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When I get home, Mom is working in the kitchen. Mitch is out in the shed, rebuilding the carburetor for the lawnmower. “Hi,” Mom says as I walk into the smells that are radiating from the heated oven. “Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes. Go wash up.” I tell her that it smells good and head toward the bathroom, feeling more than a little like Dorothy dropping into Oz.
We share a family dinner of pot roast with carrots and baby potatoes. This is my mom’s best meal. She brings it out when she is trying to fit the part.
I manage to put Dylan out of my mind, watching the show unfolding around me. They share a bottle of wine, my mother’s “good girl” drink, and I have milk. By the end of the meal, the mists of illusion are still thick, and I wonder when reality will start to settle back in and the fairy folk will return to their island. After dinner, I help with the dishes while Mitch goes to take a shower. They’re going to a movie this evening, a proper date. Mom hums softly while we put things away and I wipe the table.
It was nice, in a surreal sort of way. It was an event. After they leave, I settle down in my room to study for my algebra exam. I’ve just begun when the phone rings. “Hello.”
“Hello, is Alison in?” a man’s voice says to me over the wire.
“This is she.”
“Alison, hi, this is Rob Cartwright.” It takes me a second to figure out who he is, but then it hits me: it’s Faye’s Rob.
“Well, hi.” Then I tell him my mom’s not in, forgetting that he had just asked specifically for me.
“No, no, I’m calling for you. I don’t know if this would be something you’re interested in, but my boss is looking for some help this summer, and I thought you’d be perfect. You’re mom told us you were wanting to get a summer job.”
Which I am, since next year, I’ll get to do driver’s ed and would love to get a car. I wonder when she would have said that, though, and why. I’ve never said anything of the kind to her. Maybe she meant she was looking for a summer job, now that she is unemployed again.
“I am. What’s the job?”
“Well, I work over there at Billups Hardware, and it’d mostly be for filing, but sometimes helping with customers and that sort of thing. It wouldn’t be many hours, but it’d be some spending money. Well, anyway. I just thought of you and thought you might like to stop by and talk to old man Billups and see what it’s all about.”
I am excited. A job is money, and money is freedom.
“Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate you thinking of me.” It seems like a genuine kindness, and those are so rare that I hope there isn’t something hiding beneath the surface
***
When Mom and Mitch come home from the movie, there is laughter. I am already in bed, I made sure to be in bed, just in case it hadn’t gone well, but I can hear them, bursting through the door and spilling into the living room, bumping into each other. I wonder if they made the movie or just stopped off at the bar instead. I slip out from under the covers and crack the door, just enough to see down the hall. I can see them, my mother’s smiling face, that pretty face, leaning close to his, his arm around her waist. She is still young. Too young for me to be so old, as she often reminds me. When the front door falls shut, they are enveloped in darkness, and I close my door, still listening. I hear their voices traveling down the hall to their room at the other end of the trailer. Once their bedroom door closes, I can no longer understand their words and climb back into bed, listening to the low murmur of their voices, broken occasionally by laughter, until silence falls. I think the bar won—a good drinking night—but I am not sure.
My mind hums with thoughts of a job. A job means less time in the house and more money. More money means more freedom, and if I can manage to save enough for a car next year, I will be so much closer to not being stuck here. Tomorrow I will go by Billups Hardware and talk to Mr. Billups. I try to think of what I should say to convince him that I can do that job. I’m sixteen, so Mom won’t have to sign anything for me to work, but she may still tell me no. Surely she won’t refuse. My mind hiccups on that. She might, depending on her mood and blood-alcohol content. She won’t like it, although she might like it if she thinks she can get the money off me. I rub my hands over my eyes and know that she will try to get the money off me. It will be better if she doesn’t know. I’ll just not mention the job at all.