cars getting on and off the interstate somewhere behind the houses.
At last, Olivia reached Strawberry Field Lane. Number fifteen was painted the color of rust. On the front door hung a scarecrow dressed like Uncle Sam. A dog paced the length of a chain-link fence in the backyard. It was one of those dogs that eat children, a Rottweiler or Doberman. Olivia sat sweating in her car across the street, watching the house, the dog, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing there. Finally, she unstuck her legs from the seat and walked to the front door of number fifteen, where, up-close, Uncle Sam looked like a hanged man. She could hear the drone of a television inside, the laughter of a studio audience.
Olivia knocked.
The woman who answered looked remarkably like Ruby, younger than Olivia. An older sister maybe, dressed in a nurse’s uniform with a name tag that read DENISE. She didn’t open the door very wide, just enough to get a good view of Olivia. The smell of fried food hit Olivia and made her swoon.
“We don’t want anything,” Denise said in a tired voice. “And we don’t want to give anything.”
“No!” Olivia said too loudly and too fast. She was afraid the woman would close the door and that would be that.
“What? Lost cat? Dead dog?” Her voice told Olivia she had heard it all.
“I wanted to talk to someone about Ruby?” Olivia said.
The woman glanced over her shoulder, and Olivia followed her backward stare. Two pajamaed boys watched television. The room was small and square, like the house itself, the blinds drawn, the room cluttered with plaid furniture and some sort of oversized reclining chair and tables stacked with magazines and newspapers. Before Olivia could take more in, the woman was outside, too, the door firmly shut behind her.
“I don’t want to wake up Bobby,” she said. “If he knows I’m even talking about her, he’ll go nuts.” She took a big preparatory breath. “She okay?”
Olivia nodded.
The woman sighed, relieved. Out here in the bright light, Olivia saw that she was older. Her face was ruddy, full of tired lines caked with makeup. Her eyes were a pretty shade of blue, but flat, and the bright blue lines she’d penciled in beneath them gave her a clownish appearance. There were thick clumps of mascara on her lashes, and her hair was overpermed, overcolored. Olivia took in all of this. She tried to imagine the girl here, moving about the tiny house with her big belly and her dreamy eyes.
“I work the eleven to seven today,” Denise was saying. She pointed at the Timex on her plump wrist.
Olivia nodded again. The woman did not want to waste time. Neither did Olivia.
“You’re her mother?” she asked.
“I hate to say yes, because who knows what trouble she’s in now. But yes.”
“When did you see her last?” Olivia asked, choosing her words carefully. All right, she thought, the girl is a real troublemaker. A bad seed. That really didn’t surprise her. The mother surprised her. But Olivia tried to get past that, to find out what exactly the mother knew, what she was willing to relinquish here.
“The day I walked into her room and saw that little bulging gut and knew she got herself knocked up, I said, ‘Get out here and talk to Bobby and me about that bun you got in your oven, and don’t be denying it.’ And she came out and started running off at the mouth about love and Ben and everything we didn’t know about everything. But you see, lady—”
“Olivia.”
“Olivia. Pretty name.”
Somehow, the way the woman said her name made Olivia want to jump into a hot bath.
“You see, Olivia,” Denise said, rolling all of Olivia’s vowels around her mouth, “I was there myself. All in love with Ruby’s father. Sixteen years old and stupid as a stone. My head was all full of love and sex and fairy tales. Then he left and I was stuck with a kid. Don’t get me wrong—I love her, but I didn’t know my ass from my elbow. We didn’t
At last, Olivia reached Strawberry Field Lane. Number fifteen was painted the color of rust. On the front door hung a scarecrow dressed like Uncle Sam. A dog paced the length of a chain-link fence in the backyard. It was one of those dogs that eat children, a Rottweiler or Doberman. Olivia sat sweating in her car across the street, watching the house, the dog, trying to figure out what the hell she was doing there. Finally, she unstuck her legs from the seat and walked to the front door of number fifteen, where, up-close, Uncle Sam looked like a hanged man. She could hear the drone of a television inside, the laughter of a studio audience.
Olivia knocked.
The woman who answered looked remarkably like Ruby, younger than Olivia. An older sister maybe, dressed in a nurse’s uniform with a name tag that read DENISE. She didn’t open the door very wide, just enough to get a good view of Olivia. The smell of fried food hit Olivia and made her swoon.
“We don’t want anything,” Denise said in a tired voice. “And we don’t want to give anything.”
“No!” Olivia said too loudly and too fast. She was afraid the woman would close the door and that would be that.
“What? Lost cat? Dead dog?” Her voice told Olivia she had heard it all.
“I wanted to talk to someone about Ruby?” Olivia said.
The woman glanced over her shoulder, and Olivia followed her backward stare. Two pajamaed boys watched television. The room was small and square, like the house itself, the blinds drawn, the room cluttered with plaid furniture and some sort of oversized reclining chair and tables stacked with magazines and newspapers. Before Olivia could take more in, the woman was outside, too, the door firmly shut behind her.
“I don’t want to wake up Bobby,” she said. “If he knows I’m even talking about her, he’ll go nuts.” She took a big preparatory breath. “She okay?”
Olivia nodded.
The woman sighed, relieved. Out here in the bright light, Olivia saw that she was older. Her face was ruddy, full of tired lines caked with makeup. Her eyes were a pretty shade of blue, but flat, and the bright blue lines she’d penciled in beneath them gave her a clownish appearance. There were thick clumps of mascara on her lashes, and her hair was overpermed, overcolored. Olivia took in all of this. She tried to imagine the girl here, moving about the tiny house with her big belly and her dreamy eyes.
“I work the eleven to seven today,” Denise was saying. She pointed at the Timex on her plump wrist.
Olivia nodded again. The woman did not want to waste time. Neither did Olivia.
“You’re her mother?” she asked.
“I hate to say yes, because who knows what trouble she’s in now. But yes.”
“When did you see her last?” Olivia asked, choosing her words carefully. All right, she thought, the girl is a real troublemaker. A bad seed. That really didn’t surprise her. The mother surprised her. But Olivia tried to get past that, to find out what exactly the mother knew, what she was willing to relinquish here.
“The day I walked into her room and saw that little bulging gut and knew she got herself knocked up, I said, ‘Get out here and talk to Bobby and me about that bun you got in your oven, and don’t be denying it.’ And she came out and started running off at the mouth about love and Ben and everything we didn’t know about everything. But you see, lady—”
“Olivia.”
“Olivia. Pretty name.”
Somehow, the way the woman said her name made Olivia want to jump into a hot bath.
“You see, Olivia,” Denise said, rolling all of Olivia’s vowels around her mouth, “I was there myself. All in love with Ruby’s father. Sixteen years old and stupid as a stone. My head was all full of love and sex and fairy tales. Then he left and I was stuck with a kid. Don’t get me wrong—I love her, but I didn’t know my ass from my elbow. We didn’t
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