Finding Home Read online

  “It’s no trouble. The yard’s barely a block out of my patrol area. Besides, it’s part of my job to help folks.”

  “Then maybe it’d be better if you led the way.”

  The trooper squinted, suspicion flaring. “Why?”

  “We just got into town this mornin’,” Phoebe said. “We ain’t been to the junkyard yet. When the bumper fell off, Gage came and got it. We were followin’ him, but I got lost ‘cause of Willie-Boy here, a-squirming something awful on account of a full bladder...” She trailed off and closed her mouth. Casting her eyes down she held all the air in her lungs and pressed to make her face go red; mention of body functions and such never did have the effect of making her blush. She canted a furtive look at the officer. Her demure look and her flaming face were having the desired effect.

  “Right,” he said. “But, you stay close now.”

  Phoebe was torn between holding her breath and smiling at him. Need of air won. “Yessir.” She pulled out behind the cruiser, sighing relief when the twirling red light went dark.

  “We’re in trouble sure,” announced Maydean. “All them lies you told, Phoebe. That cop’s gonna know soon’s we get to the junkyard.”

  “You go to hell if you tell lies, Ma said,” piped Willie-Boy, gazing at Phoebe as if she would go up in flames any minute, or at least get hit by flying brimstone.

  “We didn’t get a ticket, did we?” Phoebe said, justifying her actions. “We’re bein’ led right to where our bumper and tag is, ain’t we? Besides, everybody’s brothers in the eyes of the Lord. Says so right in the Bible. If you have brothers, stands to reason, don’t it, you got aunts and uncles and cousins?”

  Maydean giggled. “Maybe us and G. G. Morgan are kissin’ cousins.”

  Phoebe threw her sister a sharp glance. “You keep talkin’ that way, Maydean, I’ll slap you. And get your hair off the top of your head like that. You look like a worn-out tart.”

  The twelve-year-old sniffed. “You oughta see what yours looks like. Red hairs are crawling outa that knot atop your head so fast, they look like they’re running from a cootie convention.”

  “I had cooties once, didn’t I, Phoebe? Ma shaved my head and rubbed it down with kerosene. Burned somethin’ fierce, I recall.”

  “Hush talkin’ about lice, Willie-Boy. Help me keep that cruiser in view.” Phoebe shot another glance at Maydean. If she’d had her druthers, she’d ‘ve taken Erlene on this trip instead of Maydean, even if she did have to point Erlene in every direction she meant for her to go. Maydean was ripening too fast. Phoebe briefly thought about ways to hold back nature. But thinking on Maydean was just using up energy better spent elsewhere at the moment.

  “We’re goin’ over the drawbridge again!” whooped Willie-Boy.

  “Look it the sailors on those boats,” cooed Maydean. Suddenly she thrust half her body out of the truck, threw up her hands and waved.

  Phoebe grabbed Maydean’s blouse and yanked her back. “Another stunt like that and I’ll put you on a bus back to Ma!”

  Maydean smirked. “You ain’t got the money for no bus ticket.”

  “I’ll find the money,” said Phoebe, her grinding tone so filled with resolution that Maydean appeared to believe her.

  Driving past the building where she’d been refused work, Phoebe kept her eyes straight ahead. Another three blocks and the patrol car slowed, turning onto a sandy road that was little more than a well-used path, rutted and grooved by far heavier vehicles. In some places the road went right up to the bayou’s edge, in others it zigzagged around boat yards and barge fitters and commercial net shops. Green and black nets sagged like larger-than-life spider webs from booms jutting thirty feet into the salty air. Far back on the landward side were seafood houses where signs advertised that crabs were boiled and picked, shrimp was packed, oysters were shucked.

  Phoebe eyed the seafood packagers with interest; the possibility that she might find work in one of them filled her with hope. Mayhap losing her bumper wasn’t such a bad thing after all. She never would’ve thought to drive down such an unpromising-looking back road.

  “The cop’s a turnin’ in,” Willie-Boy said excitedly. “Phoebe,” he gasped.

  “Look it! Look it all that good stuff. I see a bicycle. It ain’t got no wheels, but you could put some on it. Then I’d have me a bike. I allus wanted a bike.”

  “I can’t study a bike right now. I’m lookin’ for G. G. Morgan or his truck.” Phoebe set the brake, but didn’t shut off the motor. She gazed at the acres and acres of wrecked cars, boat ribs, tires and shapeless metal. “Piled up on good ground,” she muttered. “Why a man could clean all that trash off and plant a fair good crop of cotton or corn, or peanuts and make something of himself. Why, even me and Ma could make a go, had we land—” She caught herself prattling and clamped her lips closed. She had no call to talk like that—or dream, either. Not while she was square on property that belonged to a man as unlikely to share it as G. G. Morgan. Do first what first needs doin’, she told herself. Get rid of the police.

  Maydean opened her door. Willie-Boy scrambled over her and leaped from the truck. “Get back here,” Phoebe demanded. “Maydean, you let him out on purpose!”

  “He said he had to go to the bathroom.”

  “My foot! His nose is twitchin’ to explore worse’n a blue tick hound. Get after him. In this heat he’s liable to come down with an attack of asthma, and I ain’t got the time to fool with—”

  “He don’t like me pryin’ when he’s takin’ a leak.”

  The officer ambled her way. “Looks like Gage hasn’t got here yet,” he said.

  “No doubt he missed us behind him and doubled back. Sure as anything he did. He warned me to keep close. We sure are bein’ a peck of trouble. But now Gage will be mad enough to throw us out on our ear,” she said, in case he appeared suddenly and did just that.

  The radio in the patrol car began to crackle. The officer excused himself. “You’ll be okay now you’re here,” he said upon his return. “I’ve got to work an accident. You tell Gage I said hello.”

  “That’ll be the first thing I tell him,” agreed Phoebe. If she ever saw him again, which she hoped she didn’t. “You be careful, you hear,” she called to the trooper. “And, thanks.” She forced herself to sit still until the cruiser was out of sight. Then she had to spend a precious ten minutes locating her siblings.

  Maydean had found herself an old car with a mirror intact. Willie-Boy was sitting behind the wheel pretending he was a race car driver. They were frittering away time—carefree, without a thought in their heads as to how they were going to get decently sheltered and raised. No, they left that suffering to her. But the kids weren’t visible unless someone was to peer directly into the old car so Phoebe decided they’d be out of harm’s way for the few minutes she needed to scout the junkyard.

  She began looking for a place to park. A shady place and one that was not directly in view of anyone driving through the old gate. There was no sense alerting the junkyard’s owner that they were anywhere close by. At least not right off. If she found that there was no hope of reclaiming her bumper without Gage Morgan’s interference, surprise made negotiating easier. And one way or another, Phoebe meant to be one whale of a surprise to G. G. Morgan. Most probably he wasn’t a man used to having folks camp on his doorstep until they got what they wanted. With all that was at stake, Phoebe figured she could out camp and outsmart a truculent army of Huns. Gage Morgan was about to learn just how stalwart a Hawley could be.

  ~~~~

  Phoebe aimed the truck toward the rear of the yard. It looked to her as if G. G. Morgan lived smack-dab in the middle of his junk. Only the area around the weathered house was clear of rubble. Clear of saleable rubble that was, for the untended oasis was overgrown with chickweed, cat’s ears and beggar’s ticks. Shading the whole of it was a gnarled old tallow tree.

  She eyed the house and unkempt yard behind the ragged wooden fence with strong disapproval. It was a s
in the way some folks let things go down like that. Even the tallow tree looked dusty and beaten. Some folks, Phoebe thought, were just downright unappreciative of what the good Lord bestowed on them.

  Unbidden, envy and resentment swelled within Phoebe. Why, if she had a house like that…if she had a square yard for flowers and vegetables...if she had land...she could send for Ma and Pa and Erlene, get them out from under her brother Joey and his new wife, Vinnie. What with only a four-room house, Vinnie didn’t like the crowded conditions. She wore a permanent frown to prove it. Atop all that Vinnie was mean to Erlene. It wasn’t Erlene’s fault that she was loose-minded.

  The truck hit a deep rut. Phoebe let go the wishful thinking and put her mind back on her present predicament. She needed to hide the truck and find a vantage point from which to spy on G. G. Morgan. The instant he left his truck untended she meant to retrieve her bumper and be gone.

  She found a number of sheds and lean-tos, one of which was tilting precariously beyond the bulwark that held back a twisting saltwater estuary. Beyond the estuary, on the other side was the bayou that fed into the great expanse of the bay.

  Phoebe’s gaze went to the bay and farther, to the horizon. She had never seen the ocean. She had lived all her life in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains where cotton and corn fields backed up to thick evergreen forests made dark and mysterious by creeping kudzu vines that could encroach on a garden or climb a sixty-foot pine—and do it overnight, some old-timers swore. Not a speck of kudzu hereabouts, Phoebe noted. That’d make Ma happy.

  She backed the truck between two of the sheds, wedging in as far as she dared. Getting out of the driver’s seat, she wiped the sweat beads from her nose and forehead with a quick duck of her head in the crook of her bent arm. The wind blew, cooling her more. She sniffed, inhaling the rich smell of warm earth and salt marsh. The air was sweet and delicious. Honeysuckle blooming somewhere or blackberries mayhap. The idea of blackberries boiled up with sugar and dumplings made her mouth water.

  As she retraced her path on foot, she noted a coop, disused, the gate hanging. Lor! But she could see hens nesting, eggs gathered. Tomatoes and turnips sprouting where weeds grew. That one man owned so much—and did so little with it—was beyond comprehension. It was unholy.

  “What’re you doing out there?”

  Phoebe froze. Her eyes darted, looking for the source of the voice. There came a squeak of unoiled hinges. She looked to the back of the house and saw a child standing just inside the screened door. Phoebe approached the back porch. She didn’t know why, but she never expected the junkyard owner to have relations. More specifically she didn’t expect a wife or child. A stab of disappointment caused the image of sparking eyes and callused hands to flit through her mind. She should’ve suspected it, most hardworking men had already been spoken for.

  “I’m lookin’ for G. G. Morgan,” she said to the girl.

  “He’s not here.”

  The child, Phoebe could tell as she got closer, was about nine. She had an abundance of brown hair that needed brushing and a dirt-streaked, sunburned face that needed scrubbing. Altogether the girl looked as unkempt as the yard. Phoebe couldn’t countenance a straight-minded woman letting yard and house and child lag so. Even Erlene, as cloudy-minded as she was, could do better.

  “Is your ma here, then?” she asked.

  The eyes, thick-lashed as G. G. Morgan’s, became apprehensive. “No. She’s gone.”

  “Where to?”

  “Heaven.”

  “Oh.” That explained it. Child, yard and house didn’t have a woman’s touch. Logic carried Phoebe to the thought that neither did the man. Disappointment fled. Opportunity raised its head and looked Phoebe square in the face. Stepping onto the porch, she chased away logic before it had a chance to gel. The kitchen was visible through the screen. Dirty dishes were on the table, piled on the sink. Dust, so old it had lost its color, lay on every surface from windowsill to chair backs. Hungering for things she didn’t have, Phoebe itched to take up scrub brush and mop, just to have the feel of the familiar in her hands.

  The child was staring at her, Phoebe plumbed her mind for what to do or say. “Is G. G. Morgan your pa?”

  The girl nodded. “You’re not supposed to be in the backyard. You want something you have to pay for it around front.”

  “I was just on my way.” She couldn’t keep from asking, “Who tends to you when your pa ain’t here?”

  The child’s eyes shifted, the brooding stare becoming an angry glower. “I take care of myself. I don’t need nobody. Mind your own business.”

  Phoebe bristled. “You need boxin’ on the ears to teach you manners. It ain’t polite to talk to your elders that way.”

  “You’re not my elder. You look like a rag picker.”

  Phoebe gathered all five feet of herself into one proud and stiff frame. “That’s what I done all my working life until the mills shut down. When I see your pa, first thing I’m gonna tell him is that your tongue needs a set-to with Octagon soap.” She spun off the porch and went to locate Maydean and Willie-Boy. For certain she didn’t want them connecting with G. G. Morgan’s girl. Maydean and Willie-Boy were ornery enough without learning new ways to go about it.

  Maydean was still at the mirror, trying out different ways to pucker lips and flutter lashes. “Where’s Willie-Boy?” Phoebe asked.

  “Droolin’ over that bike.”

  “He ain’t. Maydean, I told you to watch your brother. Get outta there and help me look. No tellin’ what pile of junk he’s hidin’ behind or climbin’ about.”

  “It’s too hot to go huntin’ him up. I’m thirsty.”

  “Dead people don’t thirst, Maydean. And that’s what you’re gonna be if you don’t crawl outta that wreck and help me find Willie-Boy. I don’t want us in sight when Gage Morgan trots back here. I aim to slip our bumper and ride out like lightnin’.”

  “A mule walkin’ backwards can go faster than our old truck. He’ll catch us.”

  “It won’t do him any good. I aim to tape our license tag to the inside back window. If he catches up to us, we’ll just roll our windows up and outwait him. One thing I figure Gage Morgan don’t have is patience.”

  She called out for her brother, but met only silence.

  “He’s prob’ly playin’ hide ‘n’ seek,” suggested Maydean.

  “If he is, he’ll have to seek a new hide when I get done with him.”

  Phoebe’s own patience was wearing thin. She didn’t like Willie-Boy being out of her sight. The junkyard was rife with paths going every which way around heaps of old tires, wrecked cars and boats. All of which must look adventurous to a five-year-old with the urge to explore.

  To Phoebe every pile of rubble held danger. Willie-Boy could be suffocating under a mountain of old tires, lying broken beneath a slide of metal, dead in high weeds, snakebit. With a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she sent Maydean one way; she went another.

  She couldn’t help thinking that it had all been too easy. Outside of G. G. Morgan setting his sights on her bumper, being led straight here by the police when he could’ve just as easily given her a ticket, finding a good place to hide the truck... Things just don’t go easy for people and even if it did, something’s bound to come and spoil it.

  “Knew it!” she muttered when she found Willie-Boy draped over the prow of an old wooden boat on the bank of the estuary. He was suffering an attack of asthma and gasping for air. “It...come...on me...sudden,” he rasped.

  Phoebe’s spirit sagged. She was running out of money, hadn’t found a job, hadn’t found a house and she had two kids in hand to feed. One of whom had now gone and got sick. If the Lord is watching over me, where’s my share of help? she wondered, feeling a stab of pity for herself. But she felt sorrier for Willie-Boy. Asthma was a beast, a hungry beast, and it sapped his strength, took away his good times, kept him sitting up at night, kept him housed when he’d rather be playing, seeing to little-boy junkets and adve
ntures. The attacks scared him. He always thought he was going to die.

  “I’m going to pick you up, Willie-Boy,” she crooned. He hardly weighed more than a tubful of wet washing. “There’s a nice shady porch out back of that house yonder. Soon’s we get out outta this hot old sun, you’ll be fine.”

  Maydean’s path had led her back to the old car. Anxious to practice puckering again no doubt, Phoebe thought. Willie-Boy’s gasping was getting worse. She yelled at Maydean. “Don’t you even think once of climbin’ back in that wreck, Maydean Hawley! Get round here where I parked the truck and get the inhaler. Willie-Boy’s havin’ an attack.”

  Phoebe put Willie-Boy on the back porch, propping him against one of the supports. The terrible sucking sounds he made trying to draw in oxygen made her wince. His face was red and sweat was pouring off him. Hesitantly, the girl came out of the house and stood beside Phoebe. Interest had replaced her sullen expression.

  “What’re you doing? What’s wrong with him? You’re not supposed to be back here.”

  “I need a bowl of ice and a rag,” Phoebe told her. “A clean rag,” she added recalling the state of the kitchen.

  “My daddy won’t like—”

  Phoebe glared at the child. “You get me a bowl of ice and a clean rag. What your daddy might not like is my brother dyin’ right here on his back porch. Quick now,” she said more gently when the child’s eyes flared with fear. Maydean brought the inhaler. Phoebe shoved it in Willie-Boy’s mouth. It took him a half dozen good gasps to get the medication into his throat and down into his lungs. The terrible sucking sounds abated.

  “What’s your name?” Phoebe asked when the girl returned bearing ice cubes and a rag, gray and musty smelling.

  “Dorie Morgan.”

  “Well, you done good, Dorie Morgan.” Phoebe began to wipe Willie-Boy down with rag-wrapped ice. When he began to take interest in his surroundings, when she saw his gaze go curiously to the girl, she handed him the rag and told him to keep at it himself.