Mom strutted around behind Dad, laced her fingers in front of his soft paunch, and squeezed. Dad turned quickly and scooped Mom up and she laughed, the kids joining her with peals of mock disgust. The girl felt flush on her cheeks and neck, a deep throbbing in her chest. She turned away, confused, the brief spell of wonderment eclipsed by such longing.
The diesel engine started and the wagon lumbered onto the feeder road and disappeared on the horizon. The girl sat and sobbed, overcome by the beauty of what she’d seen and a searing bitterness that she would never know it from the inside. Though it had been just seconds, she despaired to see the family go. She reached in her pocket for the note, the only possession she had ever cared about. Folded in quarters and protected by a sandwich baggie, it gave her a prick of something sweet and tender just from being touched. Though she opened it only rarely, she knew its message by heart and chanted it like the rosary.
Sensing self-pity, she withdrew her hand and scrubbed away the tears with her sleeve. Quit, now. Quit your bawling. A numbness spread from her belly outward, until she felt only a faint buzzing, an airiness more tolerable than the shock of emotion from before. She thumbed her eye sockets until she saw spots and refocused on her plan.
If she could get enough to eat and sock some food away in her backpack, she might just make it to Pecan Hollow. Squatting there, watchful and still, she waited until the customers left and the cashier had gone to the bathroom. She dashed inside, snatched a bag of sunflower seeds and one of pork rinds and stuffed them into her tucked-in shirt. She could hear the lazy stutter of urine and made a run for drinks. An icy lemony soda and a bottle of Coke. When the faucet began to run, she snagged another bag of pork rinds for good measure and headed for the door, high on the promise of a solid meal.
Just then, the animal rumble of a Mustang approached, and the car idled and then stopped. The girl huddled behind the magazine display and peeked out, eyes fixed on the man who got out of the black car. He was unlike anyone she had ever seen, more action hero than man. He was strong and wore clothes meant to be noticed. A tight patterned shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his smooth chest, slim jeans that flared at the bottom and swung when he walked. She marveled at the creamy brown leather of his skin, the molded cut of his muscles, the slick, dark hair that flipped out at the nape of his neck. The foster fathers had been fleshy and sedentary or cigarette-skinny and nervous. This man moved surely, fluidly, like a hunter. The icy crackle of his blue eyes seemed to produce a light of their own.
The doorknob to the bathroom turned and snapped her attention back to escape.
She hustled outside and around the corner, narrowly eluding detection by the cashier. She was in range of the man with the Mustang, whose back was turned only briefly to select his fuel. Flush against the building, she froze and scanned the terrain for others. When she looked back, the man was gone.
She had to move now. Shirt stuffed, drinks in hands, she shuffled toward her spot behind the sign as quietly as she could without crinkling her spoils. As she passed the Mustang, she saw on the dash a white paper fast-food bag, its top folded neatly like that of a fresh order. Her stomach began to grind, and she knew if she had a chance at nabbing it she would have to act fast. The driver’s-side window was two-thirds down. She looked around—still no one—and ran. The handle wouldn’t budge, so she one-armed the drinks, hoisted herself halfway through the window, and grabbed the bag. She could smell the starchy French fries, the beef patty, the tang of mustard. Wriggling back, she clamped the bag tight between her teeth, feet groping for the pavement.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing there?” someone said behind her. The cashier, she thought. She would need to let go of everything and run if she was going to get away. She dropped the drinks and pushed back, the bags of crushed pork rinds and sunflower seeds now slipping out of her shirt, the drive-thru bag still in her mouth. A strong arm belted her waist and lifted her high.
She flailed, kicking and cussing between bared teeth, never letting go of the bag. His grip tightened, and he clutched her close. She writhed and clawed, taking skin and hair. He managed to pin her arms down so that she could only thrash like a fish until at last her strength waned and she stopped, panting and twitchy.
“Everything okay, mister?” an older voice said.
“She’s all right, just a little lost, I think,” said the man, who was holding her like a bundle of loose sticks, and he turned so that she was face-to-face with the cashier. If that was the cashier, then who had caught her? She looked down and determined that the arms around her were those of the Mustang’s owner. Her heart sank as she felt the concrete strength in his grip and realized she might not get out of this. She began to worry about the next placement and hoped to death they just sent her to juvie.
“I’ll make sure she gets home,” the man said, his voice smooth and near.
“Okay, well, I don’t ask questions and I don’t want no trouble,” the cashier said and wiped his forehead with a yellow chamois. “If you’re gonna call the authorities, make sure you do it somewhere else. People don’t like to see cop cars. They’ll just go to the station across the road and keep going there.”
“Understood, sir. Thank you much. I’ll take care of it.”
The cashier, agitated now by his own discourse, went on, “Won’t matter how much I lower my prices, and I do have a bottom line, mind you. My prices are fair but I do have a bottom line. But the minute someone sees trouble they pay a premium to stay out of it—”
“We’d better mosey then, mister,” the man said, marking the end of the conversation with a hard smile.
The cashier finally took his cue and walked away, muttering and dabbing at his neck with the chamois. The action-hero man opened the passenger door and set the girl down. She could run now, but she was too feeble to go very far. If they were sending her back she would like to eat first. She opened the bag, which she had managed to keep between her teeth through it all, but except for a wad of greasy wrapping papers, a fries carton, and a handful of unused condiments, it was empty. Too weak to scream or cry, now mourning the lost bags of rinds and seeds outside the car, she collapsed on the seat. With quivering hands, she attempted to open a packet of mayonnaise.
“Sweetheart,” the man said. “You’re starving.”
She could not even muster the strength to look at him and was so fatigued she took pleasure in not moving for a moment. The man smelled of lemon drops and bread. Even he made her hungry. She closed her eyes. Something touched her lips. A straw.
“Drink, now,” he said.
She sipped. Cherry cola. Caramel sweetness, effervescent and chilled. She sputtered, coughed, and drank again, stronger already as the sugar slid into her bloodstream.
“This’ll hold you until we get you some real food.”
He got in the driver’s seat, keyed the ignition, and squealed into a sharp turn.
“You know, if you were so hungry,” he said, and looked at her like he was trying to figure her out, “all you had to do was ask.”
Chapter Eight