Miracle (2 page)

S
he huddled under the sheet for just one more minute, clinging to the peacefulness of the July dawn and wishing that Pop hadn’t ordered her out of bed at two
A.M
. to scrub the refrigerator. It was hard enough to deal with his tantrums in the daytime. If only she could get things right. If only she didn’t screw up so much. If only she could please him.

As she opened her eyes her stomach knotted. The exhaustion and sense of dread were old, familiar companions, honed sharply over the years. Now they were simply a part of her, like the need to daydream and the fear of being ridiculed.

The radio buzzed to life on her cheap pine nightstand. Her skin damp and sticky in the morning heat, she tossed the sheet back and flapped her T-shirt up and down over her stomach. “Wake up, north Georgia,” the disc jockey purred. “It’s seventy-eight degrees here in Athens and eighty down in Atlanta. Headed for ninety-five. Too late to play hooky. Time to go to work. You could have gone to Lake Lanier today. You could have called in sick and packed the ol’ cooler and headed for the water. But
nooooo.
”

Amy smiled groggily. She liked it when the D.J. did his John Belushi imitation. She could do a pretty good Belushi herself—and recite most of the classic
Saturday Night Live
routines. Pop said the show was junk, but she had watched
it since the very first broadcast, five years before. Pop thought all her TV trivia was junk. There was no tradition to it, he said.

What he really meant, she thought, was that there was no place anymore for
him
, no network variety shows where old circus clowns could get five minutes to do acts that harked all the way back to vaudeville. For Pop’s sake she wished Ed Sullivan were still around. She wished for anything that would keep Pop from going on tirades in the middle of the night.

The D.J. babbled about current events as she got out of bed and went to the open window. Dew and misty light covered the neatly mowed backyard. She heard a rooster crowing and the faint sound of tractor trailers roaring along the interstate, a few miles away. A trace of sunlight glinted on the long, narrow chicken coop atop the shallow hill beyond the backyard. Maisie, her stepmother, stout and gray and stoic, was trudging up the path to feed her broilers and fryers.

“… so who
did
shoot J.R.?” the D.J. finished, laughing. “Ronald Reagan says the Democrats did it. If Ronnie gets elected this November he promises to turn South Fork into a home for old movie stars. Bonzo needs a room.”

Amy made a mental note of the joke.
It would have worked better if he’d rearranged the sentences
, she thought, without knowing quite why that would be so. It was instinct, the same instinct that led her to file away every funny story she heard. She paid attention to stuff that nobody else noticed. She was a flake, Pop said.

Amy glanced at her clock and dressed hurriedly. The good thing about being skinny and of medium height was that her clothes fit exactly the way they were supposed to fit. She didn’t have to check in a mirror to know that she looked neat and ordinary in baggy denim shorts and a pristine white sports shirt, the breast pocket appliqued with flowers by Maisie.

She slipped her feet into white ankle socks and sparkling clean sneakers. She let Pop corner the market on eccentricity; what she wanted more than anything else was to be
normal. Extremely normal. She covered the tattoo on her left wrist with a white sweat band.

Wearing black sunglasses—the same cool brand the Blues Brothers used—she folded a pair of work gloves into her back pocket, tucked her short auburn hair under a big straw sunhat, grabbed her cloth purse, and went to the bedroom door. For a moment she just stood there, gazing distractedly at the high-school football pennants fading on the fake wood. As usual, her heart was racing. Then she took a deep breath and left her room.

After sniffing the air, she sighed with relief. She could smell the sweet, pungent odor of reefer. All was well then, or at least mellow with her father. When she reached the kitchen she found him at the table, his tall body hunched over a bowl of cereal. He had cleaned up and shaved, and he looked presentable in old Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt. His graying red hair was still damp from a shower. He’d slicked it into a long pony tail.

“Your back hurtin?” she asked, easing toward the refrigerator as casually as she could. He grunted an affirmative. Amy opened the white refrigerator door. Inside, the metal and plastic gleamed with the cleaning she’d given them in the middle of the night. Her fingers were sore from clenching the sponge so tight. The refrigerator hadn’t looked much different
before
the scrubbing. It hadn’t needed cleaning. That’s why she’d let the chore go for a couple of days. Welcome to another episode in Pop’s crazy world.

The Midnight Marauder, she had named him years ago. His pet peeves came out after dark, like cockroaches. His first raid had occurred not long after he retired from the circus. “Get your scrawny little butt out of bed,” Amy recalled him ordering. He had flicked on the overhead light, making her squint as she watched him in bewilderment and then fear as she saw the revolver dangling in his hand.

“What’s the matter, Poppy?”

He waved the gun in drunken circles. “Get up! You worthless little shit, get up!”

So on a frigid February night Amy had tromped back and forth to the garbage pile in her teddy bear pajamas and
overcoat, carrying paper bags filled with soot and ash. The mistake that provoked him hadn’t even been her own. Maisie had forgotten to clean the fireplace earlier in the day; Pop had discovered the oversight a few hours after bedtime. And so Maisie, her face set in lines of apology, and Amy, frightened and shivering, had done the chore at three
A.M
. Amy had failed a math test the next day in Mrs. Whitehead’s third-grade class, where she was behind the other students in skills, already.

Mrs. Whitehead had never asked if anything was wrong at home. Had she asked, Amy would have been too ashamed to tell the truth. Besides, she wasn’t even sure what was wrong, but she suspected that no one else in the third grade had a father like hers. In a world of farmers, tractor salesmen, and factory workers, Zack Miracle was embarrassingly unique. She had failed a lot of tests since that night in February.

The smoke from his joint made her feel a little giddy. She tried not to breathe as she got her lunch box out of the fridge and shut the door. “See ya, Pop. Sorry I upset you last night. Get some rest.”

He chewed cereal and eyed her sleepily, but without malice. He slept all day and painted oil portraits of circus life all night, which he sometimes sold at craft shows. He also fiddled with his collection of revolvers and rifles. And he drank.

She was eighteen years old and that was all she’d ever seen him do, aside from hiring out for whatever gigs his chronic back problem would allow. He did his clown shtick for children’s birthday parties, business conventions, any other event for which he could get hired. Often he made her go along as his assistant. It was like being forced to pull thorns from a bear’s paw. She never knew whether the bear would be grateful or bite her head off.

The joint dangled between his paint-stained fingertips and he blinked at her. “Next time I have to remind you to clean the refrigerator I’ll empty the damned refrigerator on your damned bed. Got it?”

“Got it.” She backed toward the door. “Have a good day, Daddie Dearest. No more wire coat hangers. I promise.”

He dismissed her teasing with a sour look. “Got a date with Charley tonight, smart ass?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Huh. Better marry him. Your days of livin’ off of me are numbered.”

Her stomach churned. He meant it. He really did. He’d always warned that when she turned eighteen he’d give her one year to get out on her own. She’d had her eighteenth birthday in April and graduated from high school in June. With any luck she’d find a job over in Athens before long, maybe as a waitress or sales clerk. The pickings weren’t too good with the economy the way it was, and students from the university got most of the jobs, anyhow. But she couldn’t think of any other options, aside from marrying Charley.

“Pop, you know what your problem is?” She gave him a cocky smile but felt her hands tremble on her purse and lunch box. Provoking his wrath was not a wise thing, and she wasn’t aiming to do it now. “You got no faith in me, Pop.”

“Earn your way. Then we’ll talk about faith.”

“Charley has faith …”

“Charley’s a religious fanatic. He’d have faith in horse turds if Jesus blessed ’em.” Her father grabbed his forehead and frowned. “Get out, quit talkin’. I can’t take your squeaky voice this early in the day.”

“Love you too, Pop.” She slammed the door behind her and strode down the concrete steps. She jammed her straw hat into a carrying case on the back of her battered little motorcycle. Seconds later she was flying down the graveled drive between oak trees and laurel bushes. Once on the pale gray ribbon of two-lane she pushed her face into the wind and let it whip the tears out of her eyes.

Rolling green pastures and small farms flashed by her in the morning sun. Straight, slender pine trees flanked the road. Tacked here and there to the pines were hand-lettered Bible verses, for sale signs for chicken houses, and notices that read Jesus Saves. In these parts hope was built on Jesus and chickens. She and Pop didn’t fit in very well.
They had settled here only because Maisie had inherited five acres and a chicken house.

She guided the bike up a side road to a grand brick entranceway flanking a new asphalt drive. A carpet of magnificent, emerald-green lawn made it look like the driveway to an elegant home down in Atlanta. On one side the brick wall held a beautiful scrolled sign.
Maison de Savin Vineyards. Welcome
.

Acres and acres of vineyards stretched under the rising sun, their trellises filled with lush foliage. Rose bushes decorated the ends of each row, and the grass between the rows had a froth of tiny yellow wildflowers. A dozen varieties of grapes grew here in the Georgia soil, just as they did in France, the winery manager said.

The de Savin people had bought land here a few years ago. Everyone had been curious about a French firm purchasing property in the middle of the Georgia hills, until a company representative had explained that the soil and climate were perfect for growing grapes. The local preachers had been a little perturbed by the idea of a winery, but after the place was developed everyone felt awed more than anything else.

On a crest at the center of the fields sat a magnificent chateau of pink and gray stone, with turrets, a gabled roof, and heavily ornamented casements. Behind it was a low concrete building, where the wine was made. The château was just for show. Right now Mr. Beaucaire, the winery manager, lived there. Someday the château might be turned into a restaurant and wine store. Amy viewed the fairy-tale scene with the reverence of a peasant.

After parking her bike at the back of the winery building, she put her hat on again, then went inside a narrow door to the office. The other grape pickers were there, two dozen or so, black and white, young and old, every kind of person from fresh-faced high-school and college students to grizzled locals, hands gnarled by years of farming. Amy thought it exciting to be part of the vineyard’s first harvest; she liked telling people that she was working at a French château. Plus harvest work paid well, though the season
was short. It had started a week ago and would end early in September.

Around her people were slipping on gloves and hats for eight hours of hot work. Like most of the younger workers, Amy took a bottle of suntan lotion from her purse and smeared some on her arms and legs, where her fair skin showed freckles along with a deepening tan. The shift started at six-thirty and ended at two-thirty, when the sun was nearly unbearable.

Feeling shy in the crowd, Amy hurried to put her lunch away. In the refrigerator, containers of boiled ham and turnip greens sat next to cups of yogurt. Her lunch box contained candy bars, apples, and crackers, foods that didn’t require her to spend much time in the kitchen, where Pop tended to lurk at night, drinking and complaining. It also contained a much-read copy of
The Hobbit
. She liked adventure and fantasy.

Amy clipped a plastic water bottle to her belt. As she deposited her purse in a locker along one wall she smiled at everyone who caught her eye, but avoided talking. She’d spent her whole life fading into the background, the safest place to be.

“
Allons-y
! Let’s go!” Mr. Beaucaire gave them all a bored, patronizing look and waved an arm toward the door. Middle-aged with snowy white hair, he had a commanding presence even in brown work pants and a safari shirt. He wasted no time on chitchat and hardly ever spoke directly to one of the temporary workers. Around him Amy was as silent and obedient as a garden tool that could be replaced without a second glance.

She traipsed along with the crowd, enjoying the good, clean morning as best she could, considering how the day had started, She was used to feeling tired and a little depressed; most of her life she’d been isolated from other people by invisible barriers of shame. A few years ago Pop had been busted for driving under the influence. The joint in the Buick’s ashtray hadn’t helped his case, and he’d served a few months in the county jail.

The gossip at school had made her feel even more alone. Sometimes she had nightmares about someone finding his
plants inside the house. Having friends was impossible, because friends asked too many questions and wondered why she never invited them to visit. Only Charley Culpepper was content to accept her excuses, and sometimes she wondered if that was what made Charley so attractive.

Amy entered the vineyards with the other workers. One of the manager’s assistants drove a tractor to the end of the rows. On a long, flat trailer behind it sat several wooden crates taller than Amy’s head. From the end of the trailer another assistant handed out big white buckets and sharp shears to each grape picker.