No, she said.
Got food? the woman asked, and she nodded as she pulled from her pack the last of her supplies: a loaf of white bread, a jar of peanut butter, a pack of cheese, a few tins of sardines, three cheap dry packs of ramen.
Peanut butter! one of the kids said, snatching it up, and the woman smiled at her for the first time. Share your food, you can share our tent, she said.
Thank you, she said. When they sat to eat, one of the little girls came close to her and put a hand on the sole of her foot. When she was little, she’d had the same hunger for touch. She could smell woodsmoke in the girl’s blond hair, something clovelike in her skin.
* * *
—
The big woman was named Jane, and they nursed cups of weak cocoa after the children went to sleep. Jane told her about the husband who had run off, the house she and the kids lost, the jobs she’d been fired from because of her temper. She sighed. Same old story, she said.
She could hear the campsite settling, could smell marijuana over the thick stink of the place; a man was shouting, then his voice suddenly cut off. The house was real nice, Jane said ruefully. Pool and all. My husband always said there’s no such thing as a Florida childhood without a pool. She snorted, and made a gesture toward the children. Now we’re camping.
How long have you been here? the girl asked.
But this was the wrong thing to say, and Jane frowned at her and said, It’s temporary, and stood to clean her cup. We’ll get back to where we were.
Still, when she went to brush her teeth, she noticed Jane watching. Toothpaste, she said. Kids’ve been out for a while. You think tomorrow you can let us borrow some? And she said sure, and Jane smiled again, and by the time the two women went into the tent and curled on either side of the four sprawling children, they were friends again.
* * *
—
In the bright light of the morning, the campsite was steaming with fog: it looked almost innocuous, dreamy. She started up the fire and found the drinking water and began to boil oatmeal for the kids. They came out, one by one. The oldest couldn’t have been more than five, none of them school age. In other tents, other women’s voices rose, other children responded. A small boy ran over, said a shy Hey to Jane’s children, and fled back to his mother.
She understood now that this was the family part of the tent city, that the safety here was safety in numbers, of rules and unspoken militancy against the threat just feet beyond.
Jane poked her head out, smiled, and emerged in a fast-food uniform.
You watch the kids today? she said. The girl who usually watches them got housing a few days ago, and I better not drop them at the library again.
I can read, the oldest girl said. I can, too, the second-oldest said. Sort of, the first said, but kindly.
She looked at the children, a sinking in her stomach. Oh, she said.
Jane’s face was cold again. Listen, she said. Either I work or we never get out of here. Either they stay with you or I drop them off at the library and risk Family Services catching wind and lose them. We got no choice.
Okay, she said. Of course I’ll watch them. And Jane said thanks but looked at her sourly as she untangled the little girls’ hair with a wet comb.
* * *
—
Nights, Jane came back stinking of grease, with bags of burgers and fries that had sat for too long to sell. She soaked her feet in warm water, groaning, and, when the kids were asleep, talked bitterly of her boss. Stupid young lech, she said. Felt up my boobies in the supply room.
The girl nodded, listening, offering little. But Jane seemed to take solace in her quiet presence, treating her like a slow cousin, pitiful but useful.
The kids and she were coming out of the library one afternoon when they saw Jane across the street on a bench.
Uh-oh, the oldest girl said. The youngest buried her head in her brother’s back.
Stay here, she said, and sat the children on a wall in front of the library.
Fired, Jane said, without raising her head. I got a temper. I told you that.
It’s all right, she said, though the ground seemed to buckle under her feet. You’ll get another job.
Jane lifted her head and spat, No, it isn’t all right. It’s so not fucking all right. I put down all our money on a place the other day and was waiting for my pay on Friday to put down the rest.
Jane sighed and passed a hand over her face and said, Go back to the tent. I’ll be in when I’m in.
* * *
—
For supper, she and the kids had tomato soup and cheese sandwiches. She told the children stories filched from the Arabian Nights, and they fell asleep waiting for their mother. She sat by the fire until she ran out of wood and the bodies drifting by in the darkness grew menacing. Then she zipped herself inside the tent, warmed by the breath of the children.
In the morning, Jane’s side of the tent was still empty. She took the children to the graveyard halfway between the tent city and the town. It was their favorite place: calm, neat, and pretty, with great old oaks and rows of plastic flowers that they gathered in their arms and redistributed to the loneliest-looking stones.
At the end of the day, she brought the children to the police department and gave them each a cup of oversweetened tea and a powdered doughnut that she found on a table in the waiting area.
When she asked about Jane, the policewoman barely looked up from her computer. She sucked her lip and typed in Jane’s name and said, Um-hum. Arrested yesterday at about seven. Prostitution.
No, the girl said. The children were out of earshot. She said, That can’t be right.
The policewoman flicked her eyes over her, and the girl could see herself as the woman did—dirty, stringy, smelly, browned to leather, clearly homeless. The policewoman’s mouth settled into its wrinkles. Well, it is, she said, and went back to what she was doing.
The girl summoned the ghost of the almost-professor she’d been and said, enunciating sharply, Officer, please listen to me. I need to have you contact Family Services. These are Jane’s children and I find that I cannot, unfortunately, care for them at this time.
She sat with the children until a tired-looking woman in a black suit hurried in, stopping to talk with the officer at the desk. When the Family Services woman said a bright Hello, the kids looked up from the magazine they’d been studying and watched warily as the woman hoisted her trousers to crouch before them.
The girl stood, her knees wobbly, and backed toward the door.
The day was too bright. Her head rang. She had eaten nothing since the morning. She went back to the tent and slept until dawn. Just before the tent city began to stir, she gathered her things and walked to town, leaving Jane’s tent still up, the children’s belongings tidied into piles and her own sleeping bag in the center in craven apology.
* * *
—
She thought of her mother, what it must be like for her to have a vanished daughter. The police must have found the abandoned station wagon and traced it; someone must have called. Her mother would think of murder or abduction, would wonder what she had done to make her daughter so ungrateful. Maybe, the girl thought with a pulse of spite, fear had finally awakened her mother. Maybe she was scouring the state for her, even now.
* * *
—