in the darkness of the backpack.
“Neither has Joe,” I say.
I didn’t know I was going to say that. My voice keeps coming out and saying things on its own. Tom’s hand keeps stroking my hair. The May sun beats down. It’s dark with my eyes shut tight and my face buried in my backpack and my arms imprisoning my knees.
“Not once,” I say. “Not even one single time has Joe Miller been to see Ivy.”
“I know,” Tom says. “I know he hasn’t.”
“First my mother, and now Joe,” I say. “What the hell is wrong with them? Don’t they care about her? Don’t they
love
her?”
More things I didn’t know I was going to say. Tom’s hand keeps stroking.
“It’s tearing Joe up,” he said. “He can’t talk about it.”
William T.’s pickup is coming down Thompson Road. His pickup has an unmistakable this-is-William-T.’s-pickup sound. Half a mile away it can be heard. I keep my head in my backpack. Tom’s hand disappears.
“Younger!”
The engine dies and William T.’s door opens with its William-T.’s-truck-door sound. He and Tom talk over my head.
“She all right?”
“She’s okay.”
I feel William T. kneeling next to me. His hand on my shoulder, so different from Tom’s palm on my hair.
“Younger,” he says. “Younger.”
Open your eyes, Rose. Lift your head from the backpack.
Ouch. The May sky is too bright. The little new leaves on the trees are too green. William T.’s eyes are bright and swimmy. Tears.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Younger. The truck’s out of oil and I stopped at Agway to buy a quart but they were closed and then I saw I was late so I came on down anyway and here I am. Late. And the goddamned engine’s about to seize up for all I know.”
Tears slide out of his eyes down his rough cheeks.
“Gray’s is open,” Tom says. “Should be, anyway.”
William T.’s hand on my shoulder is heavy.
“You want to head down to Utica, Younger? We could stop at Gray’s first. But we don’t have to. Go to Utica, that is. Not if you’re not up to it.”
If we don’t head down to Utica, who will visit Ivy? I look at William T.
“Angel can take care of her for an afternoon,” he whispers. He can read my thoughts. “Elder’ll be all right until tomorrow.”
I’m tired. So tired. But no. Ivy is waiting. We are already late.
I’m sorry, Ivy. Sorry for being late. William T.’s truck is out of oil.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“Okay,” William T. says. “To Utica we go, then, with a stop at Gray’s for an oil change first. The truck’s nine thousand miles overdue.”
William T. nods at Tom, and Tom starts walking backward in the direction of the school parking lot. He flips his hand up in a wave to William T. and then turns around and jogs away. Into William T.’s truck I climb. Tired. Straight past my house we drive, and straight up William T.’s hill, and then a left onto Fuller Road, and all the way to Remsen we don’t say a word. Once in a while William T. reaches over and puts his hand on my shoulder, then takes it off to steer around a curve. Lots of curves, here in the Adirondacks.
Joe Miller stands behind the counter at Gray’s, sorting through scrawled-on pieces of paper all stamped Gray’s Automotive, Remsen, New York.
“I used to change the goddamned oil myself, Joe,” William T. says. “Now I say the hell with it.”
He fishes a quarter out of his pocket and slaps it into my hand.
“Now I let you Millers do it for me. Splurge in my old age.”
Into the restroom he goes. Joe stands behind the counter, sorting. One spike for the white scraps of paper, one spike for the yellow, the trash basket for the rest. His hair hangs down to his shoulders, and he swipes it back with a greasy hand. Dark hair, wavy. Not sun-streaked yet, the way it gets when the summer sun beats down upon his head.
Would I give up my hair, to get my sister back? Of course. My skull would tan in the summer and be egg-white in the winter. I would wear hats three
“Neither has Joe,” I say.
I didn’t know I was going to say that. My voice keeps coming out and saying things on its own. Tom’s hand keeps stroking my hair. The May sun beats down. It’s dark with my eyes shut tight and my face buried in my backpack and my arms imprisoning my knees.
“Not once,” I say. “Not even one single time has Joe Miller been to see Ivy.”
“I know,” Tom says. “I know he hasn’t.”
“First my mother, and now Joe,” I say. “What the hell is wrong with them? Don’t they care about her? Don’t they
love
her?”
More things I didn’t know I was going to say. Tom’s hand keeps stroking.
“It’s tearing Joe up,” he said. “He can’t talk about it.”
William T.’s pickup is coming down Thompson Road. His pickup has an unmistakable this-is-William-T.’s-pickup sound. Half a mile away it can be heard. I keep my head in my backpack. Tom’s hand disappears.
“Younger!”
The engine dies and William T.’s door opens with its William-T.’s-truck-door sound. He and Tom talk over my head.
“She all right?”
“She’s okay.”
I feel William T. kneeling next to me. His hand on my shoulder, so different from Tom’s palm on my hair.
“Younger,” he says. “Younger.”
Open your eyes, Rose. Lift your head from the backpack.
Ouch. The May sky is too bright. The little new leaves on the trees are too green. William T.’s eyes are bright and swimmy. Tears.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Younger. The truck’s out of oil and I stopped at Agway to buy a quart but they were closed and then I saw I was late so I came on down anyway and here I am. Late. And the goddamned engine’s about to seize up for all I know.”
Tears slide out of his eyes down his rough cheeks.
“Gray’s is open,” Tom says. “Should be, anyway.”
William T.’s hand on my shoulder is heavy.
“You want to head down to Utica, Younger? We could stop at Gray’s first. But we don’t have to. Go to Utica, that is. Not if you’re not up to it.”
If we don’t head down to Utica, who will visit Ivy? I look at William T.
“Angel can take care of her for an afternoon,” he whispers. He can read my thoughts. “Elder’ll be all right until tomorrow.”
I’m tired. So tired. But no. Ivy is waiting. We are already late.
I’m sorry, Ivy. Sorry for being late. William T.’s truck is out of oil.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“Okay,” William T. says. “To Utica we go, then, with a stop at Gray’s for an oil change first. The truck’s nine thousand miles overdue.”
William T. nods at Tom, and Tom starts walking backward in the direction of the school parking lot. He flips his hand up in a wave to William T. and then turns around and jogs away. Into William T.’s truck I climb. Tired. Straight past my house we drive, and straight up William T.’s hill, and then a left onto Fuller Road, and all the way to Remsen we don’t say a word. Once in a while William T. reaches over and puts his hand on my shoulder, then takes it off to steer around a curve. Lots of curves, here in the Adirondacks.
Joe Miller stands behind the counter at Gray’s, sorting through scrawled-on pieces of paper all stamped Gray’s Automotive, Remsen, New York.
“I used to change the goddamned oil myself, Joe,” William T. says. “Now I say the hell with it.”
He fishes a quarter out of his pocket and slaps it into my hand.
“Now I let you Millers do it for me. Splurge in my old age.”
Into the restroom he goes. Joe stands behind the counter, sorting. One spike for the white scraps of paper, one spike for the yellow, the trash basket for the rest. His hair hangs down to his shoulders, and he swipes it back with a greasy hand. Dark hair, wavy. Not sun-streaked yet, the way it gets when the summer sun beats down upon his head.
Would I give up my hair, to get my sister back? Of course. My skull would tan in the summer and be egg-white in the winter. I would wear hats three
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