The Divorce Express. I don’t have to board it this weekend because my mother’s on a business trip. It’s the bus that leaves Woodstock on Friday afternoons and returns on Sundays filled with kids who live with one parent in town and visit the other parent in New York City. It’s really public transportation, but because of all the kids, it’s nicknamed the Divorce Express.
Maybe not every place has a bus like it, but I know that there are other ways divorce kids travel to see parents. Planes. Cars. Trains. Subways. Cabs.
The transportation industry would be practically bankrupt if it weren’t for divorce. A presidential candidate could run on the platform that divorce is good for the economy. Make it seem patriotic to have kids, then split up. He or she’d probably win—especially since kids don’t vote.
This is my first weekend in Woodstock since school started and my father, the big game hunter who grew up in The Bronx, a part of New York City that is definitely not country, has just trapped a raccoon.
Not just any raccoon—my pet. At least I think of him that way. He came around a lot at night and even though he didn’t eat out of my hand, he was getting close.
Some people may not think that’s such a big deal, but it was to me. Ninth grade. A new school. All of my friends are back in New York City. I went away to summer camp again, so I didn’t meet new kids here—the all-year-round ones. I’ve been in school a whole week and know no one, except to sort of nod hello. It’s really rough. And I can’t even have a cat or dog because my father’s allergic. The only person I really know here is my father. It’s all so different and kind of lonely. I really looked forward to the nights when the raccoon came around. He was my only friend, and now he’s in a trap.
At least it’s a Havahart trap, so that his whole body is inside, instead of just his paws. My father said he wouldn’t use the other kind, where the paws get trapped and sometimes the animal chews off the paw to get out. But, any trap entraps. It’s so gross, I can’t stand it. I guess I should be thankful that he’s not hurt, but my father is still planning to take him away.
“Phoebe, honey,” my father says, motioning me to come over. “Look at it.”
“He’s got a name,” I snarl. “It’s Rocky. Let him go.”
“Rocky keeps knocking over the garbage even when the lids are tied down. He’s got to go.” My father runs his hand over his head. That’s a nervous habit he’s developed since he’s started going a little bald, like he’s checking to make sure there’s some left.
“Let’s keep the garbage in the house,” I say.
“Collection’s only once a week. It’ll stink.”
Personally I think you stink, I want to say to him, but don’t. Instead, I make another suggestion. “I’ll pick the trash up every morning before school.”
He shakes his head. “No. Last time you did that, you went back into the house and threw up from the smell.”
The raccoon is beating his body against the cage, trying to get out.
“The only reason I threw up was because of the smelly yogurt containers. I’ll wear a clothespin on my nose.” I pick up a twig, refusing to look at my father.
The yogurt containers. I came back from camp to find out that my father’s turned into a health nut—no red meat, almost no processed sugar, no cigarettes. Now our garbage is filled with healthy trash—granola boxes, bean sprout wrappers, mung bean, and tofu leftovers.
My father’s got that look on his face that means no fooling. “Phoebe, I’m taking Rocky over to Charlie in the morning and letting his dog sniff him, get the scent, and release him over there. He’ll get away with a fighting chance.”
I pick the bark from the twig. It’s no use. The dog’ll get Rocky’s scent and then when it’s hunting season, my raccoon will be a goner.
My father comes over and puts his arm around my shoulder.
I duck out from under it.
Rocky’s still throwing his body at the side of the cage.
I think about a line from a poem my English teacher read to us in class last year: “I know why the caged bird sings.” Then I miss New York City. New York, where you just dumped the garbage down the compactor and never thought about it. New York, where my best friend Katie lives. Where Andy, my boyfriend until I moved, still lives.
My father smiles. “Look, honey. The cage is made in Ossining, New York . . . the home of Sing Sing Prison.”
Snapping the twig in half, I fail to see the humor.
He tries again. “Come on, Phoebe, he’s got to go. Remember how he tore a hole in the screen door, got in, and practically destroyed the kitchen?”
It’s dark by now. I can’t see the trap but I can hear the banging noise.
“Tomorrow morning I’ll take Rocky away and you and I will go some place special.” My father tries to pat me on the shoulder.
I move away, throwing the pieces of twig on the ground.
Parents think they can bribe you into anything. Well, it’s not true.
I pick up my flashlight and walk across the lawn, careful not to trip over the newly delivered firewood.
My father follows.
The banging noise continues.
Going in the front door of the house, I walk into the living room and look out the window at the Ashokan Reservoir. It’s one of my favorite views, but tonight even that’s not enough to calm me down. Nothing can.
I go into my bedroom, slam the door, and throw myself on the bed. I stare at the Sierra Club calendar that my father gave me and wonder how he can do this to Rocky if he cares so much about nature.
I’m never going to talk to him again.
There’s knocking at my door. “Phoebe. Let’s talk. Or play Scrabble with me. You know you love to play Scrabble.”
DO NOT DISTURB says the sign that my father and I made up the time we worked out a system to allow each of us privacy. I open the door and put it on the outside knob, careful not to look at my father. Then I go back inside.
He yells, “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to do this. Rocky’s a nuisance.”
So are you, I think.
Finally I hear him go away.
I lie on my bed, on my side, staring at the picture my father painted of me sitting by the pool. He’s so hard to understand. This move has really confused me. I don’t even have a place to go if I run away. My friends in the city don’t have that much room. Anyway their parents would tell on me. My mother would just send me back. She’s too busy looking for perfect antiques for other people’s houses. I could sneak out in the middle of the night and free Rocky, but my father’d never forgive me and I’ve got to live with him. There’s no way to win.
Some days are just awful. This has been one of them.