Sound Of Gravel, The (37 page)
“You ready yet?” Matt yelled, bursting through the door and startling me. “It’s already two o’clock in the morning, Ruthie. We gotta get out of here.” He started switching off the lights in the house. I picked up the diaper bag and flipped the kitchen light switch, and Marjory locked the door on our way out. I opened the car door behind the driver’s side and threw the diaper bag in between Luke and me.
He looked at me sadly. “We not gonna bring the goat, Ruthie?”
“Don’t worry, the neighbors are gonna feed it while we’re gone.”
“Oh, dat’s good.” He looked out his window into the moonlit darkness.
Matt started the engine and backed the car slowly out of Marjory’s driveway. We didn’t want to wake anyone up and arouse suspicion, so he drove at a snail’s pace while we were in town. I closed my eyes and felt each pothole and pebble we rolled over during what seemed like the longest few minutes of my life. At last the bouncing and the lurching stopped. Matt turned north onto the highway, and the car began to glide. I opened my eyes to see the back of Matt’s shaggy head and the open road beyond.
I turned to look out my window. A full desert moon lit the road ahead and shone brightly on the mountainside with the giant
L
. I couldn’t help thinking of all the wonderful moments of my childhood that had happened in those hills: the afternoon hikes with my half sisters and friends, scrambling over hot rocks, stickers and sharp weeds scratching my ankles. The hours we spent sitting around the big white
L,
eating Mom’s round, dry peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. I knew I had no choice but to leave. I would not live to inherit my father’s town, just as I hadn’t inherited his name when he chose not to place LeBaron on my birth certificate.
Holly began fussing in her sleep behind me, rousing me out of my thoughts. I picked her up, pulled her over the back of the seat, took out the bottle of formula, and pushed the nipple between her little, chapped lips. She was bathed in eerie moonlight, pale and so thin you could hold her in one hand, her once-chubby cheeks now sunken by malnourishment.
In the front seat, Matt and Marjory mumbled back and forth, trading ideas about what we should tell the officials when we crossed the border, and what we should say if anyone from the colony crossed our path, which was likely. To avoid any chance of passing Lane on the highway to El Paso, we decided to cross the border into Douglas, Arizona, even though that meant driving an extra hour before reaching the United States. My shoulders tensed with each new set of lights that crept up behind us, and I held my breath till the vehicle passed.
“Are we there yet?” Elena asked, suddenly sitting up behind me. Matt, his nerves thoroughly frayed, whipped his head around.
“Ruthie, those girls have to keep their heads down,” he commanded, glaring at me. “Tell them! What if someone we know passes us? Come on, now. I already told you that.”
“Hey, I didn’t know she was up,” I snapped back. “Please lie down, Elena,” I said quietly. She gave me a puzzled look and then ducked back down. I caught Maria’s tired eyes in the rearview mirror, her head resting on Matt’s shoulder. I pressed my head against the cold window glass and gazed at the landscape as it rushed past, the reality of my new life beginning to set in.
A few hours out of LeBaron, my exhaustion caught up with me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I drifted into a deep sleep and was awoken hours later by the short, plaintive squeal of brakes. Jolting into consciousness, I realized that we were in line at the border. Dawn had come and a deep blue sky hung over the morning.
“Are they practicing, Ruthie?” asked Matt, his face almost angry. “Make them practice.” Practice what? I wondered, and then I remembered how each of the kids needed to say “American” convincingly if and when a border agent flashed a light inside and asked what country they were from.
“If they ask you anything, Elena, just say
American
,” I told her.
“’Merican.”
“Good enough.”
“Leah?
American
.”
“Melcon.”
“Good enough.”
“Remember,” Matt told the girls, “Marjory is your mom.”
“She is?” said Elena, thoroughly confused.
“What’s my address, Ruthie?” Matt went on.
“I know your address,” I said impatiently.
“I know you know it, but can you say it naturally so they’ll think you already live there?”
“Of course I can!”
A minute or so later, just three cars were ahead of us in line.
“Nobody say anything else from now on,” Matt whispered.
I usually trembled when I was nervous, but this time the anxiety was too great. All I could do was stay lock still. I looked down at my hands. We crept forward and stopped, crept forward and stopped.
“Okay, here we go,” said Matt, looking at me through the rearview mirror. Both of us rolled down our windows.
A tall woman, her hair pulled beneath her hat, leaned forward and peered in Matt’s window. Blue eyes scanned the car. “What’s your nationality?” she asked him.
“American.”
The border agent moved on to my window, looking at Luke and the rest of us. “What’s your nationality?”
“American.”
“American.”
“’Merican.”
“Melcon.”
The agent nodded and moved back to Matt’s window. “What brought
you
to Mexico?” she asked Marjory.
“Oh, just drove down for the weekend to do some shopping.” Marjory looked relaxed and smiled casually.
Wow,
I thought to myself,
she’s done this before, just like Mom
.
The agent half smiled in reply, took a step back, and looked at something on the car. Then she waved her hand. At first I didn’t know what she meant.
Matt and Marjory both smiled and said thank-you. We were through.
No one said a word as the car crept into Arizona. Even after the border was a dot in the rearview mirror, the silence continued. I think we were stunned, not to mention overwhelmed by the obstacles that lay ahead.
“Can we talk yet?” asked Elena finally.
“Yes, we can talk,” I said.
Matt looked at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes full of fear and relief just like mine.
“That’s the first step,” I said, and took a deep breath.
The sun shines brightly through a window above the oval, full-length mirror in front of me. I see a slimmer face than that of the fifteen-year-old girl I was on the night we left Colonia LeBaron; my round, adolescent cheeks have narrowed. Now I look like my father. The square jaw I used to stare at in his omnipresent black-and-white photograph in church—that’s
my
jaw now. But I am not ashamed of it. Experience, time, and life have somehow given me the confidence to confront my own reflection.
There is a knock at the door. “Ruth, how’s it goin’ in there? Can I come in?”
Elena. Her “Can I come in?” sounds eerily similar to her “Can we talk yet?” from so many years ago. I lift my long dress to keep it from picking up dust from the wood floor and go to the door.
“You’re almost ready!” says my twenty-six-year-old sister. Her eyes are as wide and happy as they were the day she first laid eyes on the white goat. “Have you seen my stockings and shoes?” She asks me this because over the past two decades I’ve been the one who’s found things and put them away, slipping them into her dresser drawers. And sure enough, I know where they are this time too.
I can’t help but think back to that fall in 1987 when we arrived at Grandma Wariner’s house in Strathmore, the joy of seeing my brother Aaron again, the peace that came from escaping my stepfather, and the deep heartache and loneliness that came from leaving so many friends and family members behind. But I’ve never doubted my decision.
I stare at Elena a moment—a woman who is vibrant, beautiful, smart, and most important
safe
. Strands of her thick blond hair fall around her bare shoulders in loose curls. She smiles sweetly at me, almost in admiration, just as Mom used to when I was a girl, with the same heart-shaped face and slightly crooked jaw.
There is another knock. “Hey, I have the flowers!”
Elena reaches for the door and Leah steps in wearing the same chocolate-brown-and-sage dress as her sister. We compliment Leah on how beautiful it looks against her tan skin, the way her long hair falls perfectly over her shoulders. She carries a box of assorted flowers in coral and bright pink: tulips, roses, ranunculus, and calla lilies.
She gives me the once-over, raises her eyebrows, and cocks her head back. A wide smile spreads across her face. “Awww, Sis, I love your dress,” says the twenty-four-year-old, her voice kind and loving, one that sounds just like Mom’s. “Look at these. The florist sent us the extra flowers she didn’t use for our bouquets. She said you wanted them for our hair?” I nod, and Leah takes out an orange-tipped calla lily, places it behind her head, and stares at herself in the mirror. “Can I have this one? Please?”
For a moment I’m not sure whether to say yes or pick her up in my arms, so much does her begging now sound just as it did all those years ago. I think back to the two-year-old who never gave me a moment’s peace, who cried and pounded on the bathroom door until I’d come out and hold her while I refilled Holly’s bottles. That was when I was earning my GED, dividing my time between high school home-study courses and taking care of my siblings. More than twenty years have come and gone since we moved into Grandma’s house, staying there four years before venturing out on our own. Grandma has not lived to see this day.
I look up at the clock and start to feel anxious. Five p.m. is rapidly approaching. “Where’s Holly?”
“The hairdresser is with her in the dining room,” Elena replies. “She didn’t like how it turned out the first time. She thinks the braid makes her look like an old lady.”
Another knock. “Holly?” I call out.
Sure enough. She steps through the door in chocolate-and-sage, as beautiful as her sisters. “The photographer is here,” says my twenty-two-year-old sister, her age a constant reminder of how long Mom has been gone. “She wants to take some pictures of us getting ready.” Holly stops and smiles, gazing at me. “You’re all ready.”
“Almost. Elena, will you zip me up?”
She does, then arranges the pearl buttons over the zipper. Holly holds out my veil, but I haven’t yet decided where to clip it. She places it at different spots on my head, as self-assured, as loyal, and as helpful as she has always been. She looks at my reflection. “Sis, the dress is perfect, but don’t forget the sash.”
“Here.” Elena hands me the sash and takes a bobby pin from the little, round antique table at our side. “Let me pin the veil in and see if it’ll stay.” I find myself staring at my sisters in the mirror and not me. Something about the way Elena separates a bobby pin and puts it in her mouth reminds me so much of Mom; something in each of them reminds me of different parts of her.
Now that I have finished college and graduate school and have worked for eight years as a high school teacher, I can’t help wishing that my sisters were little girls again. I could give them so much more now than I could when I was a young, struggling student supporting all of us on part-time jobs, welfare, and student loans. It was all so overwhelming. No matter what I did or how hard I worked, there was never enough, never enough to give them what they deserved, never enough to pay our bills on time, never enough to fill the emptiness that any parentless family feels. I was nineteen when we moved out of my grandma’s house. I wanted nothing more out of life than I did to keep my family together and make sure they were safe. The memory of those days reminds me of how exhausted I had been, but my siblings gave my life purpose, they were the bridge from pain to healing, from past to future. They are as much the authors of my survival as I am of theirs. My throat tightens and my eyes fill with tears.
“What?” asks Elena, catching me watching her. “You’re thinking about Mom, aren’t you?”
I nod and wipe my eyes.
Look at your three beautiful girls, Mom. Are they not what God intended? When you died, I had no idea how they’d survive, and yet from that moment to this, they have been safe. Is that not what God intended? Oh, how I wish you’d lived to see this day.
I look over my shoulder. My sisters are perched on the edge of the bed, watching me expectantly. “Are you ready?” I ask.
“Ready.”
I mount the two steps and turn the knob that leads to the living room of the old house we’ve rented for the wedding party. And there they are. First, I see one of Matt’s daughters pinning a coral-and-brown boutonniere to her father’s black tuxedo jacket. He has a red Charms lollipop in his mouth and looks at me with a guilty smile.
“Your tongue is gonna be red for the ceremony,” I say quietly.
“Aw, no one’s gonna notice.” He’s forty now, still doing that thing where he closes his lips when he smiles. He still prefers sideways hugs too and gives me one. I smile, grateful for all of his help and support over the years, years when he made countless trips between Grandma’s house in Strathmore and San Diego, where he and Maria lived, where their own family continued to grow and grow.
“Is Maria here?”
Matt nods. They have come, but not as a couple. After six children and ten years of marriage, Maria finally gave Matt permission to take a second wife. Two years later, their marriage was over. In my head, I hear Mom’s prediction all over again:
If you marry Maria, you’re gonna have a hard time livin’ polygamy
.
I hear a galloping sound and look behind me to see Luke bounding down the stairs from his room on the second floor, black jacket in hand. The brown satin vest is buttoned crookedly over a white shirt only halfway tucked in. Otherwise, the suit fits his slim, athletic figure perfectly. After we arrived in California, Luke went to live with my aunt and uncle not far from Grandma’s house, then moved into a supportive group home. These days he is a three-season athlete for the Oregon Special Olympics and rarely talks about anything else. “Could somebody help me put dis on, please?” he asks at the bottom of the steps, holding up his tie.