stops and sort of laughs when she
realizes it's not her daughter. "Well, of course not. Why, this must be
Ruth!" She hurries straight toward me and hugs me tightly against
her bony self. Then she holds me back by the shoulders and really
looks at my face. "You sure threw me for a loop there, girl. I thought
you were my Frances. You
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