Wire Mesh Mothers

27

They found a Texaco in Bloomville, South Carolina, another tiny town on another back road the girl insisted they take. She had said, “Get gas there. It’s a Texaco. Bet they named it for Texas!”

Kate pulled up to the gas tank and turned off the engine. Immediately the girl took the keys from the ignition and stuck her thumb through the key ring.

“Make it quick,” she said to Kate. Kate nodded; got out. Her feet were cold inside the Easy Spirits. What she wouldn’t give for a pair of socks, a pair of Dockers, a sweatshirt instead of this silly teacher’s outfit. The peach sweater was scratchy now, and the gray skirt wrinkled and binding.

In the back, Mistie entertained herself by pulling yarn threads out of one of Kate’s scarves, a green and white striped one, and wrapping them around her fingers until they turned white. There was a growing tangle of yarn on the floor of the back seat. She’d wet herself again last night.

The girl opened her own door, but sat in place with the gun in her lap. Her feet were up on the dash, and they wiggled back and forth, making squeaking sounds.

As she brushed her shirt back into some semblance of its former self, Kate checked herself in the reflection of the driver’s window. She looked as though she’d been through war. The side of her face was bruised, her forehead crossed with a long, tacky gouge that was slowly evolving into a scab. There were streaks of mud on her cheeks and chin. Her ear still stung where the girl had tried to twist it off. Her legs, unshaven for two days, were prickly. Her armpits, gone without deodorant for two days, were rank. Her hair was crusted with dried sweat.

There were a few natives outside the Texaco, two men in mechanics-blue with knit caps and gloves, a young woman in a faux-fur parka with a toddler on her hip, and old man in a heavy coat and pair of rubber boots sitting atop a plastic Coke crate in front of the double garage doors. Over the closed garage doors hung a sign, “Martin’s Auto Repairs. We use only Fisher Auto Parts.” On the other side of the garage doors, by the corner of the building, was a Coke machine.

The wind had picked up since dawn, and the temperature was down to what felt like freezing. Kate had to alternate hands to hold the cold pump handle long enough to fill the Volvo’s tank. She watched her breaths puff on the air, little exclamation points crying out impotently.

Think, she told herself sternly. Think it out. Concentrate on the idea you had last night.

My story made sense. It made sense I was taking her home to give her some clothes. That was good, that was really a good one. The girl believed me. Others will, too.

The girl got out of the car and leaned against the back door. Her arms were crossed over her chest. How she could keep from shivering in the pants and striped shirt was beyond Kate. The girl watched Kate steadily. The gun, Kate knew, was in her trouser pocket, the knife on her ankle.

I will tell them Mistie missed the bus. I saw her wandering the halls, saw her in that nightgown and thought it was terribly sad. “Mr. Byron, I had some old clothes I was going to give her. Yes, agreed, it was wrong not to call someone and let them know she’d missed the bus. I was on my way home and planned on calling as soon as I got there. Mea culpa, Mr. Byron. Yes, well, that means, ‘my fault.’ No, it’s not English. I had no idea we would be car-jacked. Thank God for everyone who assisted in our rescue. You’ll have to come over to the house for an appreciation party.”

All she needed was a moment. All she needed was one person to hear her and believe her.

Kate glanced at the South Carolinians by the garage doors. She looked at the meter on the pump. Half full, already up to fifteen dollars. The two hundred dollar withdrawal she’d made at a bank this morning — ridiculous bank; it wasn’t her bank so the maximum withdrawal was two hundred — wasn’t going to last long.

The girl’s what, fourteen, fifteen, maybe sixteen? I will get out of this. I will get out of this. She thinks like a child. I think like an adult.

“I need caffeine,” Kate said. Her voice sounded steady, calm.

The girl raised one brow. “You had coffee at Burger King.”

“That’s not enough,” said Kate, trying to bring levity into her words. With dismay, she saw the mechanics and the mother go inside the store. But the old man on the drink crate remained. He reached down slowly to tuck his pants leg back inside the rubber boot. He would help. He had to help. “Teachers drink coffee like water,” she continued. “I suppose it’s an addiction of sorts. I sure could use a drink, a Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, whatever.”

“I could use a million bucks, so what?”

“You’ve got some quarters. I’ll just get one quickly, and come back. I’ll get you one, too.”

The girl glanced inside the car where Mistie was busy unraveling the scarf. “She’s so weird,” she said in disgusted amazement. “She plays with everything. Her food, her crotch. Makes me sick. She’s nothing but a typical new nigger in training, huh?”

Kate said nothing. She waited. Waited. Her heart picked up speed, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Then the girls said, “Okay, and get one of them newspapers from the machine there on the porch. I wanna see something.”

A few more squeezes and the nozzle clicked off, the gas tank full at $23.93. Kate waited like a child with her hand out as the girl fished quarters from her shirt pocket. Kate imagined herself leaping upward in a Tae Bo kick. She’d seen those women on T.V. and knew they would have been out of this situation in a second. She imagined herself slamming the girl’s chest with a sudden and well-aimed foot, knocking the girl’s breath from her lungs and legs from under her body with one move.

Just like you did with Willie Harrold.

Willie.

She immediately forgot about the girl squalling on the ground, and remembered Willie.

Willie’s Daddy was probably at the school this very moment, insisting the Mr. Byron and Joe Angelone find out why the hell that coward Mrs. McDolen didn’t show up for school. The phone would be ringing back at the McDolen house, unless Donald had read the note and had given the school the heads-up on his wife’s sudden absence. Donald, what are you thinking now? Kate’s stomach fluttered.

No, stop it, you can do this. Deep breath. Yes. Okay.

She trembled fiercely; dread and hope. She rubbed her arms to cover the tremors and said, “Brr, it’s incredibly cold out here. Nearly forgotten it’s almost Christmas.”

“You watch your ass,” said the girl, pressing six quarters into Kate’s palm. “Cause I’m sure keepin’ an eye on it, ugly as it is.”

Kate nodded. She strode to the newspaper box and casually dropped in the quarters, took the paper and rolled it up under her arm, collected the dime change. She looked at the old man on the crate. He was picking his teeth with a little stick.

Okay, now. Okay.

She walked to the drink machine. Her whole body shook; her calves knotted and twitched. She tucked one hand inside the other to keep from dropping the coins.

Here’s your chance. Now. God help me.

The old man on the drink crate, a mere two yards away, looked in her direction, smiled and nodded. Kate put in one quarter, and listened as it fell through the machine works with a soft little clink.

Without turning to the man, she whispered, “Listen to me, please. I’m being kidnapped.”

A second quarter into the machine. Clink. A taste of blood at the back of her mouth. Maybe she’d bitten her tongue, she couldn’t tell.

“Call the Virginia State Police after we leave.” Each word painfully dry. “Get my license plate number. Please. I’m in danger. I need your help.”

She pressed the Pepsi button, and a can dropped into the retrieve slot. She bent pick it up and put it into her coat pocket. Next quarter; clink.

“Don’t do anything now. Just get the license number. Call the state police. Help me, please.”

Second quarter, clink, Dr. Pepper button pressed, clunk, can in the slot.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” She reached for the Dr. Pepper and put it in with the Pepsi. “I hope so.”

She turned back toward the car.

The girl stood in front of her, arms crossed. “I understand, all right.” A look of sheer hatred, of sheer disbelief and wonderment, all rolled into one. Then, loudly, “Let me help you with those, Mom. You’re always trying to do something nice for others, let me do something nice for you.” She waggled her hand. Kate gave her the Dr. Pepper and the newspaper.

No no no no no!

The old man on the Coke crate grinned and nodded.

The girl tipped her head toward the car, indicating Kate go on ahead. Kate moved on. The front door to the Texaco station banged open, and the young mother came out, calling, “George! Damn it, George, turn your hearing aid back on, old man, there’s phone call from your wife. Get in here!”

The old man looked confused until the young mother pointed at her ear, then he nodded and smiled.

“In the fucking car,” hissed the girl.

Kate climbed in. She couldn’t feel her hand on the door handle as she pulled it closed beside her. Through the windshield she saw the old man get up from the drink crate and waddle into the station after the young mother.

The girl dropped into the passenger’s seat and yanked the door shut. “I’ve let the gas money on the tank. They’ll find it. Now drive until I say don’t drive. You goddamn, stupid, fucking bitch. Just wait, oh, yeah, just you wait!”

I am a stupid bitch at that, thought Kate, her heart lunging against her ribs. The remnants of the breakfast biscuit, eaten well over an hour again, turned sour and repulsive in her stomach.

Another lesson in vocabulary.

Stupid.

Fucking.

Bitch.