Dreamland: A Novel (16 page)

Still, the anxiety was slow
to pass, even when she went over everything again, just to make sure. She was on edge, no doubt about it, or maybe it was more like a super-high tightrope with no safety net, but either way, she knew she wasn’t thinking right. She was dwelling too much on certain ideas and forgetting other things completely, and she had to think normally again, if not for her, then for Tommie. He needed her and they were starting over and the orange walls of the kitchen seemed to be pressing in, giving her the beginnings of a headache.

“I need to paint the kitchen,” she whispered. “That will make me feel better.”

Rising from the table, she retrieved one of the paintbrushes, along with a roller and pan. As she had the day before, she stripped off her shirt and jeans, unwilling to ruin them with paint spatters. She used a butter knife to pry open the can of primer. Paint stores had a machine that shook the cans, but since that wasn’t an option, she found a wooden spatula in one of the drawers and used that to stir. The primer was thicker at the bottom,
like the goo in a swamp bed, but she stirred and stirred, trying to coax it back to life so she could make the orange on the walls of the kitchen disappear for good.

Who in their right mind would have chosen that god-awful color in the first place? How was it possible to examine all the paint samples the stores had to offer—all the pretty neutrals or pastels or spring colors—and think,
I want my kitchen walls to look like a Halloween jack-o’-lantern
?

The primer seemed as ready as it ever would be, so she poured some into the pan, then pushed the roller back and forth, absorbing the liquid. She rolled the primer onto the walls, striping the jack-o’-lantern and getting as close to the cupboards as she could. After that she used the brush, pleased to discover how easy it was to cut right to the cupboards without leaving so much as the tiniest of smudges.

“I should get a job painting ugly kitchens,” she said with a giggle.

Leaving the primer to dry, she rinsed the brush and roller and set them near the water heater on the back porch to dry. She poured the rest of the primer back into the can, rinsed the pan and dried it with a paper towel, then added glossy white paint to it. She retrieved another brush and roller and turned her attention to the cupboards, immersed in her task. When she was finished, she stood in the middle of the kitchen, taking it all in.

The cupboards looked great, almost like new. But the ugly orange color had seeped through the primer, making the walls gray and dirty. She felt the stirrings of a headache.

I should get Tommie some clothes,
she reminded herself.

Not only because she didn’t want the other kids to tease him, but because she didn’t want the teacher to notice. That might lead to a meeting, and the last thing either she or Tommie needed right now was to be noticed by anyone.

Checking the clock, she calculated how much time she would need to get to town, find a place to shop, and get back. If she left soon, there was still time, so after quickly rinsing the paintbrush and roller, she went upstairs and put on the wig and baseball hat and wrapped her breasts in the Ace bandage. She retrieved some money from her stash and left the house, her feet kicking up dust on the gravel road as she walked. And walked. And
walked.
As she passed the store where she’d bought the groceries and neared the diner and motel, she wondered if those two businesses had cameras. And if they did, how long would the recordings generally be kept? A couple of days? A week? A month? They wouldn’t be kept forever, would they?

In any case, she needed to keep the lowest profile possible. With that in mind, she crossed the street, keeping her baseball hat pulled low as she passed the diner, then crossed the street again when she passed the motel. Out of an abundance of caution, she stopped and pretended to tie her shoe. She peeked toward the diner and then the motel to see if anyone had stepped out the door to watch her. But there was nothing out of the ordinary, and she reminded herself to be equally careful on the return trip.

She began to walk again, eventually reaching the outer limits of the commercial district. Little by little, businesses crowded either side of the road, and she wished she still had a phone, so she could find the address of the thrift store. Instead, she asked strangers for help. Both were women. The first had been filling up her tank with gas; the second one had been leaving a Hardee’s restaurant. Even outside, Beverly could smell the aroma of fried food, and she regretted that she hadn’t eaten breakfast. The woman outside of Hardee’s told her the thrift store was two blocks farther, in a strip mall set back from the road.

Beverly found the strip mall, then spotted the thrift store, located at one end. It was called Second Chances, and Beverly
pushed her way inside. She kept her head bowed when she walked past the cashier, a woman in her sixties with dull gray hair that reminded Beverly of the walls of her kitchen.

Most of the items in the children’s clothing section were for babies and toddlers, but she finally found the sizes she needed. The items, though used, were clean, without tears or stains, and just as she’d hoped, the cost was minimal. In the end she picked out four T-shirts, two pairs of shorts, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. She thought that she should have brought her backpack with her, since it would have made carrying everything home easier, but she had to content herself with a plastic bag.

She started the long walk back to the house. The sun was high and bright, and the day was sticky hot. Dizzy because she hadn’t eaten, she had to stop every so often to catch her breath. She wished she had a car, but she knew that Gary had placed a tracker on the one she used to drive. She’d seen it beneath the rear bumper months before she’d left for good, the little red light flashing on and off, taunting her to go ahead and remove it and see what good it would do.

The wig and hat made her head hot and itchy, and she felt her makeup melting. When she reached home, she disrobed and hopped in the shower to cool off, then dressed again. She walked outside and took a seat on the stump, just in time. The bus appeared less than a minute later, and she couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride that she’d made it. As she had the day before, she exchanged a friendly wave with the driver, thinking maybe, just maybe, things were going to turn out all right.

“I bought you some more
clothes today,” she said, “so you won’t have to keep wearing the same things.”

They were at the table, and Tommie nodded as he ate the sandwich she’d made him. She’d also poured him a glass of milk, amazed at how much such a small human being could eat and drink.

“As you can probably tell, I also started painting the kitchen,” she added.

Tommie looked up, as though he hadn’t noticed the change. “Why did you paint it gray?”

“That’s the primer,” she said. “I’m going to paint the walls yellow.”

“Oh,” Tommie said. He didn’t seem all that interested, but she figured that most kids Tommie’s age didn’t care about wall paint.

“Do you want to catch tadpoles again after you finish?”

He nodded again, chewing.

“I also checked the roof,” she said. “It’s too steep for anyone to walk around on, but there’s a branch that squirrels could have
used, or the branch might have scratched the shingles. That’s probably what you heard, or, like I said, you might have been dreaming.”

“I was awake, Mom.”

She smiled, knowing he always said the same thing after every nightmare. “Do you want more milk?”

When he shook his head, she saw the resemblance to Gary in the way his hair fell over his eyes, and she wondered when Tommie would ask about him.

“When is Dad coming?”

She knew him so well it sometimes seemed as though she was psychic.

“He’s still working,” she said. “Do you remember when I told you that? When we left the house?”

“I remember,” he said, stuffing the last of his food into his cheeks, but she knew it didn’t fully answer his question. Beverly brought his plate to the sink and rinsed it, then did the same with his glass when he finished his milk. In the cupboards—not wet but still sticky, so she was careful when opening them—she found an old mason jar with a lid on one of the upper shelves. She held it out to show him.

“How about we go catch some tadpoles?”

They wandered down to
the creek, but this time, Beverly didn’t join Tommie in the water. Instead, after rolling up his pants and taking his shoes and socks, she took a seat in the low weeds near the bank. Tommie held the mason jar as he slowly waded in the gentle current.

“Before you catch any, make sure there’s creek water in the jar.”

Tommie scooped water, filling it to the brim.

“Let a little bit of the water out. If it’s too full, the tadpoles won’t fit.”

He did what she suggested, then went back to tadpole hunting. He tried and failed to catch the first one but then caught two.

“How many can I put in?”

She thought about it. “I’m not sure, but they’re kind of small, so maybe seven or eight? If you can catch that many, I mean.”

“I can catch that many,” he answered, and she felt a warm rush at his confidence. Tommie was her mission, her world, and had been since the day he was born. She tried to imagine what he’d
look like when he grew older. He’d be handsome, she was certain about that, but other details were beyond her.

“How was school? Did you do anything fun today?”

“We had art today. I got to draw pictures.”

“What did you draw?”

“They told us to draw our house.”

She wondered which one he’d drawn, their old one or their new one, the one where they lived on their own and were finally safe.

“Is it in your backpack?”

He nodded, his head bowed, uninterested. He bent lower, catching another tadpole.

“I want to see it when we get back to the house, okay? Will you show me?”

He nodded again, lost in his own little adventure, and Beverly flashed on the hours she’d spent coloring with him in the months before she decided to leave. She’d never been one of those parents who thought that everything their child did showed how gifted they were, but Tommie got pretty good at staying between the lines, which she couldn’t help but find impressive. She also taught him the basics of printing so that by the time he’d begun kindergarten, he was able to write his own name—and other words—without her help.

She should have bought coloring books and crayons when she went to town earlier. It would help with his adjustment to their new life, and she knew he needed that. His dream last night revealed that in his own childlike way, he was as stressed as she was. She hated that he missed his father, hated that he probably didn’t understand why they’d needed to escape in the first place. She wondered how many weeks or months would pass before he realized that from now on it was just the two of them.

They stayed at the small creek for another half hour. In that
time, Tommie caught eight tadpoles. All of them were in the jar, alien-like with their odd wiggling bodies. Beverly put the lid on, watching as Tommie put on his socks and shoes. She’d taught him to tie his shoes the year before, though the loops were far from straight.

Tommie carried the jar as they wandered back, his eyes on the tadpoles as he walked beside her. They were rounding the ramshackle barn when Beverly absently glanced toward the house and saw a dirty old pickup truck parked in the driveway.

She blinked, making sure that her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her, her heart suddenly slamming in her chest when she understood that what she was seeing was real. Taking Tommie’s hand, she backed up, keeping the barn between her and the house, her heart continuing to pound.

“What’s wrong?” Tommie asked. “Why are we stopping?”

“I think I lost my bracelet,” she improvised, knowing she hadn’t even brought a bracelet with her when she and Tommie escaped. “I must have left it at the creek, so let’s go check, okay?”

Her legs were wobbly as she led Tommie back to where they’d started. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the pickup truck in the driveway. Who had come to the house, and why? She tried to slow her racing thoughts, aware that Tommie was watching her.

It wasn’t the police or the sheriff, not in a pickup truck like that.

It wasn’t a black SUV with tinted windows.

Nor had she seen a group of men swarming over the property. If they were Gary’s men, they would be wearing suits and sunglasses and have short-cropped hair, so who else could it be? She kept trying to think, but ideas became jumbled until she took a long deep breath, which seemed to help. “Think,” she muttered. “Think.”

“Mom?”

She heard Tommie but didn’t respond. Instead, she tried to but couldn’t remember if the owner of the house had been driving a truck—she hadn’t paid enough attention. But why would the owner come to the house? To check on how she was settling in? Because there was paperwork she’d forgotten? Or maybe she’d sent a handyman over to fix something—hadn’t the woman told her she worked with a handyman, or had Beverly imagined that?

Was that who it had been? The handyman? Would he come over even if she hadn’t contacted the owner to have something repaired? Or was it someone equally innocuous, like a salesman or a person who needed directions?

Questions, questions circling her mind, without answers.

At the creek, she let go of Tommie’s hand. Her palms were sweating. She felt almost faint, like she was about to pass out.

“I wonder if I left it where I was sitting,” she said to Tommie. “Can you check? I’ll look over here.”

She bent low, trying to stay out of sight, and realized she could still see the rear bumper of the old dirty pickup truck in the distant driveway, beyond the thick foliage of the dogwood trees. But she had to fake it, had to pretend to search for her bracelet, so that Tommie wouldn’t become frightened. She had to act the part like a performer onstage, even as the word
truck
began to flash in her mind like a strobe light, along with the obvious questions.
The truck, the truck, the old dirty truck! Who was it? Why had he come?

If it
was
one of Gary’s henchmen, he wouldn’t be content to simply knock at the door. He would go inside and search. He’d see a small backpack slung over the kitchen chair. He’d see the plate with sandwich crumbs and a glass with milk residue in the sink, but what would that tell him other than that someone had been there? He’d have to venture upstairs, to their rooms, but
since they’d brought almost nothing with them and the closets were filled with other people’s clothes, there was nothing he would be able to trace back to either Beverly or Tommie…

Except…

She froze at the thought of
Go, Dog. Go!,
Tommie’s favorite book, along with the Iron Man action figure.

Both were on the nightstand. If the man so much as peeked in the room—and it had to be a man, Beverly decided—he would no doubt find them, but the question was whether Gary would have noticed she’d taken them.

She wondered if the man was in the house now. Wondered if there was more than one man opening drawers and checking the refrigerator and hunting for books like
Go, Dog. Go!
and Iron Man action figures
.
She wondered if he wore black leather gloves and if he had a gun beneath his jacket while another equally dangerous man kept a lookout. She wondered whether he would wait for her or decide to search for her, and as she scanned the pasturelands beyond the creek, she knew there was nowhere to hide.

“Maybe it fell off while I was walking,” she said to Tommie. “You keep checking around here, okay? I’ll be right back.”

The words sounded shaky to her ears, but she forced herself to retrace her steps toward the ancient barn. She crept to the corner and peered around the side, at the house.

The truck was still in place, but a moment later she saw someone step down from the porch and walk toward the truck. It was definitely a man—she could tell by the way he moved; he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and work boots along with a baseball hat. He was also alone. She was certain he would suddenly stop and turn in her direction, but instead, he simply pulled open the door and climbed into the truck. Soon she heard the engine start, and then the truck was backing out. When it
reached the gravel road, it headed in the direction opposite the town, toward God knew where.

She waited, then waited some more. But other than the sound of birdsong, there was nothing. In time, she crept toward the house. She wanted to make sure that no one was still inside, that it wasn’t a trap. She stepped up onto the porch and saw dusty footprints leading to the door, imprinted on the mat, and then heading back toward the porch steps.

When she opened the door, no footprints were visible; there were none on the linoleum floor in the kitchen or on the stairs, either. Upstairs, she saw
Go, Dog. Go!
and Iron Man on the stand next to Tommie’s bed. In the bathroom, her clothes hung from the shower-curtain rod, and her wig was near the sink, just where she’d left it. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

Still, she remained shaky as she hurried back to the creek. Tommie continued to kick through the grass and the dirt before noticing that she’d approached.

“Did you find it?” he asked.

“No. I guess it’s just lost.”

He nodded before picking up the jar. “How long can I keep them?” he asked.

The sound of his voice was soothing, even if she still felt far from normal.

“We’ll bring them back after dinner, okay?”