“Spell out your goddamn name, girl,” Kit said, crumpling the paper in her hand. Even the handwriting—hard strokes of sloppy print—had a bad attitude. Kit wondered where Charlie would have gone. She didn’t have any friends, really. Charlie was too headstrong, wouldn’t share, and took her feelings out on others. She could make friends sometimes, but she could not keep them.
Kit thought about the people she’d seen Charlie with lately, and then remembered the look on that Jim Dirkin’s face when Charlie was flirting with him at Doc’s. An uneasy chill crept over her. He was far too old, seventeen, eighteen maybe. And he had a past. She had played dumb with Charlie but had known exactly who he was. Two years ago, Dirk had been dropping acid with some friends behind the Truxtop and one of them had freaked out and run for a quarter mile down the interstate until she got run over by a dozy trucker. She had lived, but barely, and had a feeding tube, and her family had to move to Houston to be near the hospital. Since he had given her the drugs, her parents blamed him.
Kit had about five different reasons to kick some ass tonight, but she only needed one.
The Orchard Trailer Community housed fifty-odd trailers on twenty-five acres of mushy clay. Kit nearly sank her back wheels in a patch of deep mud and just barely finessed her way out. She left her truck at the chain fence entrance and let herself in.
A man in a fake lizard cowboy hat stopped her. “What are you doing here, miss?” he said.
Kit considered whether to blow him off or make nice. Though it pained her, she figured things would go more quickly if she tried the latter.
“I’m here to fetch my daughter, Charlotte. I think she’s over at Mrs. Dirkin’s place.”
The man seemed bothered but pointed to the other end of the park. “Corner trailer, back row.” Kit nodded in thanks and moved quickly.
She barged into the double-wide, using far too much force to pull open the flimsy screen door, causing it to smack the outside of the trailer. Dirk’s mother was frying sausage patties at the kitchenette stove, a cigarette between her teeth and spiky curlers in her hair.
“Where’s my daughter?” Kit said.
“Get out of my house, you maniac,” his mother snarled, waving her spatula. Kit blew past her to the closed door in back. She tried the bedroom door—stuck—and kicked it in, the cheap lock easily giving way.
Nothing but a twist of dingy sheets, a stack of books, and an anemic mutt who acknowledged the intrusion with a lazy growl. Just then, from behind her, Kit heard the unmistakable chk-CHK of a pump-action shotgun.
“Here’s another idea,” said Mrs. Dirkin. “You take your sorry ass out of here, and I won’t shoot you in the puss.” With the gun on her, Kit cooled off enough to understand the woman was serious.
“Goddamnit,” she grumbled and backed out of the trailer.
Mrs. Dirkin flicked her ciggie out and locked the door behind her.
Kit wove through the trailer homes, sick from waning adrenaline, a numbness starting its crawl from her belly outward. She wanted to hurt someone, but the truth was, she was scared. Scared of losing Charlie, of being left behind, of the sucking cold and blue that followed her around so much of her life.
Kit drove her tires hot, twenty miles out full speed. When she reached the county line, she parked and let her engine idle. Afraid if she crossed it she’d never come back, she turned around and sped home. She did this over and over until her tank ran low, like a manic dog running laps in a pen. Halfway home she heard a twangy country song and saw the neon blue sign of the Roll-In honky-tonk.
Kit parked and stepped inside the dim and smoky bar. She edged her way through a moderate crowd, looking through randy bikers and cowboys like they were made of glass. She found a stool and ordered a shot of tequila and a chaser. She took them both down in seconds. With a swirl of her finger, she signaled the bartender for another round. A cowboy slid up next to her.
“Next round is on me,” he said and threw down a twenty.
Without looking, she said, “That’s okay, I got it.”
“I insist,” he said, a courtly hand laid over his heart.
Kit glanced up. He was cocky, pretty, and lean. She could tell by the heavy calluses on his palms that the cowboy getup wasn’t just for show. What the hell, she thought.
“Bulls?” she asked.
“Broncs,” he said. “Name’s Trip.”
“Kit.”
“Pleasure,” he said, his green eyes lively.
Bartender pushed two tequilas and two beers in front of them. They clinked and drank.
“How come you look so cranky?” He dipped his finger in the shot glass and sucked on it.
“Excuse me?” She was already beginning to regret giving this guy an opening.
“No offense, but you just look like you’ve got a lot on your mind. Thought you might like to tell someone about it . . .”
“Oh, like you?” she said. The warm feel of her drink was pouring into her lips, cheeks, thighs.
Trip shrugged.
Kit polished off her beer. She held the brown bottle up to her eyes and saw the bar swirl through the thick glass. She rolled the bottle toward Trip.
“You really wanna know, huh?”
“Yes’m.”
“When I was younger I got into some trouble with a fella.”
“What kind of trouble?” he asked.
“None of your business,” she said, though there was a sliver of her that wanted to tell all, broadcast every detail and be done with it. Untold, her crimes were no less shameful, but they were contained. She couldn’t just stop now and confess to this guy, some accidental priest, and set in motion the undoing of her constant, diligent silence.
“Was he an ex?” he asked.
“Never really thought of it that way,” she said. Was there a name for what Manny was to her? “I guess you could say that. Anyhow, I thought I’d left him behind, but he’s come back.”
“Well, shit.” Trip rested his chin on his hand sympathetically. Even though she thought she was finished talking, Kit noticed her mouth kept moving.
“On top of that,” she said, “my thirteen-year-old daughter is probably fucking some inbreed under a bridge right now.”
Trip said nothing and pulled at his beer. “Well,” he said after a while. “Should we go kick his ass?”
This was the right thing to say. She felt a surge of beer-driven camaraderie.
“Ha! If I knew where he was I’d say yes.” Her voice belted out louder than she intended. She could feel herself unwinding too fast, like the spool of a kite caught up in a strong wind.
“His mama put a shotgun on me and drove me out. He’d be hog food by now if I could find him.” She laughed loosely and realized she hadn’t heard the sound in a long time. She thought of Charlie. Poor child, she thought. Born to a mama who never laughs.
Kit felt swimmy all of a sudden. She flushed pink and began to fan herself. She was overheating and fully drunk.
“Fresh air?” Trip offered.
“God yes.” Kit scooted off the stool and went outside fast as she could get there.