Mary Wolf by Cynthia D. Grant Page A

would’ve found another job. But he just, he didn’t—Please don’t cry, Mama. Please don’t cry.”
    â€œOh, Mary,” she sighed, leaning her head against my shoulder, “I wish we could go home.”
    We could leave right now. I’d drive all night, heading toward the dawn and our family in Nebraska. But between us is the country of my father’s pride. He’ll never go back in disgrace. He’d rather die.
    â€œIt’s all right, Mama.” I patted her shoulder. “Everything will be all right.”
    I like driving, riding up front alone. I feel powerful, sitting up so high, looking down at the cars whizzing by on the road. The sun keeps snagging on the crack in the windshield, shooting tiny sparks into my eyes.
    I grind out my cigarette and turn on the dashboard fan. Why did I start smoking? I keep hoping it will make me feel less tense, but it’s just one more thing that makes no sense.
    I turn down k.d. lang and push open the screen that separates me from the family.
    â€œWe’ve got to make a decision here soon. Which way do you want to go?”
    I’ve interrupted Daddy at his crossword puzzle. He frowns in the rearview mirror. “I thought we were going to the coast,” he says.
    â€œWhy? There’s no work there.”
    â€œYou let me worry about that.”
    â€œI’m talking about myself. I want to get another job.”
    There’s something my parents don’t know about me. I earned more money than I told them about, hiding it in my guitar case; saving it for something, I don’t know what. An emergency. A bus ticket.
    How could I think of leaving them? It makes me feel like a traitor.
    â€œI don’t want you working anymore,” Daddy says. “Mama needs your help at home.”
    â€œBut we need the money. I can help with groceries.”
    â€œI don’t expect my children to support me. Not until my old age, and I’ve still got a few good years left.” Daddy’s mouth is smiling but his eyes are cold. “You just worry about doing well in school.”
    â€œThere aren’t too many schools on the coast. We’d be better off going to the city.”
    â€œI’d rather go to the beach,” Mama says mildly. She’s knitting a cap for Andy’s bald head.
    â€œMama, we’re not on vacation,” I say.
    â€œWe’re not?” Daddy looks surprised. “Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
    He and Mama and the girls giggle, except for Danielle, who stares out the window.
    â€œI think we ought to head over to San Francisco or Oakland,” I say. “There’s lots more going on over there, and we can always find a place for the RV.”
    â€œNo,” Daddy says. “No more big cities. There’s too much crime. And all those people on the street.”
    â€œHomeless people, you mean. Like us.”
    â€œThey’re not like us! What’s the matter with you?” Daddy throws down his puzzle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. You’re acting like some bratty teenager. I won’t put up with that attitude. Do you hear me, Mary? As far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as teenagers. Not in this RV. You’re either a child or an adult.”
    Wondering which one that makes me, I take the Highway 1 exit toward the coast.

Seven
    We camped on the coast near the town of Mendocino, which was full of beautiful Victorian houses converted into inns and shops. Mama loved it there. We spent one whole morning browsing. Daddy bought Mama a pretty scarf, and a handmade candle in the shape of a whale. Mama let the girls pick out something in the toy store. Erica and Polly got baby dolls. Danielle chose a Chinese kite. In the bookstore Mama offered to buy me a book about the lives of women rock stars. I said no, it cost too much. She surprised me with it at lunch.
    The café was downtown, overlooking the