Dreamland: A Novel (17 page)

Back at the house,
she opened Tommie’s backpack and studied the drawing that he’d made, hoping it would stop her from thinking about the truck and the man who’d shown up out of the blue. When she saw the image of their old house, with its flat roof and large windows, she felt sad but smiled anyway.

“This is great. You’re quite the artist.”

“Can I watch cartoons?”

“For a little while. While I make dinner, all right? Do you want me to bring your tadpoles to sit with you?”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled as they went to the living room. She turned on the television; luckily, cartoons were on.

“Don’t sit too close to the screen. It’s not good for your eyes.”

He nodded, lost in the show in just a few seconds.

She put the jar on the coffee table and retreated to the kitchen. She realized that she’d forgotten to defrost the chicken—or was it supposed to be hamburger tonight? Because she kept picturing the man with the truck, it was all but impossible to remember.

“Is it chicken or hamburger tonight?” she called out.

“Hamburger,” Tommie called back.

Oh, that’s right,
she thought. They’d had chicken the night before, with beans and carrots, and she’d nibbled on the carrots that Tommie hadn’t finished….

From the freezer, she pulled out two servings of hamburger, hesitated, then put one of them back. With her stomach clenched like a fist, there was no way she’d be able to eat a full meal. Nor, she realized, was she even hungry.

She found a ziplock bag, slid in the serving of hamburger, then placed it in warm water to thaw. She sliced carrots and cut a few florets from a stalk of the cauliflower. All went onto the baking sheet. She turned on the oven, knowing it would take a few minutes to reach the desired temperature, and saw that her hands were trembling.

She couldn’t stop looking out the window to scan the gravel road out front. Were they safe here? And if they weren’t, where could they go? She didn’t have enough money for another escape, for bus tickets and rent and food, and as she put the baking sheet in the oven, she wondered how much time she had if Gary really had sent the man with the pickup truck.

Minutes? Hours?

Or was she allowing her thoughts to run away from her again, just as she’d done with Peg?

She went to the front door and, after opening it, stared again at the dusty footprints on the mat and on the steps. This wasn’t like Tommie and his dream that someone was on the roof, not in the slightest. And it wasn’t like Peg, who’d said something she probably said to every single stranger who showed up at the store.

This was real, no doubt about it.

From the living room, she could hear the cartoons; every now and then, Tommie laughed. She cooked the hamburger in a frying pan, conscious of the knot in her stomach. When the
vegetables were soft, just the way Tommie liked them, she put most of the food onto Tommie’s plate and called him to the table. They ate their meal largely in silence, Beverly picking listlessly at some of the cauliflower. She felt jumpy, poised for sirens and flashing lights and a sudden angry pounding on the door.

But no one came.

As she put the dishes in the sink, she reflected that if Gary had sent the man, he wouldn’t waste any time coming for them. He wouldn’t risk the chance that she’d run again; he wouldn’t risk losing Tommie. Last year, after he’d punched her, he warned her that if she ever tried to leave or take Tommie from him, he would track them to the ends of the earth and, after he found them, she would never see Tommie again.

But all remained quiet.

“How about we let the tadpoles go?” she said to Tommie, and the two of them made the walk back to the creek. As she watched her son open the jar and release them, she was certain that their house would be surrounded upon their return.

Still, other than the sound of frogs and crickets, there was nothing. Back at the house and too wearied from her day to play a game, she allowed Tommie to watch cartoons again, until he began to yawn. She sent him upstairs to take a bath and brush his teeth, and she set out the shirt and pants and sneakers she’d bought earlier in the day. She tried to figure out how many hours had passed since she’d first seen the man with the truck at their house. If Gary couldn’t get here promptly, he would order the local police or sheriff to do his bidding, so where were they?

She read Tommie
Go, Dog. Go!
and kissed him on his cheek and told him that she loved him. Then, downstairs, she sat on the couch, waiting. She watched for flickers of headlights to flash on the walls, waited for the sound of approaching car engines.

More time passed. Then even more hours, until it was long
past midnight, and the world outside remained dark and still. But sleep was out of the question, and when she finally went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, the walls still struck her as depressing. And if, God forbid, it was their last day in the house, then there was no way she was going to be stuck with gray and gloomy walls.

Opening the can, she stirred until the yellow paint resembled summer daisies, then poured it into the pan. She used the roller and brush she’d allowed to dry near the water heater, coating the grayish gloom on the walls, taking her time, and even before she finished, she knew she wanted to add a second coat, which she started right after finishing the first. While she was at it, she decided, the cupboards could use another coat, as well, and she was still painting after the sun came up and Tommie wandered down the stairs for breakfast.

Despite the lack of sleep,
Beverly felt surprisingly good, mainly because no one had so much as driven on the gravel road past her house all night long and she’d somehow been able to finish the kitchen. Nor had Tommie had a nightmare; when asked how he’d slept, he shrugged and told her it was fine and ate his cereal, just like he did most days.

She saw him off to the bus and waved at him after he took his seat. To her delight, he raised his hand as well, which made her think he was getting used to his new life.

Inside, the kitchen walls were a bright and cheery yellow, and the cupboards seemed as though they belonged in a showroom. It was amazing how much a single color could change the entire atmosphere, and Beverly suddenly remembered her idea about collecting wildflowers for the jelly jar. She went outside again, plucking whatever blooms she could, put them in the jar, and brought the arrangement to the table. Stepping back, she took in the kitchen as a whole, feeling pleased. It was beautiful, the kind of kitchen she’d always wanted, and she wondered again who had
been crazy enough to think that orange walls could look half as good.

But the burgundy wall in the living room had to go, even though a nap was probably what she needed more than anything. She knew she was running on nervous energy stemming from yesterday’s scare—just as she knew she’d likely collapse later—but the burgundy felt intolerable, like something from a creepy funeral home.

She turned on the radio before getting started. First, she disconnected all sorts of cables attached to the television. The cabinet against the wall was heavy and she had to empty it of its contents, including the television and DVD player, leaving the items scattered around the living room. Even then she could barely move the darn thing. By the time she’d made enough room to squeeze behind it, her arms and back were aching. She returned to the kitchen and rinsed the roller and the paintbrush, shaking out the water on the front porch, replacing them with dry ones. There was hardly any primer left, but it would have to do. Bringing everything to the living room, she poured the remainder into the pan. She rolled it onto the hideous burgundy wall in long, wide swoops, like she was directing a marching band, and with every stroke, the room looked better and better.

Now and then, the deejay came on between songs, telling jokes or announcing concerts or highlighting the latest news, always from somewhere else, places she’d never been. This town, as far as Beverly could tell, was the kind of place where nothing exciting ever happened at all, and she felt her mind filtering back to her worries about Tommie’s nightmare and Peg and cameras in the bus stations and the man with the truck who’d come to her house. She scolded herself for allowing her paranoia to run unchecked and wondered if she was going to be looking over her
shoulder for the rest of her life, but she assumed she probably would.

“We’re safe because I worry,” she whispered. “And I worry to keep us safe.”

The primer ran out when the wall was halfway finished, and she wondered whether there was more on the back porch. She glanced around at the living room, which looked as though a tornado had swept through it—Tommie would probably think she’d gone crazy—but unless she was willing to move everything back into place, then move it all again tomorrow and one more time after the wall was finished, the living room would have to remain in this state for a day or two. Besides, she couldn’t exactly leave the wall half-primed.

On the way to the porch, she grabbed the can of yellow paint, thinking she might as well put that away while she tried to find more primer. But as she was placing it on the shelf, she accidentally knocked over another can. It toppled to the concrete floor, sounding strangely empty. She noticed that the lid had partially opened, and mildly curious as to why someone would store an empty paint can, she lifted off the rest of it. Inside was a large baggie filled with marijuana, along with a pipe and a lighter.

She wasn’t a prude—she’d smoked weed in the past—but she hadn’t liked the way it made her feel, so it wasn’t her thing. There wasn’t a whole lot—not like the bricks she’d seen in movies—but to her, it seemed too much for a casual user. Raising her eyes, she also noted the number of other paint cans on the shelves and couldn’t help wondering if any of those contained marijuana, as well. In the corner was a low step stool. After putting it in place, she checked the other cans one by one, feeling the liquid slosh when she shook them. She breathed a sigh of relief; the last thing she needed was to be found in a house filled with drugs. If
kidnapping didn’t put her away for life, then the drug charges definitely would. She brought the baggie to the kitchen, wondering whether the people who’d lived here before—no doubt the same ones who’d painted the kitchen the god-awful orange—had either forgotten about the drugs or left them behind on purpose because they hadn’t wanted to be caught with them. Either way, it explained why the house had been in move-in condition; just as she’d assumed, the former residents were likely on the run. It also explained why the owner hadn’t asked too many questions and was more than happy to take cash. She was used to tenants with issues she’d rather know nothing about.

But Tommie shouldn’t be living in a home with drugs, that much Beverly knew for sure. She pulled a coffee mug down from the cupboard, mashed the buds into tiny grains, then filled the baggie with water and washed all of it down the sink drain. She turned on the garbage disposal for good measure. As for the pipe and lighter, she simply threw them into the weeds as far from the house as possible, knowing that even if Tommie did eventually find the pipe, he wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what he was seeing. She also decided that it would be a good idea to check the rest of the house, just to make sure Tommie didn’t find anything he shouldn’t.

It was only when she returned to the kitchen to start her search that she realized there was a paper bag sitting on the counter. She gasped.

Tommie’s lunch.

She must have forgotten to put it in his backpack. The clock on the wall showed it was already approaching half past ten. She didn’t know what time he usually ate at school, but she knew she didn’t have much time, and she raced upstairs. She quickly donned the wig and the hat and grabbed her sunglasses but didn’t
bother with either foundation or the Ace bandage, since all she was going to do was drop it off with the secretary. She’d be in and out of the school within a minute.

But how to get there?

The school was miles and miles away, too far to walk, which meant that her only hope was to catch a ride with a Good Samaritan. Like the old lady in the station wagon, or the carpet salesman who smelled like Old Spice. There was never much traffic on the gravel road out front, but maybe she would get lucky.

Seizing the lunch bag, she trotted out the door and toward the road, turning in the direction of town.

She walked for six or seven minutes, glancing over her shoulder periodically, until she finally spotted a car coming up behind her. If she simply held her thumb out, she feared, the driver would ignore her; instead, she began waving her arms, the universal cry for roadside assistance. As expected, the car slowed, coming to a stop a short distance from her. The woman behind the wheel of the compact silver SUV was in her thirties, with her blond hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Beverly walked toward the driver’s side, watching as the window lowered.

“Thank you for stopping,” Beverly started. “I know this might sound crazy, but I forgot to give my son his lunch and my car won’t start,” she babbled, holding up the bag. “I really need to get to the school and was hoping you could give me a ride. Please. It’s an emergency.”

The woman hesitated, momentarily confused, and Beverly couldn’t help feeling that she seemed familiar, like someone Beverly had seen on television. It was evident that the woman had probably never picked up a stranger before, and Beverly could almost see her mind clicking through the options.

“Oh, ummm…Yeah, I guess I can do that,” the woman
finally offered. “I’m sort of headed in that direction anyway. You’re talking about John Small Elementary, right?”

“That’s it.” Beverly nodded, feeling a surge of relief. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

Before the woman could change her mind, Beverly rounded the car and climbed in. The woman seemed to study Beverly in a way that made Beverly want to make sure her wig and hat were on straight.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Beverly.”

“I’m Leslie Watkins,” the woman said. “I think I’ve seen you at the school. My daughter Amelia goes there, too. Fourth grade. What grade is your son in?”

“He’s in first grade,” Beverly said, knowing she’d only been to the school once, when she’d enrolled Tommie.

“With Mrs. Morris or Mrs. Campbell?” She gave Beverly a tentative smile. “I volunteer at the school a couple of times a week. I know pretty much everyone there.”

Which explained how the woman had recognized her, Beverly realized. “I’m not sure exactly,” she said. “I
should
know, but we just moved here, and with all the chaos…”

“I get it,” the woman said easily. “Moving is always stressful. Where are you from?”

“Pennsylvania,” Beverly lied. “Pittsburgh.”

“And what brought you to this part of the world?”

As though I can answer that question,
Beverly thought. “I just wanted a fresh start,” she responded after a beat. She wished the woman would be more like the elderly woman in the station wagon or the owner of the house, who’d known enough not to ask so many questions. From behind her, Beverly heard a small voice.

“Mama…”

The woman’s eyes flashed to the rearview mirror. “Almost there, Camille. You doing okay, sweetie?”

Beverly stole a quick peek over her shoulder, amazed she hadn’t realized there was a child strapped into the car seat behind her. How could she have missed that?

“How old is she?”

“Almost two,” the woman replied, her eyes still on the rearview mirror. “And today she’s my errand buddy. Right, sweetie?”

“Bud…dy,” Camille repeated, her voice small and high-pitched.

Beverly gave a quick wave, remembering Tommie when he was that age, when every day he’d learned something new. He’d been such a pleasant toddler; she’d barely noticed the supposed terrible twos, even as they were happening.

“She’s beautiful,” Beverly commented.

“Thank you. I think so, too. Mama’s pretty lucky, isn’t she, Camille?”

“Lu…cky,” Camille echoed.

Beverly turned back around, still recalling images of Tommie when he was little, and soon enough they left the gravel road, turning onto an asphalt ribbon that stretched between farms on either side of her. In her lap she held the bagged lunch, wondering again how she’d forgotten to put it in Tommie’s backpack and hoping she would get there in time.

“Do you know when the kids eat lunch?”

“The younger grades eat at eleven-fifteen,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll have you there in plenty of time. How do you like our little town so far?”

“It’s quiet.”

“That it is. It took me a while to get used to it, too. We moved here five years ago to be closer to my husband’s parents. They love spending time with the grandkids….”

From there, Leslie prattled on, asking only the occasional question and speaking like a local tour guide. She told Beverly about her favorite restaurants in town, some of the shops worth visiting near the waterfront, and the rec center, where Beverly could sign Tommie up for T-ball or youth soccer or practically anything else her son might be interested in. Beverly listened with half an ear; she knew she didn’t have the money to sign Tommie up for anything.

A few minutes later they turned onto the school property, and Beverly felt a sense of déjà vu as they drew near the building. She caught a glimpse of the fields off to one side; on the other were the jungle gym and the swings. She wondered if Tommie had played on them yet; as a little girl, she loved to swing. She could remember begging her friends to push her higher and higher, so it almost felt as though she were falling.

Like in the dream, the one with the pirate, the one from a couple of nights ago…

Beverly jerked and Leslie flinched at the movement, concern in her eyes. To head off questions, Beverly quickly thanked Leslie again as the car came to a stop. She turned in the seat, throwing a wave to Camille before opening the door and jumping out. She waved one last time as Leslie drove off.

When she entered the building, the familiarity she’d previously experienced gave way to a slight feeling of disorientation. Where she thought she’d find a secretary at a desk, there was nothing but empty space; where she thought she’d find the door to the principal’s office, there was a long hallway, and the whole place struck her as more cramped and claustrophobic than she remembered. It was only after shaking her head that she realized she was picturing Tommie’s old school.

“The one he left behind,” she whispered. Hearing footsteps, she turned as a woman approached.