Over Yonder, page 9
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Caroline and Tater helped Jack Jr. out to his truck. Caroline put her arm around his waist and muscled him through the parking lot.
“Come on,” she said to Jack Jr. “Let’s get you home. You need food on your stomach. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“What about me?” said Tater. “I haven’t eaten all day either.”
“Can we worry about you later?” she said.
“I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s just a little stoned.”
Caroline helped Jack Jr. into his enormous Chevy Silverado. The tricked-out truck featured LCD television screens embedded in the back seats, a stereo system that was barely legal, and a pair of rubberized bovine testes dangling from the trailer hitch.
Jack Jr. sat slumped in the passenger seat with his head pressed against the window. He was drooling.
“Caroline,” he muttered, his voice garbled with thick spit. “What am I gonna do without my baby girl?”
“You’ll figure something out.”
“My baby girl!”
“Try to breathe.”
Jack Jr. reached out his meaty hand and grabbed her necklace. His lazy eyes focused on the pendant. “Where’d you get this?”
Caroline said nothing.
“This isn’t yours.”
She removed the necklace from his hands.
Caroline slammed the door on him. She placed the truck keys into Tater’s hand and said, “Do not let him drive this truck. Make sure he gets home safe and don’t speed. There are cops all over this area.”
Tater looked at the keys. “How are you going to get home?”
She pointed to the Honda. “I’ll take the Rolls.”
He laughed. “You’re kidding me.”
She didn’t even dignify his remark. She held out her hand. “Give me your keys. I don’t have energy for this.”
“You’re crazy. You’re not driving my car. That’s a classic. Get in the flippin’ truck, woman.”
“Or you could just tell him.”
“I pay the insurance on that car,” she said. “Now give me your keys.”
Tater did no such thing. He only laughed, then began crawling into Jack Jr.’s truck. “Get in. We’re leaving.”
“You’re seriously going to do this to me?”
“Get in.”
“Or you could just tell him.”
“On the day of my mother’s funeral? You’re going to do this?”
“Go to hell, Caroline.”
“What am I supposed to do, walk home in the snow?”
Tater nestled into the truck’s driver’s seat. “You can either ride home with me or you can stay here. Your choice. You’re not driving my car, Stevie Wonder.”
“You owe me better than this.”
“I don’t owe you jack.”
“I’m carrying your son.”
Tater’s mouth quit moving. His eyes moved to her belly. He held his gaze there. If he had a morsel of humanity in him, she had touched it.
“My what?”
“Your son.”
He was still for a few moments. Then he reached into his pocket and handed her the keys. But not without issuing a stern warning first.
“Be careful with my freaking car,” he said, gripping her wrist.
She tugged her wrist free. “I’ll be sure not to scratch it.”
Chapter 14
Caroline entered the IHOP with a blast of snow and cold air. The teenage hostess greeted her without even looking up from her phone.
“How many?” said the hostess.
“I’m meeting someone,” said Caroline, already standing on her toes, scanning the dining room full of heads.
The carpet in the IHOP was bacterial-infection green. The walls bore evidence of a lifetime of deep-frying. The music overhead was Reba, singing about hard times as only a redheaded cross-eyed millionaire could. There was a chalkboard next to the hostess station. The breakfast special was “Frinch Toast.” You had to love Tennessee.
Caroline found them in the back. She walked across the restaurant and slid into the booth next to Amos Barker, across from Woody Barker, without saying anything. She plopped her backpack onto the floor beside her and took off her mittens. They both looked at her with a kind of happy, astonished stare.
“You came,” Amos said, sipping coffee.
“I like coffee,” she replied.
“There are a lot of other places to get coffee,” said Woody.
“Yeah,” said Amos. “But none of them have Frinch toast.”
Woody looked at Amos. “I wish you hadn’t invited her.” Then he looked to her. “I’m afraid I won’t be very good company today. Maybe we can talk later. Maybe you should choose another table.”
Amos gave Woody a look that could have melted steel. Caroline removed her jacket and rolled it into a ball beside her.
“No, thanks. This table suits me fine.”
Woody sighed. “It’s just that today’s been a long day for me.”
“Really. Well, I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”
The old man laughed and patted her knee. “Hey, I like this kid.”
Woody went back to staring at his menu.
Amos whispered loudly, “Don’t let him bother you, sweetie. Woody is what they refer to in the zoological community as a turd.” The old man laughed at his own remark, then draped an arm around her and pulled her close. “She’s cute!”
Woody glanced up from his menu long enough to flash annoyance.
The waitress came. A wholesome-looking girl. High school age. Perfect teeth. Perfect eyes. She probably had two working parents, one-point-five siblings, stuffed animals on her bed, and a dog named Bella or Luna.
Caroline ordered coffee. Black. That was all she planned on ordering, but before the waitress could get away, the old man stepped in and ordered Caroline a large breakfast without even asking whether she wanted one or whether she was hungry. He ordered eggs, toast, pancakes, the works.
“Why did you do that?” Caroline asked as the waitress walked away.
He patted her knee again. “I’m eighty-seven years old, sweetie. Not everything I do makes sense.”
Caroline excused herself from the table to refill Gary’s jar with fresh water from the ladies’ room. When she returned, she placed Gary’s Hellmann’s jar on the table beside the napkin dispenser. Gary swam around, whipping his tail, looking energized and refreshed. The two men ogled the fish on the table.
“Nice fish,” Amos said.
“Thanks.”
“You carry a goldfish everywhere you go?” asked Woody.
“Not everywhere,” she said.
“Good for you,” said Amos. “You have to set your boundaries.”
After a few conversationless minutes, the waitress placed hot breakfasts before them all.
Woody used a fork to cut his “Frinch” toast, then drowned it in maple-ish syrup. The old man was tucking into a plate of eggs and bacon as though he had not eaten since the reign of Nixon. And Caroline was realizing how famished she was as she got to work on her food.
“Are you going to tell us why you have a goldfish at the breakfast table?” asked Woody.
“Leave her alone,” said Amos. “It’s her emotional support fish.”
Woody looked at the fish. “What’s its name?”
“Gary.”
“Why Gary?” said Woody.
“Why’s your name Woody?”
Amos salted his hash browns. “Because the twenty-eighth president was the greatest military leader of our time. God rest his soul.”
Woody reached into his coat pocket and removed a folded manila envelope. He tossed the envelope on the table between them. Caroline stared at the envelope. She wiped her sticky hand on a napkin, then used her thumb to open the package. Inside was a stack of photos. The images were snapshots of her mother’s youth. Faded images of Melinda from another era. Outmoded fashions, corny hairstyles, dated eyeglasses. Woody was in many of the photos too. In the later photos, Woody was wearing a white clerical collar. His hair was red in the photos, just like Caroline’s.
She held the picture closer.
One of the photos showed a wedding. Woody was a younger man in the image, with more meat on his bones. He was wearing a wash-and-wear tux. In the image, her mother was locking arms with Woody, dressed in a ʼ90s-era miniskirt wedding dress. She did not look like an addict in this picture. She looked like Miss Small Town. And a weighty realization fell upon her.
“You were married?” she asked.
“Eleven years.”
“And you’re a priest?”
“Was.”
“I thought priests couldn’t marry,” said Caroline.
“Believe me,” said Amos, “judging from this idiot’s track record, they shouldn’t.”
She looked closer at the photo and felt herself getting lightheaded. The room was moving sideways, and she was nauseous.
“Deep breaths,” Amos said. “Don’t pass out on us, darling. We don’t know the first thing about raising goldfish.”
Caroline looked at the old man, then to Woody.
“You’re my dad?”
Woody’s eyes were on the table.
Amos took a sip. “And she’s smart too.”
Chapter 15
Caroline pulled the Honda into the driveway at nine o’clock in the evening after spending the afternoon driving around with neither destination nor objective in mind. Her eyes had been giving her problems in the dim, overcast weather. She had nearly caused not one but three separate traffic accidents. More from lack of practice than lack of ability, but still.
A special education teacher from the state had visited school twice a week to teach Caroline to drive because of her disability. She had learned to use visual cues to judge distance, to move her head from side to side to maintain a broader range of vision.
But it had been a while since driver’s ed.
Jack Jr. and Tater were in the yard, seated before a roaring bonfire of automotive tires sending purple flames into the night sky, stinking up the tri-county area with the smell of sulfur and synthetic rubber. Tater was scrolling TikTok. Jack Jr. was also playing on his phone, watching Is It Cake?, the hit streaming series wherein cake artists create replicas of handbags, sewing machines, and musical instruments.
“Where the hell have you been?” Tater shouted, rising from his seat. His speech was inarticulate, devoid of edges and consonants. The words seemed to flop out of his mouth.
Caroline ignored him and walked toward the trailer. She couldn’t find words to respond to him. She had been through too much today.
“Caroline!” he called out. “I’m talking to you!”
Tater tried to follow her but fell over.
Jack Jr. laughed.
She paid the two drunk men no attention and instead went to feed the cats. Then she walked inside, let the screen door slam, and prepared supper for the guys because she knew they had not eaten all day.
Soon they sat before the fire, eating SpaghettiOs from coffee mugs in absolute silence.
After supper, Jack Jr. staggered inside for a few moments. She heard him rummaging through the cabinets, muttering to himself. He reemerged on the porch holding a bottle of port wine, declaring that it was time to celebrate the memory of Melinda Boyer.
Jack Jr. poured the wine into coffee mugs. The cups were old and stained from years of use. Jack Jr. was first to toast. He made a speech that contained words that were incomprehensible except for smatterings of the F-bomb. The guys drank to Melinda. Jack Jr. downed his glass in one swig and lost consciousness. Tater took a slug from his cup. Then he offered the wine to Caroline.
“No thanks.” She shook her head. “I don’t want any.”
“Come on, Caroline. A sip won’t hurt.”
“No. I don’t want any wine.”
Tater pressed his mug toward her, sloshing wine over the rim. “Do it for your mom. She’d want you to celebrate her life.”
“I can celebrate her life without drinking wine. I’m pregnant.”
Tater wrinkled his face comically and looked at Jack Jr. for moral support. “And?”
“And being pregnant means I can’t drink.”
Tater was growing increasingly agitated. “Even one sip?”
She shoved him away. “I don’t even like wine.”
Tater pushed her back. He told her to drink it. It was no longer a request.
“I said no.”
Caroline turned to go inside, but Tater chased her. Caught her in a headlock.
“Get off me!” she yelled.
Tater was already spinning her around, her head beneath his sweaty arm, as she swatted at him with both hands.
“Let me go!”
Tater laughed wildly. Jack Jr. woke up and returned to scrolling on his phone.
And then time began to slow down. Maybe it was because of the funeral. Funerals do funny things to people. Or maybe it was because she had just met her biological father and grandfather. Maybe it was because a lot of life had happened in the past few days. Either way, looking back, Caroline would later realize the choice she was about to make changed everything.
It began when the blind cat wrapped himself around Caroline’s lower leg. The cat was purring, begging for food.
In one swift motion, Tater released Caroline, then stooped to pick up the cat. He pitched the cat against the side of the trailer like he was passing a football. The cat’s little body crashed against the sheet metal trailer. The cat screamed. And when the animal hit the ground, it scurried off, running headfirst into every obstacle in its way.
Caroline felt a great heat building inside her, rising to the surface. She rushed toward Tater, screaming at the top of her voice. She was imbued with a strength she never knew she possessed. She knocked the mug from his hands. The cup flew through the air. Red wine went airborne, like a bouquet of roses.
Tater was too stunned to react.
She hit him. Not once, but twice. Three times. Four times. Five. Six.
Tater was not passive for long. He used the back of his hand to strike her. He connected with her cheekbone with a blow so stiff it knocked her backward.
“Don’t you ever touch me again!” he screamed.
Then he crawled atop her and began cuffing her face. Over and again. He was small but strong enough to keep her pinned to the ground. The next thing she knew, he had come up with a wine bottle and was shoving it between her lips and pouring.
“Drink it!” he shouted.
She gagged on the wine as he wedged the bottle’s mouth between her closed lips, pressing her skull into the hard earth. Bitter gall drained all over her face, into her eyes, and up her nostrils. Crimson ran over her new funeral clothes. All over the ground. All over her hair.
When he had emptied the contents, he lobbed the bottle into the darkness. She heard it thud in the weeds.
Then Tater grabbed the pendant of her necklace and yanked until the necklace snapped off her neck. He wobbled up the steps into the trailer and slammed the door behind him. The last thing she heard him say was, “White trash.”
Chapter 16
It’s weird how certain things stick with you. The first time anyone ever called Caroline white trash, she was twelve. One of the boys at school said it. This boy was not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree of life—the proverbial wheel was spinning, but the hamster was dead. But it stuck nonetheless. He said it during physical education class. That godless period in childhood when kids are compelled to wear a uniform consisting of butt-hugging nylon gym shorts, dorky white tennis shoes, and a sausage-casing white T-shirt. Everyone, even international supermodels, looks like a schnoz-whistle in a gym class uniform.
On the back of Caroline’s gym T-shirt, a qualified parent was supposed to have spelled her last name with vinyl, iron-on, alphabet letters. It was a simple procedure. Line up the letters; iron them on. Everyone else’s parents had no problems with this task. But purchasing heat-transfer lettering from Hobby Lobby was a bridge too far for Melinda Boyer. Instead, her mother spelled Caroline’s name on the T-shirt with black Sharpie marker. It bears mentioning that it is extremely difficult—if not impossible—to write on cotton-polyester blend with a Sharpie. The material moves beneath the marker. So the surname BOYER came out looking more like BOV8K$, as though the name had been crafted by a drunk. Which, of course, it had.
Plus, her mother bought the wrong size T-shirt, so the shirt clung to Caroline’s developing figure like a layer of latex paint, showing every imperfection of her chubby adolescent frame. Caroline did not own an adequate bra because her mother refused to acknowledge that her daughter was becoming a woman. So she wore a trainer that dug into her skin, making huge divots beneath the shirt.
The boys had a field day with her. They called her horrible names. They made lewd gestures. The nicknames mutated from “Miss Nipple” to “Quarter Pounder,” and finally they settled on plain old “White Trash.”
The only ones who don’t believe there is a fixed social hierarchy system in this country are the ones located at the top of such a system. The American caste system can operate under many names: racism, classism, sexism, elitism, ageism, colorism, homophobia, Latinophobia, fatphobia. But it’s all the same thing.
Until that moment in gym class, Caroline had never known she was white trash. She had heard the term before, yes. But she never applied it to herself. She had always thought she was a regular person. Until the other kids started calling her White Trash, she hadn’t truly understood who or what she was. A mouse doesn’t know it’s a mouse. A bird doesn’t realize it’s a bird. It just is.
She began to assess her life, and things began to make sense. The bullies were right. She was indeed one of the few unfortunate kids in the middle school without running water, without food in the fridge, without real shoes, without a laptop or Wi-Fi or anything technological save for a digital watch. For crying out loud, her mother didn’t even have a home phone. Or an operational toilet, for that matter. She was the only kid without a smartphone in her class. How bad off did you have to be not to have a phone? Even homeless people had Facebook accounts. Oh, what Caroline would have given for even a flip phone. Or a beeper, for God’s sake. Anything would have been better than nothing. But nothing was what she had.
