Cavedweller by Dorothy Allison Page A

honky-tonk twang. Randall had loved it. Cissy hated it.
    Cissy headed for the restaurant. No one stopped her, so she went on into the bathroom and washed her face and hands. That felt so good she pulled down a wad of paper towels and rubbed soap and water up under her T-shirt and down into her shorts. She wanted to take off her clothes and scoop water all over herself, but she was afraid someone would walk in on her. Instead she pulled down more towels and scrubbed herself until her skin burned. She tried to comb her hair out with her fingers, but it was dark and stiff with sweat, so she stuck her head under the faucet until her neck got cold. Then she dried off with the last of the paper towels. In the clouded mirror over the sink, with her hair wet, she looked different—older, almost a teenager, a brunette with big brown eyes and a few freckles. “Honey,” she said to the teenager, then laughed, surprising herself. She sounded like Randall.
    When Cissy came out of the bathroom, the waitress was standing by the open back door near the telephone, smoking a cigarette. She looked Cissy up and down but said nothing. For safety’s safe, Cissy did not try to go past her but cut left and went out the front door. She walked completely around the motel. In the breezeway at the back she found an ice machine, took two handfuls of chips out, and went to sit on the Datsun’s bumper. She sucked ice and watched the day turn brighter and hotter, going back to the machine twice more, until Delia stirred on the front seat.
    Honey. Cissy drawled the word once more around her ice chips. Deliberately she turned her head away from Delia’s sunburned, swollen face. She was not going to speak to her mother. Not today. Maybe not ever. People were going in and out of the restaurant, opening the motel doors and carrying out luggage. They gave Cissy a quick look and then went on. Her hair was drying loose and tangled, and the sun was starting to glare into her eyes. She didn’t have the energy to glare back. She was so hungry she was flat in the middle.
    Cissy had hated the third grade, begged almost every day to stay home, but as she looked around the motel lot, she felt like promising never to miss a day of school again if only Delia would drive them back to California. How could Delia do this to her? Cissy wiped her arm across dry eyes. No one listened to kids. Grown-ups could do what they wanted. Delia could pick up and go anytime she felt like it. Cissy could lie down on the concrete and cry until her bones melted, and no one would care.
    The ice in her mouth was gone. Cissy looked at Delia, who had struggled out of the car and was standing in the sun, blinking like a bird that has just run headlong into a window.
    Delia rubbed her eyes and turned to her daughter. “Come on, let’s get something to eat. You must be starved, honey,” she said, and Cissy cringed.
    Delia got Cissy settled down at the restaurant counter, ordered her a fried egg sandwich and a glass of milk, and went to the washroom to clean herself up. She had to ask for fresh paper towels and did not notice the look the waitress directed at Cissy.
    To spite Delia, Cissy wanted to ignore the food, but was not able to stop herself from devouring every bite, including the pickled red apple on the side of the plate. She could have eaten more, but she wouldn’t ask. She looked around at all the people eating their breakfast and reading their morning papers. The men had tired faces under pushed-down caps with sun bills peaked over their eyes. All the women seemed to wear their hair pinned up with little colored barrettes.
    Delia came back with her hair combed and a fresh blouse brightening her face. She signaled the waitress and asked for a doughnut and a cup of coffee, counting out quarters and dimes to make a good tip.
    “Long trip?” the waitress asked when she returned.
    Delia smiled. “Too long.” The doughnut had cinnamon sprinkled across the top, her favorite. She ate