Wire Mesh Mothers

33

The teacher’s arms, which had been wrapped around Mistie’s waist, had loosened and fallen to the sides. The lap was not comfortable; the teacher’s legs were bony and sharp, the knees cutting beneath Mistie’s knees whenever Mistie tried to move around. Daddy’s lap was bigger and softer than the teacher’s lap, but Mistie didn’t like anybody’s lap. She wanted to sit on the truck seat.

The girl with the gun was sleeping and snoring softly. The truck driver had turned down the radio and only spoke to himself on occasion when a car darted out in front or somebody in the same lane slammed on the brakes.

They were on a really big road now, with two lanes on each side divided by a strip of grass and sometimes trees. Everybody on their side drove in the same direction. Mistie remembered a road like this, when they had moved from Kentucky. They drove, drove, drove. She hated that road because it seemed like they were never going to stop. There wasn’t anything to look at outside the window except trees and distant farms and huge signs. Daddy drove the car. Mama rode in the front and Mistie rode in the back between the boxes they’d packed the week before. Daddy said they had to make tracks since they were breaking their lease. Mistie didn’t remember Daddy breaking anything except maybe he meant the door on the stove that night he got mad that the heat-n-serve rolls came out black on the bottom.

During part of the drive Daddy had put his hand on Mama’s shoulder, than in her blouse, and she had slapped his hand away and cussed him out. “Yeah?” she had screeched. “Yeah? You think I’m gonna let you get all hot up over me anymore? You think I’m gonna let you get yourself in a knot, and let you work it out on me later tonight? You can go to hell you think that. I ain’t never havin’ no more of your babies. You see what happens to my babies?” Then she’d cried and held on to the door handle and Daddy had swore he didn’t want her flabby-ass body anyway, and they had driven on and on and on.

Mistie rubbed her eyes and then her crotch, making it warm. She took off the denim jacket, which had crumpled up behind her, and threw it on the floor over the girl’s feet. She wriggled her shoulders and her neck. They were tired and they hurt. So did her feet. Part of the way from the camp the teacher had carried her, but most of the way Mistie had had to walk. The girl with the gun cussed at her when she walked too slowly, but her legs would only do what they wanted to do. And that wasn’t walk real fast. The three of them had stopped a few times, once to eat some pork and beans and canned corn and another time to poop behind some tall grass, but Mistie wanted to stop and go home.

It was hard to sit up straight on the teacher’s lap. Mistie stretched her legs out, trying not to bump the truck driver with her left foot. Then, slowly, she lay over against the girl. Her head came down on the girl’s folded arms. The girl didn’t move. Mistie waited to see if the girl would wake up and hit her. But she didn’t.

Mistie closed her eyes and was dreaming before the sounds of the truck had faded. Princess Silverlace was there, and the two went to play on a sliding board behind the golden castle.