Griselda
Mr. Fillman pulled into a Yogi Bear Campground, but it turned out the Fillmans hadn’t made a reservation in advance and all the campsites were taken on account of the holiday. The gate attendant had advised them that a spell down the road they’d find the county campground. “Not as nice,” she said, looking at their rusty, outdated station wagon and sniffing like something smelled bad, “but they might have space.”
“A spell down the road” had turned into a journey of several more miles, with Mrs. Fillman’s cigarette smoke wafting into the backseat and the hot air blowing in from the windows. They passed a country market on their left, which had a rickety, peeling billboard that informed them that the “Shenandoah Camp-It” was a mile and a half up ahead.
And despite the discomfort of sitting four across in the hot backseat, Griselda felt a momentary pang of sadness, because when the car stopped, Holden would get out of the car, removing his arm from where it still pressed up against hers. She gave herself a moment to mourn that loss in advance, then tried to raise her spirits. This was the first foster family that had ever taken Griselda on any kind of excursion, and she felt a little bit excited. Yes, there would still be stale bologna and cheese sandwiches for lunch that Marisol had packed that morning, but they’d be eating them somewhere new. And though Griselda couldn’t swim, she imagined the water clear and cool on her feet and legs. Under her lemon-yellow gingham sundress she wore a faded, pink one-piece bathing suit that Mrs. Fillman had found in the left-behind pile, used by one of her previous charges. Griselda didn’t care that it had been someone else’s or that it was faded and old. Today it was hers.
Mr. Fillman pulled into the parking lot, and Griselda strained her neck to look out Holden’s window. It was more parked-up than the Yogi Bear gate attendant had led them to expect, with cars of all shapes and sizes sandwiched into neat spaces, and up ahead, on the green strip of grass by the river, she saw families on blankets, little kids in bathing suits, and the odd dog on a leash. Loud rock music blared from a car speaker, and Griselda could smell hot dogs on a grill. She felt an unfamiliar burst of hope. This felt like a party, like something normal and fun, and she couldn’t help the expectant smile that spread across her face.
Still leaning over Holden, she felt his eyes on her and turned to look at him. He wasn’t staring at the parking lot, or families, or children with brightly colored inner tubes around their waists. He was staring at Griselda and smiling that one-sided grin that she was beginning to like so much.
She giggled, smiling back at him, and whispered, “It looks fun!”
His smile widened, evening out a little, but he didn’t respond. He just nodded.
“I’m working on my tan all afternoon,” said Marisol with a loud sigh.
“You’ll help me set up the lunch first,” said Mrs. Fillman, stubbing out her cigarette in the car ashtray, which overflowed with butts and ash.
“Why can’t Billy help?” Marisol whined. “Or the kids?”
Mrs. Fillman turned around and fixed Marisol with a narrow-eyed scowl. “One, don’t back-talk. Two, oldest girl helps with meals. Those are the rules.”
Marisol looked down at her lap, muttering, “Fine,” as Billy chuckled beside her.
“I think I’ll work on my tan,” he said, elbowing Marisol in the side.
“Oh, Billy,” said Mrs. Fillman. “A tan wouldn’t make you one jot more handsome.”
Griselda noticed Mrs. Fillman’s eyes in the rearview mirror, the way they softened on Billy’s face, staring at him like she’d never get her fill of looking. Shifting her eyes over Marisol’s bent head to look at Billy, Griselda saw him turn away from their foster mother’s gaze, his nostrils flaring and jaw tight.
“I guess Billy and Holder could help me unload the car,” said Mr. Fillman.
“Holden,” said Griselda softly.
“What’s that?” Mr. Fillman asked.
“Holden,” said Griselda again. “Not Holder.”
“Right you are,” said Mr. Fillman absently, cutting the engine and opening his car door.
The four children followed, piling out of the car, and Griselda took a deep breath of warm, fresh air. Even from the parking lot she could hear the rush of the river, and her toes ached to feel the blessed coolness.
Mr. Fillman stood by the car, stretching his scrawny arms over his head as he looked out at the river, then turned to his wife, who was taking a cooler out of the trunk. “Sadie, you still got those cousins that live around here?”
“Jim and Melody? Guess so. If they ain’t dead yet.”
“Maybe you should call ’em. Ask ’em to bring a cooler of beer and come set a while.”
Mrs. Fillman muttered something about no-good relatives, handing Griselda a folding chair, and waved her hand toward the grassy patch by the river.
Fifteen minutes later, they had an old sheet spread out on the grass, with two chairs set up for the adults, and Mrs. Fillman asked Marisol to open the cooler. The stink of rotten bologna and turned mayonnaise made Griselda’s stomach flip over.
“Aw, hell,” said Mrs. Fillman, staring daggers at Marisol. “Are you so stupid you forgot to cover the sandwiches with ice? They been baking in that trunk for two hours!”
Marisol stared at the sandwiches, grimacing. “Sorry, Miz Fillman.”
“Worthless. Just as worthless as your crackhead mama. I don’t know why I even try.”
Marisol bent her head, staring down at the cooler and closing it slowly.
Standing up and putting her hands on her wide hips, Mrs. Fillman looked at her husband, then at Billy. “You two men got any ideas? I’m hungry, and there ain’t no lunch now, thanks to crack baby here.”
“Was a store a ways back,” said Billy.
“We drive to the store, we lose our parking spot,” said Mr. Fillman, taking a seat in one of the two chairs and kicking off his black shoes but leaving his black socks on.
“Then someone ought to walk it. Someone who made the mistake in the first place,” said Mrs. Fillman, staring down at Marisol, who still knelt on the blanket with her head bent over the closed cooler.
Griselda thought of all the nights Marisol had brushed her hair, braiding it distractedly as she told Griselda her dreams of being a hairdresser one day. She thought of all the times that Marisol had stepped in when Billy was pinching her or tormenting her. All Marisol wanted was to sit in the sun today. Well, Griselda could help make that dream come true.
“I’ll go, Miz Fillman,” she volunteered. “I don’t mind the walk.”
“Huh,” her foster mother huffed, turning to look at Griselda with a mix of annoyance and surprise. “You’ll go, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. The store was only a mile and a half back. That wasn’t too far away. She could make it there and back in an hour and still have the whole afternoon to dip her feet in the Shenandoah.
Marisol looked up at Griselda, her eyes bright with tears, and mouthed, Thanks, kid.
Griselda nodded at her friend before turning back to the Fillmans. Mr. Fillman’s aluminum chair creaked as he shifted to free his wallet from his pocket. The five-dollar bill he handed Griselda was wrinkled, warm, and limp.
“Loaf of bread, bologna, cheese,” instructed Mrs. Fillman. “You got extra, get some mayonnaise. You got that?”
“Bologna again?” complained Mr. Fillman, tenting a piece of newspaper over his face.
“Ya get what ya get, and ya don’t get upset,” snapped Mrs. Fillman before turning back to Griselda expectantly.
“Bread, bologna, and cheese,” she confirmed. “Mayo if possible.”
“Mayo if possible,” mimicked Mrs. Fillman, whisking her hand at Griselda. “Go, then. Don’t dawdle.”
“I’ll, uh, g-g-go too.”
Griselda turned to where Holden was standing just behind her. She was surprised to hear his voice, surprised he’d spoken up, surprised he wanted to go.
“Fine,” said Mrs. Fillman, settling her considerable girth down on the blanket beside Billy, who was staring at three teenage girls sunbathing nearby. She put her hand on Billy’s bare thigh and said, “Hurry up. Mr. Fillman’s gonna be hungry after his nap.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Griselda, her eyes lingering on Mrs. Fillman’s hand for an extra beat before turning to walk away, with Holden by her side.