The Perfect Place Page 2

  We had been in the Cedar Hills, New Jersey, apartment for almost eight months, longer than we’d stayed in the two before it. Mom had even unpacked everything. She’d never done that before. She usually unpacked what we needed—clothes for the season, silverware—and left everything else in boxes. But when we’d been in the apartment for six months, she unpacked the pictures and hung them along the hallway wall. By the time Dad started to talk about sunlight, the boxes had been broken down, tied up, and left outside for recycling.

  “It’s an issue of warmth,” Dad said, more to himself than to us. “Can’t even feel the heat half the time.”

  We could hear it, though. The radiators worked overtime, clanging, banging, and burping up steam, but I still had to wear my gray hoodie inside when the temperature outside went below sixty degrees.

  “So, we bundle up, learn to adjust,” Mom said quickly. She grabbed her water glass and raised it in a toast. “To learning to adjust.”

  We clinked glasses, everyone except Dad, who said, “Florida,” and slapped his hand down flat on the dining room table.

  “That’s where Mickey lives!” Tiffany cried.

  “Yes!” Dad said. “And you know what else Florida’s got?” He looked at Mom, who looked down at her plate. We’d gone from Newburgh, New York, to Wilmington in favor of Delaware’s cheaper rent, and from Delaware to Philadelphia because Dad wanted to see more black and brown faces, and then to Cedar Hills, New Jersey, where Dad had been certain we would stay.

  “Florida’s got summertime, all year round.” He laughed. “I can see it now. I’ll go on ahead and get a job working outside, independently. Wouldn’t have to answer to anyone.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Mom asked.

  That’s what it had been about when we left Philadelphia. Mr. High-on-His-Horse Helmond, who ran the autobody shop, had called Dad something that meant he had to quit on the spot, pack up the car that day, and move us to Cedar Hills.

  Dad went on as though he hadn’t heard Mom. “I’d find us a place a few miles from the beach, maybe in Miami. A new place for the Aggregate, with palm trees in the yard. What do you say, Treasure?”

  That’s what Dad called the four of us, an aggregate, a whole formed by blending different elements. I leaned forward in my seat, giving Dad 100 percent of my attention and shutting out Mom’s scrunched-up face.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “Yeah, let’s go!” Tiffany said.

  “Enough! We’re not moving to Miami!” Mom yelled. “It’s expensive, and we can barely afford to live here.” She stared at Dad as if she didn’t recognize him. “I can’t believe you’re doing this again. I just can’t. You’re—” She stopped, shook her head.

  Dad’s voice dropped low. “Go on, Lisa, tell me what I am.”

  Mom said nothing.

  Dad slammed his hand on the table again, but this time there was no joy in it. I jumped. Tiffany jumped. The silverware on the table jumped too.

  “You’re a dreamer and a coward who can’t face the reality of his own life,” Mom said, and hate erupted inside of me like lava. Tiffany started banging her feet against her chair. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Mom pressed on, relentless. Dad taught me that word too.

  “So you’d just go down ahead of us, get this outside job, set up house, and send for us when you’re ready, huh?”

  Dad nodded.

  “Of course,” Mom said. She stood and carried her plate to the kitchen. She was always telling us we had to take at least five bites of whatever was on our plates. Even if it was spider legs and fish tails. That night it was chicken, mashed potatoes, and collard greens. I wasn’t sure Mom had taken even two bites.

  She stood at the sink. “You know what I think?” she said.

  “No,” said Dad quietly. “But I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

  “I am.” Mom whirled around. “I think you’ll go to Miami to set up house and we’ll never hear from you again.”

  A feeling rose in my throat like I was trying to swallow a pill without water.

  “That’s not true, is it, Dad?” I asked.

  “Is it?” Tiffany chimed in. Her eyes were big and shiny as half dollars.

  After a pause, Dad said, “Of course it’s not true. Your mama’s just talking crazy because . . . Well, why are you, Lisa?”

  “It’s not me who’s crazy,” Mom said, and then there was a silence so thick it felt like you had to wade through it. I couldn’t stand it. I cleared my throat.

  “Do you need your inhaler?” Mom asked.

  I shook my head.

  Dad got up from the table and went to sit on the living room couch. I followed. Tiffany hesitated, but she came at last and climbed into Dad’s lap. I had to settle for sitting beside him. I rested my head on his shoulder. We didn’t say anything while Mom cleared the table. I listened to Dad breathe, evenly at first, then harder through his nose, until at last he heaved a great sigh.

  “Up,” he said, and climbed out from beneath us.

  He started for the door.

  “You act like we’re a burden to some other life you want to live,” Mom said to his back.

  He didn’t answer. I knew where he was going: downstairs to sit on our building’s back stoop. Dad turned. His eyes and shoulders seemed to droop as he stared at the three of us. As if we truly were too heavy for him to bear.

  “I’m just trying to find the right place for us,” he said. “The perfect place.”

  I believed him.

  Four

  MOM pulls onto the parkway and jerks the Explorer into the center lane. She leans on the driver’s-side door, staring straight ahead. The road rumbles beneath us, and I wonder about the other people out driving tonight. People coming, people going, just like us. Only I have no idea where we’re headed or when we’ll get there.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “For God’s sake, Treasure, don’t start with the questions already. I need to get my head together first.”

  My mind starts whirring. I tick off on my fingers all the places we could go.

  Dad sister’s house in Minnesota, but Mom called Aunt Ruby a month after Dad left to see if he’d gone to her house, and Aunt Ruby said, “Of course he’s not here.” And then she added, “What is it about you that my brother keeps running away from?” Mom recounted this conversation to me, word for word, and then called Aunt Ruby, Dad, and his entire side of the family a bunch of words she made me swear never to repeat.

  Mom’s aunt Grace has a place down south somewhere, but Mom and Dad haven’t visited her since Mom was pregnant with Tiffany and I was four. According to Dad, when they got to Great-Aunt Grace’s house, there was a note on her front door that said, “Locked up. Local jail. Bring money.” After bailing Great-Aunt Grace out, Mom and Dad spent the next two days at her house, where Great-Aunt Grace spent nearly every waking moment asking Dad when he planned to get himself together. Dad vowed never to go back.

  I have ticked off two places we can’t go. There aren’t any left.

  We have nowhere to go.

  The realization hits me like a punch to the chest, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I reach into my pocket for my inhaler and take two puffs. My breathing slows, but my mind does not.

  Tiffany lifts her head from my lap. “Why can’t we just go back? I wanna go back.”

  “No going back,” Mom says.

  “But what about Rachel and Wednesday tea parties?” Tiffany whines. “And who’s gonna help Sam feed her hermit crabs?”

  “It’s over, all of it, Tiffany, and you can thank your father for that.”

  Tiffany buries her face in my lap again. It’s not long before I feel her hot tears on my legs. A lump forms in my throat. I close my eyes and swallow hard. Mom slams on the brakes, and my eyes snap open. She lays into the horn and bangs her hand on the steering wheel.

  “He can’t do this to me!” she shouts. Tiffany sits up and looks at me, her face streaked with tears and snot. “Can’t just
up and leave me with two kids and no money.”

  Mom presses on the gas, almost kissing the bumper of the car in front of her until the driver gets the hint and moves out of her way. We pass a sign that says the speed limit is 55 miles per hour. I can tell Mom is going much faster than that.

  “Maybe we should slow down,” I suggest.

  “Are you a state trooper now, Treasure?” she snaps. Then she sighs and says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the dictionary, too, and about your friends, Tiffany, but it’s not my fault. You know that, right? You know whose fault this is, don’t you?”

  Tiffany curls up in a ball beside me. “I’m hungry,” she says.

  “I wouldn’t be doing this—any of this—if your father hadn’t left me high and dry. I swear to God—”

  “Mom,” I cut in. “Tiffany said she’s hungry.”

  Mom glances at us in the rearview mirror. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get something to eat, then.”

  Mom pulls into the right lane, looking for something to eat along the highway. We pass a Popeyes and an Olive Garden, both closed. It’s after eleven o’clock at night. She gets off a few exits past the mall and drives around until we find a Gas & Grab, or As & Gab, if you go by the letters that still light up. Dad took us to the Gas & Grab over by our old apartment a few times. He always let Tiffany get a hero sandwich that was too big for her to finish, which is why she marches right up to this Gas & Grab’s sandwich station and starts punching her order into the machine. Mom orders two more six-inch subs, totaling $15.56. Then she pulls out the credit card she uses only in emergencies, the rainy-day card. She lets Tiffany swipe it.

  Declined.

  “There was money on this a week ago,” Mom says. She takes the card from Tiffany and swipes it again. Declined. She rubs the spot between her eyes. The man behind the deli counter looks up at us and then back down at his magazine. He probably didn’t feel like making our sandwiches anyway.

  “Come on, let’s get something cheaper,” Mom says.

  “But I—” Tiffany says.

  “I said, come on.”

  Tiffany stomps her foot. “Daddy always lets me have a sandwich.”

  “Well, your father isn’t here, is he? Now, let’s go.” Mom walks away, her head down and her shoulders hunched.

  I follow her. We make it to the racks of chips before I realize that Tiffany is not with us. I turn. She’s still standing by the sandwich machine, her hands balled up in fists, her mouth open wide as the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. She lets out a wail that could shatter glass.

  Mom runs over to grab her, but Tiffany bends at the waist and pulls back, all the while howling, “I want Daddy!” over and over again, until the words don’t sound like words anymore. Not letting go of Tiffany’s hand, Mom reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. She hands it to me and says, “Grab something.” Then she picks Tiffany up and carries her out of the store, leaving me behind with eleven dollars in singles and the sandwich guy, who peers at me over the counter, shrugs, and says, “The sandwiches here suck, anyway.”

  I buy a big bag of chips, three cans of soda, and some Peanut M&M’s. The cashier hands me back $4.27 in change, and as I stare at it nestled in the palm of my hand, panic grabs me by the throat. What if this is all the money we have left?

  “Is it all right?” the cashier asks.

  No. Nothing about our lives is all right. The cashier points at the change. “Is it all there?”

  I nod and leave the store.

  Five

  WHEN I get back to the car, Tiffany is curled up in the back seat. She’s not wailing, but she’s not done crying, either. Mom is sitting beside her, holding Mr. Teddy Daniels.

  “Okay, so, Mr. Teddy D. was walking down the street,” Mom says. “Look, Tiffany, look at him walking.” Tiffany raises her head. Mom makes Mr. Teddy D. hop across the seat. It’s all wrong. Only Dad knows how to do it right.

  “That’s not how he’s supposed to walk. He’s a bear, not a bunny,” Tiffany says.

  “O-kay.” Mom adjusts Teddy’s hop to a more suitable walk. “So, he’s just walking along when he comes upon this pile of poop.”

  “No. He’s not supposed to see the poop,” Tiffany whines. She covers her face with her hands and starts crying all over again. “I. Want. Daddy.”

  “All right, Tiffany,” Mom says, stroking her hair, but Tiffany is too far gone to stop now. “It’ll be all right, Tiff-Tiff,” Mom says, louder now, her voice laced with panic. It’s still no use. Tiffany’s wails fill up the car until Mom squeezes her eyes shut and shouts, “Look, Tiffany, we’ll find him, all right? We’ll find Daddy.”

  Tiffany sucks in a deep, shuddery breath. “We will?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “I’ll figure something out,” Mom says. “Lord knows he’s not gonna get away with leaving me like this.” She reaches for the door handle. “Come back here and cheer your sister up. I need to make a phone call.”

  I climb into the back and pry Mr. Teddy D. out of Tiffany’s death grip.

  “So,” I say, “one day Mr. Teddy D. was walking down the street.”

  I make him look like he’s walking the way Dad does, the tips of his tattered plaid feet skimming the seat. Tiffany watches him, quiet now.

  “He was just walking along, whistling. Doo-dee-doo-dee-doo.” I say this last bit in a high-pitched voice because I can’t whistle. Tiffany doesn’t seem to mind.

  “He didn’t even see it: a big old brown glob of poop. Doo-dee-doo-dee-doo—whoops! He slipped right in that poop and up he went. Splat!”

  I make Mr. Teddy D. soar up in the air and land flat on his back. Tiffany sniffles, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She lives for the moment when he falls in that poop.

  “Again,” she whispers.

  I run through Mr. Teddy Daniels’s skit four more times before Tiffany cracks a smile. Not quite a standing ovation, but I’ll take it. I climb into the front seat and Tiffany follows, planting herself firmly on the armrest, just as Mom gets into the car. She leans back in her seat and runs her index finger down the part in her hair. I want to ask her who she called and will they help us find Dad, but I don’t.

  “I’m still hungry,” Tiffany says.

  I hand her the bag of snacks and she goes right for the Peanut M&M’s and a can of Sprite.

  Mom watches her. “Didn’t you get anything besides junk?” she asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “They had fruit cups in that fridge in the far corner.”

  “I didn’t see them. I can go back in and—”

  “It’s too late now,” Mom says as Tiffany tears open the M&M’s. I reach into my pocket and hand Mom the change.

  She doesn’t count the money. She just balls it up in her hand.

  “Is that it?” I ask.

  “Is what it?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  We sit in the parking lot, not talking, the silence heavy and uncomfortable, like a coat I can’t shrug off.

  “Mom,” I say, but she holds her free hand up, palm out, and says, “Just give me a minute to figure this out.”

  In the end it is more than a minute before she mutters, “It’s the only way,” and puts on her seat belt. Tiffany climbs into the back and buckles up. I strap myself in next to Mom. Mom dumps the change into the cup holder, turns the car on, and puts in her old-school-jams CD. Billie Holiday fills the car, crooning, “Baby, won’t you please come home” in a voice like worn leather. We’ve heard this song a thousand times. Mom taps her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the rhythm, and Tiffany almost drowns Billie out, singing at the top of her voice in falsetto.

  Mom puts the car in drive and pulls back out onto the highway. A million questions tug at my mind, but Tiffany is smiling now and we’re going to find Dad, just like Mom said. So I sing along with Billie and keep myself from asking Mom how we’re going to do that with three-quarters of a tank of gas and four dollars and twent
y-seven cents.

  Six

  I fall asleep on some stretch of highway. When I wake up, the sun is up and we’re on a road. A dirt road big enough for only two cars. The clock on the dashboard reads 5:46 a.m. The Explorer rocks us to and fro, rattling the change in Tiffany’s Disney Fund. Tiffany sits up sleepily and asks, “Where are we?”

  “I’m all turned around,” Mom mutters. She pulls over to the side of the dirt road.

  “All turned around where?” I ask, but Mom ignores me.

  “If my memory serves me correctly,” she murmurs to herself, “Iron Horse Road is . . .”

  Mom throws the car into drive, as if she’s suddenly figured something out. She makes a left at the next corner, and for a moment we’re on a paved street. Then she turns again, and we’re bumping along another dirt road.

  “Is this Iron Horse?” she says, peering into the rearview mirror. “I didn’t see a street sign or anything. Did you?”

  “Who lives here?” I ask. “Is this the country?”

  “It’s not really country country,” Mom says, and slams on the brakes as a woman darts across the road in front of her. The woman’s wearing a long flowered housedress and a big sun hat, and carrying a stack of papers.

  “Is that lady crazy?” Tiffany asks.

  “Country crazy,” I answer. “Where are we, Mom?”

  “Black Lake, Virginia.”

  “And who lives here?”

  Mom sets her jaw. “Great-Aunt Grace.”

  “What? Why are we here?”

  “I need money to find your father, don’t I? Great-Aunt Grace owns her own store, which means she has money.”

  Tiffany pokes her head between our seats. “Is she the lady you make us talk to every Christmas, the one who sounds like a man on the phone?” she asks. “She calls me ‘girl.’ My name is Tiffany Onika Daniels, not girl. How would she feel if I called her ‘old lady’?”

  “Don’t you dare,” Mom says.

  As we drive, we pass little boxes. You could call them houses if you were generous with the meaning of the word. They’re all one-story and look like something Tiffany would draw. On the other side of the road is nothing but trees, thick and dark. Their leaves and branches throw spiked shadows on the road.