PAM HELD HER BREATH AND WATCHED THE CRUISER.
On the seat beside her Anna knocked the soles of her shoes together. They were on the wrong feet. Rick had put Anna’s shoes on the wrong feet.
Pam gave a shaking, irritated breath and unbuckled them. Anna fussed. They’re on the wrong feet, Pam snapped. She switched them. She buckled one and tried to buckle the other. Anna slapped at Pam’s hands. She’d do it herself, she said.
Outside, Rick raved and swatted.
Pam yelled to Harley. He needed to do something. He needed to get Rick to drop the gun. Tell him to drop his weapon.
Rick asked what Harley was. He asked who she was talking to.
Harley’s eyes shot over but didn’t find hers through the windshield glass.
Couldn’t Harley just wing him? Just wing him so he dropped the gun? Rick’s finger was laced around one of the gun’s two triggers. Probably only because he didn’t know the difference between a trigger and a guard, but that finger should’ve been enough reason to wing him—standing out there, ranting like a lunatic about hambones.
What’s Daddy doing out there? Anna wanted to know. She knocked the sandals together with a steady pat.
Out there. He was standing out there.
The truck was still running. Pam leaned past Anna to see the gas gauge. About a quarter-tank. A quarter-tank was enough. It was enough to get away from here.
She kept her eyes on Rick but pivoted to pluck Anna up by the armpits, to pull Anna over her lap and switch sides. Anna fussed. Of course she did. She was exhausted. And when it came right down to it, she also didn’t like Pam much. Which was fair. Pam hadn’t given her much reason to. There was no rule a kid had to like her parents or vice versa. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things.
In the grand scheme of things, you took care of them until they took care of themselves. You kept them alive and taught them to keep themselves alive. Pam had managed that so far. Despite not being cut out for it, despite knowing that and swallowing it whole every day of her life, Pam had managed. That was the best she’d ever do. Manage. That was all she had in her for this.
Babe was right. Pam made her own bed. And she was right Pam didn’t deserve better. But deserve didn’t seem to factor into a goddamn thing. Not that Pam had seen. What mattered was she could have it for a while. Better. Anna could, too.
“You like Grandma Babe, Grandpa Red,” she said to Anna. Anna nodded, not like she understood, more like she was dropping and raising her head to the beat of her shoes. She looked blank and tired. She said their names, repeated them.
In the pickup’s headlights, Pam watched Rick’s dirt-streaked back and sweat-soaked pits. He held the gun high, like he was giving up, giving in.
She asked Anna if she’d like to stay with them awhile. Grandma Babe, Grandpa Red.
Anna knocked her soles together. When the question registered, she said she supposed. It was a grown-up word, supposed. But then Anna was a tiny, jaded old woman these days. She and Babe would get along fine.
The yard was quiet.
Rick called out for his mom. The way he said it sounded like a boy. A sad little boy. The sound of him made Pam’s eyes fog.
Harley called Rick’s name but didn’t move. He peeked from the cruiser. She studied his expression. He didn’t look scared. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look intense. That look was reluctant at best. Like he was seeing a wounded animal. One that needed put down but he couldn’t steel himself to drop.
Rick had been a wounded animal as long as she’d known him. One whose skin never cooled, one whose eyes never glazed. One who lay there splayed out and looked up at her, needing.
Pam scooched over the hump into the driver’s seat. She gripped the wheel. She dropped the gearshift into reverse but kept her foot on the brake.
Rick’s arms were sinking. Slowly. “Harley,” she called out again, voice thick but breaking.
The gun sank. The butt rested on Rick’s hip. The barrel aimed up and out at the sky like it had when he’d surfaced from the darkness of the trailer. Like it had when they’d walked to the truck and the metal brushed the thin hairs of her arms.
Rick turned to face her. He searched for her through the windshield glass. She still gripped the gearshift.
“Who’s Harley, Pam?” he said, barely loud enough to hear over the engine.