Six
The next day we make tracks and we’re curiously quiet with one another, both lost in our private worlds and lulled by the monotony of the road. We stop for the night at a far more conventional place, one with wireless internet and pay-per-view movies. We are not nearly as entertained by this as we were by last night’s bungalows and campfire. The room smells of new carpet and cleaning solution. The beds are like two rectangular rafts, covered in beige spreads.
“Let’s go out,” I say, opening the door to the parking lot to scan the neon collage of signs along the main drag.
Molly looks at me as if I’ve sprouted horns. “What do you mean, out? We already had dinner.”
“I mean out. To one of these clubs.”
“And do what?”
I have to think for a minute. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to a club. “Get something to drink,” I explain. “I’m sure bartenders still remember how to make a Shirley Temple. We can people-watch and listen to music.”
“What if I get carded?”
“It’s legal for you to be in a bar in Ohio so long as you aren’t served.”
“You checked?”
“I always check.”
She looks so dubious that I feel vaguely insulted. “What?”
“It’s just weird going clubbing with your mom.”
“We’re not going clubbing. We’re going to a club, just to get out a little bit. Nothing else seems to be open.”
“That’s weird.”
“Fine. Let’s stay here. You can watch Simpsons reruns and I’ll work on the quilt and reminisce about the past.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re headed out the door. Molly spent the entire preparation time in front of the mirror. I have to admit, she has a knack for primping. Her eyes are now smoky around the edges, her hair glossy and her lips slick and pink. She gives me the once-over and frowns again.
“I’ve seen that shirt before, Mom.”
“I never realized you noticed this shirt before.” I smooth my hands down the polished cotton. Except it’s not so polished anymore. I think the polish wore off some time ago.
“Isn’t it kind of…old?”
“It still fits. It’s in perfectly good shape.”
“But you’ve had it forever. Those jeans, too, and the shoes. And the purse. You carried that purse when you drove first-grade car pool.”
“I take care of my belongings,” I explain. “It’s a virtue.”
“Sure, but…Mom? You keep things too long.”
She speaks kindly, yet I know what she’s saying. Although I’ve always been quick to get something new for Molly, I never paid much attention to my wardrobe. Other than the occasional school event, I don’t tend to need much in the way of clothes. I can sew like the wind, but I like doing costumes and crafts, not blouses and shifts. And I’ve never been much for shopping. I laugh at Molly as I grab a light jacket and my purse. “Trust me, the world is not interested in my lack of style sense. Especially not when I’m with a girl who’s flaunting her midriff.”
“I’m not flaunting.” She checks out her cropped shirt in the mirror.
A year ago, she had begged us to let her get a tattoo and, of course, we refused. Once she turned eighteen, she didn’t need our permission but, to my immense relief, she didn’t run out to the tattoo parlor. Maybe she forgot it was the one thing that was going to make her life complete. I’m not about to remind her.
We walk out together into the twilight, and the breeze holds just the faintest hint of the coming fall. There’s none of the coolness of autumn in it, but a nearly ineffable dry scent. The smell of something just past ripeness.
The main street is lined with mid-twentieth-century buildings of blond brick or cut stone. The shops and banks are closed, window shades pulled like half-lidded eyes, but in the center of the block, the sound of music and laughter streams from three different clubs.
One of them, called Grins, has a sandwich board out front boasting No Cover. Across the street is Tierra del Fuego, featuring unspecified live music, and two doors down is a place called Home Base. Twinkling lights surround a picture of Beulah Davis, and we choose that club because she has the same last name as us and because I like her picture. She’s smiling, though there’s a wistful look in her eyes. Her hands, draped over an acoustic guitar, look strong, capable of bearing the weight of a large talent.
We enter between sets. Canned music pulsates from hidden speakers. The place is crowded with people clustered around bar-height tables. The yeasty scent of beer hangs in the air. A group of guys is playing pool under a domed light with a Labatt insignia. In the corner, the musical set is dark and quiet, two guitars—acoustic and steel—poised in their holders like wallflowers waiting to be asked for a dance.
I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness, and a wave of uncertainty hits me. I can feel Molly’s hesitation, too, and unthinkingly I grab her hand, still the mom, leading her to a booth that has a view of the dance floor and stage. A good number of couples are swaying in the darkness, the women’s bare, soft arms draped around men’s shoulders.
I miss Dan. It hits me suddenly, a swell of nostalgia. He’s not fond of dancing, but he’s fond of me. Sometimes he has no choice but to sweep me into his arms and dance with me.
Molly orders a 7UP with lime, and I ask for a beer on tap.
“I’ll need to see some ID,” the waitress says.
“The beer’s for me.”
“ID, please,” she says, bending toward me.
This is both startling and flattering. I readily show her my driver’s license; she nods in satisfaction and heads for the bar. Molly samples the snack mix and scans the crowd. It’s a diverse bunch, people of all ages relaxing and talking, some of them drinking too much and laughing too loudly. A couple in a booth across the room appears to be in an argument, leaning toward each other, their mouths twisted, ugly with overenunciated insults.
The music stops and the dancing couples fall still. The singer appears on the corner stage, accompanied by a drummer, a bass player and a woman on keyboard. Applause greets them and we set aside our drinks to listen. She picks up the steel guitar and smiles as they tune up, then places her lips close to the speakers. “Here’s something by a guy I once knew, Doug Sahm, from Kilgore, Texas.” A ringing, sweet melody slides from the speakers as she strokes the guitar.
It’s the kind of song that sounds fresh, even though we’ve heard it a hundred times before. There’s something about good live music that does that to a person. I feel a sense of happiness sprouting from within, and when I look across at Molly, I can tell that she feels it, too. There are very few people you can talk to without words. The fact that my daughter has always been one of those people for me is beyond price.
I grab and hang on to this moment, because I learned long ago that happiness is not one long, continuous state of being. Like life itself, happiness is made up of moments. Some are fleeting, lasting no longer than the length of a sweet song, yet the sum total of those moments can create a glow that sustains you. Watching Molly, I wonder if she knows that, and if she doesn’t, if it’s something I can teach her.
Sensing the question in my look, she tilts her head to one side and mouths, “Something wrong?”
The singer is joined by other band members, and the set segues into a lively swing tune. The volume increases tenfold. I lean across the table. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just wondering if we’ve talked about what happiness is.”
She cups her hand around her ear and her mouth moves again.
“Happiness,” I say, nearly shouting. “Do you know how it works?”
She shakes her head, at a loss, then meets me halfway across the table. “Are you happy?” I ask in her ear.
She sits back down, laughing, and mouths the words, “I’m fine.”
Her words remind me that there are some things I’m not meant to teach her. She’ll only learn them by finding out for herself. I can hope and pray that I’ve raised a young woman who knows how to be happy, but I can’t hand it to her like my mother’s button collection, sealed in a mason jar. Starting now, she will have to be the steward of her own life.
After four songs, greeted with enthusiastic applause, the band takes a quick break and we buy a copy of their CD. The singer smiles a little bashfully and we smile back, two strangers who like the sound of her voice. She signs the case with an indelible marker. “Y’all enjoy that, now,” she says.
“We will,” I say.
The waitress reappears, another beer and another 7UP on her tray, even though we didn’t ask for a second round.
“The gentlemen over there sent them,” she explains, indicating with her thumb and a wink.
“Oh, uh…” My cheeks catch fire. I can’t bring myself to look.
The waitress sets down the drinks and leaves.
“Get out of town,” Molly says. “Mom, those guys sent us drinks.”
“Don’t make eye contact. And for heaven’s sake, don’t drink—”
She takes a sip of her fresh 7UP. Watching her expertly made-up eyes over the rim of the glass, I see a whole world of things I haven’t told her, matters that need to be explained to someone who, in so many ways, is still only a child. I’ve had eighteen years to teach her not to accept gifts from strange men. I never got around to doing it. So much of this thing called parenting is a matter of waiting for a situation to arise and then addressing it. Just when you think you have all your bases covered, you—
“They’re coming over,” she says in a scandalized whisper.
I want to slither under the table. I’ve never been good in social situations, not with men, anyway. For Molly’s sake I need to get over the urge to slither. This is a teachable moment.
“Thank you for the drinks,” I tell the older one. He’s maybe thirty, and the way he’s looking at me makes me glad I’m wearing the mom clothes. “We were just leaving, though.”
“I bet you have time for one dance,” he says, smiling beneath a well-groomed mustache. He looks like the guy in that old TV series, Magnum PI. Magpie, Dan called it. I never did like that show.
His friend is clean-shaven, late twenties, checking out Molly with an expression that makes me want to call 911.
And here’s the thing. I can’t call 911. Nobody’s doing anything illegal. It just feels that way to me.
“My mother and I really need to go,” Molly says, polite but firm as she stands up. She tugs her shirt down, probably hoping they don’t notice her midriff.
“Just trying to be friendly,” the clean-shaven one said. His buddy seems to be having a delayed reaction to the word mother.
On the way out, I hand the waitress $20 and don’t ask for change.
“Okay, that was weird,” Molly says as we step out onto the street.
“Honey, when a guy approaches you—”
“I didn’t mean it was weird that they approached me,” she interrupts. “I’m just not too keen on guys hitting on my mom.”
“Guys hit on women. It’s what they do. They don’t think about whether she’s somebody’s mother. Or daughter, or sister. And when we were in there, all I could think about was whether or not I’ve talked to you enough about staying safe around strange guys.”
She laughs. “You’re killing me, Mom.”
“Oh, that’s right. You know everything. Sorry, I forgot.” She doesn’t realize it now, but the older she gets, the wiser I get.
Something I probably won’t share with her—the last time I met a man in a bar, I married him. Not right away, of course. But there are eerie similarities. The bar was dim, like the one we just left, and—in those days—smoky. Dan didn’t send a waitress to do his work for him. He strode right over to me and said, “Let me buy you a drink.”
I was too startled to say no. By the time the drink arrived, it was too late. I had noticed his lanky height and merry eyes, the heft of his biceps and the humor in his voice and his mouth, even when he wasn’t smiling. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was love at first sight, but it was definitely something powerful and undeniable.
He was a guy with clear potential and big plans, and I was a mediocre student at the state college. Less than half a year later, we found ourselves standing face-to-face at the altar, with nothing between us but dreams and candlelight. I still remember our first lowly, undemanding jobs and the way the days melted into a rhythm of partying every weekend, making love before dinner, staying up late and watching edgy movies.
Then Molly came along, and nothing was ever the same. We thought, at first, that nothing would change. Our denial ran deep; we walked around with her in a Snugli or stroller, pretending she was a fashion accessory.
Of course, she was so much more than that. She had the power to turn us into different people. We were no better and no worse, but different. She was our happiest, most blessed accident.
All of which goes to show what can happen when you talk to strange men in bars.
* * *
In the middle of the night, I wake up and blink at my surroundings, my sleep-blurred gaze tracking the seam of the drapes, glowing amber from the lights of the motel parking lot. I hear Molly breathing evenly, sweetly, a sound that catches at my heart now as it did the first time I ever heard it and thought, My God.
Emotion and memory chase away sleep and I get up, shuffling over to the laptop computer. I touch the keyboard and it wakes up, too. Little boxes tile the screen; Molly was IMing with Travis late into the night. I quickly close the IM windows without reading the text.
It’s 3:00 a.m., and the internet is there, waiting for me. Following the stream of my own thoughts, I click to site after site, surfing from link to link as though pulling myself along some invisible, unending chain. Ultimately, it’s unsatisfying, filling my head with too much information. Yet it’s given me a huge idea.
Slipping on a light jacket, I step out into the parking lot with my cell phone. The whole world is asleep. There are no cars on the street, no critters rooting in the trash, no breeze stirring the tops of the trees. I punch in our home number on the cell phone.
“It’s me,” I say when Dan picks up on the second ring.
“What?” he asks, grogginess burgeoning to panic. “Where the hell are you? Are you and Molly all right?”
“We’re fine. We’re in…” I think for a moment. “Ohio. She’s sleeping.”
“So what’s the matter?” In Dan’s book, if everything is fine with Molly, everything is fine, period. I can hear the bed creak, can picture him rolling over, pulling up the covers. “What time is it?”
I’m not about to tell him. “Late,” I admit. “Sorry I woke you. I couldn’t wait. Dan, I just thought of something.”
“What did you think of, Lindy?” He never gets mad when I wake him up out of a sound sleep. I wonder how that can be. Suddenly I wish I was there with him, rubbing his warm shoulders with gentle persistence.
“We need to get an orphan.”
“A what?”
“An orphan. You know, adopt a child.”
“Huh?” Another creak of the bed, or maybe it’s the sound of Dan, scowling.
“From Haiti.”
“Linda, for Chrissake—”
“No, listen, I found this site on the internet. There are thousands of them, waiting for families. We have so much, Dan. We’re still young. We could give some poor child a chance.
“There’s one I found named Gilbert. He’s six. He lost his family in the earthquake.”
“Go back to bed, Linda. It was hard enough raising our own healthy, well-adjusted child.”
“It hasn’t been hard at all.”
“Speak for yourself.”
His comment reminds me of their struggles. His frustration, Molly’s tears, the long silences and the breakdowns I used to feel compelled to fix. “We did a great job.”
“I’m not saying we didn’t. But we’re done. It’s our time now, Linda.”
“And I want to do something with it, something that matters. Think about it, Dan. These kids…they’re not sick or abused. They didn’t grow up in institutions. They’re kids like Molly, except they had the bad luck to come home from school one day to find that their families were gone.”
“I’ll send a check to the Red Cross.”
“They need families. We could—”
“We could do a lot of things, but adopting an orphan from Haiti isn’t one of them.” He must know how that sounds, because he takes a breath and adds, “Honey, you’re in panic mode over Molly leaving. This is no time to be discussing such a huge undertaking.”
I pull the jacket tighter around me. Panic mode. Am I panicking?
“I need a child who needs me,” I blurt out.
“Lindy. Slow down. What you need is a life of your own.”
The words fall like stones on my heart. He’s right. He’s right. “I’ll work on that,” I say, feeling a bleak sweep of exhaustion.
“Have fun on your trip,” Dan says, a yawn in his voice. “I love you both.”
“Love you, too.” After we hang up, I sit for a while and look at the stars. It’s so quiet I can hear a train whistle blow, miles away.