and ran back into the house. This gave my father the opportunity to expel more angry air. She returned a few long silent minutes later with the laundry basket piled high, wet and dry clothes mixed together. We all turned to watch as she shoved the basket in through the small side door of the trailer. Then she climbed into her place on the front bench seat of the station wagon.
My father drove in silence. He took the turns too hard so the trailer careened dangerously around the corners. We were quiet, held in the tension of his anger. Like being jinxed. Until he said the word, we could not speak.
Sara and I began a surreptitious game of rock, paper, scissors across Amy’s lap in the back seat. We foreshortened and controlled our movements, keeping our arms below the seat so my father wouldn’t catch sight of us in the rearview mirror having fun. I squinted and watched Sara’s eyes on each round, trying to read her mind. Sometimes, just often enough to feed my faith, it worked. Amy, not yet three, followed the steady motions of our hands with her eyes. Sara and I kept score with the fingers of our free hands. Win or lose, we kept a tight silence.
By the time we got on the Bay Bridge, my father’s anger had begun to dissipate. He tried grudgingly to win back our favor. “OK, you turkeys, what did you forget?” he asked. “Everybody got their swimsuits? Blankies? Dolls?” My stomach clenched as I remembered Big Baby sitting on my bed, where I had left her when the cooler crashed.
“Big Baby,” I whispered, mostly to my mother. There was no place to turn around on the Bay Bridge. I knew this. My mother turned to look at me, to judge my level of despair. Then she turned towards my father. “Russ?” she said, testing the waters.
“We’re not going back.” He steeled himself against the shivering wave of sympathy that moved between the four of us, fearing it would swamp the car, reverse our momentum, stop the trailer, turn this whole trip around.
My mother looked back at me again, her eyebrows locked down in concern. I knew that if it were up to her, we’d go back. I hoped she would fight for me.
She said, more slowly now, trying to sound sensible, “Russ, couldn’t we just turn around at Treasure Island and go back real fast?” Then, after a pause, “It’s three months.”
“Sally, we’re not going back for a doll—for Christ’s sake. It’s quarter to four. If we go back now we’re on this bridge until seven o’clock.”
She shot him an angry look, then sat back in her seat. I willed her to speak again, but I knew she’d given up.
Amy flashed a sympathetic look in my direction. A few minutes later my mother turned to me. “Well, pumpkin,” she said, “we can buy you another doll in Oregon.”
I began to cry. My mother reached back over the seat to pat my hand. I pulled away from her and turned into the door on my side. I would rather cry all the way across America than get another doll. I’d take misery and loyalty over betrayal every time. It was something I already knew about myself.
I leaned on my arms against the window, trying to count the silver rails of the bridge as they flashed by, trying to imagine how long three months was. I cried quietly so as not to rouse my father. I wanted to be able to measure out the days, bit-by-bit, moment-by-moment, so I could know how to survive them. But I couldn’t. The silver rails on the bridge blurred together. There was nothing to hold on to. Three months was too big.
Somewhere out there, out past Vacaville, Sara tapped my knee and we began again, silently swinging our fists in time. The words echoed only in our heads. Row, sham, bow. Rock, paper, scissors .
Chapter Four
IN THE FRONT SEAT of the station wagon, my mother sat Indian- style, with Pearl S. Buck’s New Living Bible spread open on her lap. She read in a clear rhythmic voice, “Take your son Isaac, your only son, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah.”
My father drove
My father drove in silence. He took the turns too hard so the trailer careened dangerously around the corners. We were quiet, held in the tension of his anger. Like being jinxed. Until he said the word, we could not speak.
Sara and I began a surreptitious game of rock, paper, scissors across Amy’s lap in the back seat. We foreshortened and controlled our movements, keeping our arms below the seat so my father wouldn’t catch sight of us in the rearview mirror having fun. I squinted and watched Sara’s eyes on each round, trying to read her mind. Sometimes, just often enough to feed my faith, it worked. Amy, not yet three, followed the steady motions of our hands with her eyes. Sara and I kept score with the fingers of our free hands. Win or lose, we kept a tight silence.
By the time we got on the Bay Bridge, my father’s anger had begun to dissipate. He tried grudgingly to win back our favor. “OK, you turkeys, what did you forget?” he asked. “Everybody got their swimsuits? Blankies? Dolls?” My stomach clenched as I remembered Big Baby sitting on my bed, where I had left her when the cooler crashed.
“Big Baby,” I whispered, mostly to my mother. There was no place to turn around on the Bay Bridge. I knew this. My mother turned to look at me, to judge my level of despair. Then she turned towards my father. “Russ?” she said, testing the waters.
“We’re not going back.” He steeled himself against the shivering wave of sympathy that moved between the four of us, fearing it would swamp the car, reverse our momentum, stop the trailer, turn this whole trip around.
My mother looked back at me again, her eyebrows locked down in concern. I knew that if it were up to her, we’d go back. I hoped she would fight for me.
She said, more slowly now, trying to sound sensible, “Russ, couldn’t we just turn around at Treasure Island and go back real fast?” Then, after a pause, “It’s three months.”
“Sally, we’re not going back for a doll—for Christ’s sake. It’s quarter to four. If we go back now we’re on this bridge until seven o’clock.”
She shot him an angry look, then sat back in her seat. I willed her to speak again, but I knew she’d given up.
Amy flashed a sympathetic look in my direction. A few minutes later my mother turned to me. “Well, pumpkin,” she said, “we can buy you another doll in Oregon.”
I began to cry. My mother reached back over the seat to pat my hand. I pulled away from her and turned into the door on my side. I would rather cry all the way across America than get another doll. I’d take misery and loyalty over betrayal every time. It was something I already knew about myself.
I leaned on my arms against the window, trying to count the silver rails of the bridge as they flashed by, trying to imagine how long three months was. I cried quietly so as not to rouse my father. I wanted to be able to measure out the days, bit-by-bit, moment-by-moment, so I could know how to survive them. But I couldn’t. The silver rails on the bridge blurred together. There was nothing to hold on to. Three months was too big.
Somewhere out there, out past Vacaville, Sara tapped my knee and we began again, silently swinging our fists in time. The words echoed only in our heads. Row, sham, bow. Rock, paper, scissors .
Chapter Four
IN THE FRONT SEAT of the station wagon, my mother sat Indian- style, with Pearl S. Buck’s New Living Bible spread open on her lap. She read in a clear rhythmic voice, “Take your son Isaac, your only son, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah.”
My father drove
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