It didn’t take long for the Tanners to get into a routine. We arrived in Arlis at the end of May. Over the last few weeks, we shuffled between the nasty motel and the hospital. My father and I took turns sitting beside my mother’s bed. He would leave some afternoons to search for a job, but got the same reaction in Arlis and the surrounding Palo Pinto County. Not a single person wanted him.
I studied the cheap, fake pink and blue bouquet in the corner vase. My father bought the flowers last week in the half-price bin at Dollar General by the extended stay motel. I wrinkled my nose at the mere thought of the “suite” we called home. Suite my foot! It was filthy and a strange animal lived in the bathroom. Each morning, I studied the small pile of poop left in the corner by the brown-stained tub. I had it narrowed down to a rat, a wall possum, or a snake. I assumed a snake could poop too.
My clothes always smelled musty from the odd fumes that seeped through the walls from our neighbor on the right side. I did not like him. He scared me. I wanted to tell my father how much he scared me, but I knew there was nothing we could do about it. Every night, that man stood on the balcony. His eyes followed each of my steps to our apartment. From the base of his throat, an evil tattoo glared like a second pair of eyes. My father turned the lock on the door, but I knew that two-headed monster stayed just on the other side of the old wood.
As soon as we settled in each night, I struggled to sleep with the banging and yelling from the neighbor under our bed. The words came through muddled except for a few snippets that sounded like pig-faced bitch. My father just turned up the volume on the television louder to drown out the noise.
Sometimes I watched our downstairs neighbors. He was a skinny man for having such a loud voice. I thought the woman was rather pretty and nothing like a pig-faced bitch. Once, I watched them from the front window until I coughed. The walls had black mold from rain coming in through holes in the glass.
I hated that place. Although hate didn’t come close to describing my feelings for our new home. I needed a word stronger and bigger than just hate.
“Hey. How are my girls?” I turned to see my father walk back in the room. He gave me a little squeeze. Something seemed off. I’d gotten pretty good at reading my father over the last year. He leaned over to kiss my mother on her forehead. The sleeping corpse never responded.
“Dad, is something wrong?” I had to ask even though I was afraid of the answer. Given our recent luck, it was inevitable our life would just get worse.
“No Pumpkin, everything is fine.” I saw by the tilt of his eyes that my father was lying. We sat for a couple of hours as the sun faded into the sky. My mother never woke up after our little talk. My father and I left for the night. The soles of my shoes squeaked on the floor. They hurt my feet and I needed new ones. My toes seemed to double over at the front just to fit inside.
My father and I crossed the parking lot. I saw the Bronco under the street light. The old truck sat packed to the roof, just like the day we arrived in Arlis.
“Dad!” I gasped, looking at the truck and then back to his devastated face.
“I couldn’t pay the weekly rate last week so the manager let it slide. When I didn’t have the money today, they made me pack everything up in the car.” My father stood on the hot pavement staring at the ground like he failed all of us.
My stomach lurched as the reality twisted inside my body. I’m homeless. The Tanners literally were homeless without even an option for a place to go. I knew a flood of tears wanted to flow in ugly streams down my cheeks. I pursed my lips and bit down hard on the lower one. I no longer allowed tears. Not since we lost our home. Not since we had to travel to Arlis. Not since I left Digger.
I settled in the passenger side of the Bronco. My eyes felt vacant as the deserted parking lot. I cranked down the window with the manual turn knob. I needed air. I couldn’t breathe.
“Wait, Alex. We can’t put them down until all the cars are gone.”
I wanted to scream. I couldn’t hold back the words. Turning to unload a gut full of hate, I stopped cold. Tears gathered in the corners of my father’s eyes. One rolled over the edge. His face tilted toward the driver’s side window to hide the fact he sat crying in our old car. A sob cracked in his throat, turning into a terrible sound, like a wounded animal. I pretended not to see the breakdown. Resting my head back against the seat, I stared at the stains on the cloth ceiling of the Bronco.
Over the next few nights, I curled up in the passenger seat and rested against the hot window glass until it was safe to roll it down. We visited my mother during the day. I snuck into the hospital bathroom to wash up. Some nights, I just I dabbed off my arms and legs in the sink.
My father left every morning to find anything to bring in money. He tried to walk as much as possible to keep from using the last of our gas. Even if he found something, I knew it would be a few weeks without money unless someone paid cash. I sat in grateful silence each day that my mother was too weak to catch on to what was happening right under her hospital room window.
On the eighteenth night of sleeping in the Bronco, my father and I sat in the front seat watching the sun set. I took a bite of my pimento cheese sandwich from the vending machine. Halfway through it, I noticed mold growing on the underside of the bread. My stomach fought back a gag as I hid the rest of the sandwich in a napkin. I didn’t want to upset my father. The hot air couldn’t handle another one of his breakdowns.
I’m not sure what he picked from the machine tonight. My father said he ate a sandwich while I was washing off in the bathroom. I think he was lying. My stomach rumbled trying to digest the molded bread. I was afraid. The coins would eventually run out and so would the supply of spoiled food.
I fluffed my pillow against the glass and did my best to block out the sticky heat. Two cars stayed in the corner of the lot. I wanted to yell, go home to your stupid house.
The Bronco had developed a lingering smell of dirty socks and bologna. Each morning, we killed roaches that scattered across our seats. I think the nasty bugs lived in the boxes we stored in the back part of the car. They came out at night looking for food. I felt the bugs; their tiny legs pricking my skin as they stepped down my arm and across my stomach while I slept. My father insisted they didn’t have teeth.
I took a deep breath watching the parking lot. The air pulled sharp through my nose but it felt so hot. Every breath was like sucking in the fumes of a hair dryer. I fought the urge to sling open the door and run down the street with my feet pounding against the cement. I would run until my shoes filled with blood from my curled up toes.
A man walked out the side doors to the last car. Finally! I could get a cool breeze through the window. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared in our direction. Noticing the jet black hair, I recognized him as one of the people who took care of my mother. Dr. Mason fixated on the Bronco. He continued to stare with a worried look on his face.
No, no, no! He was coming over. He would see us; the creepy homeless people living in the parking lot. I wanted to slide into the floor and put the pillow over my face. Go away! I screamed in my head while my Dad rolled down the window for Dr. Mason.
“Hey, Henry. How ya holdin’ up tonight?” I saw Dr. Mason’s eyes glance to the back of the Bronco. Even in the low light of the dark parking lot, I knew the doctor had a good idea of our current problem. Old boxes packed to the ceiling. Clothes draped out over the head rest drying from today’s hand washing in the shower. And the smell. I knew the exact stench that escaped like a giant cloud of death when the door opened.