Most of the men in town wouldn’t play with her anymore, either out of pity for poor Hank Walker or because they didn’t like to gamble with a woman to begin with. My dad didn’t have any problem gambling with a woman and he flat out didn’t like Hank Walker, so he and Molly sat at our kitchen table playing five-card until it was so late it was morning again. Molly bet Hank’s tackle box. Dad bet his wrench set. Molly bet her winter coat and said she’d cut it down for me too. Dad bet his snow tires. Molly bet tuna casseroles every Friday for six months. Dad bet shoveling her roof all winter. Molly bet something in a low voice that made Dad blush. Dad bet his next paycheck. Molly bet the motorhome and called it a see and raise. Dad said since it didn’t even have a motor it was just a see and since it was so late he wanted to call it, and that’s how we got the motorhome.
Hank left Molly the next day. Took his tackle box before Dad could claim it. Dad got the idea that we could live in this motorless motorhome while he built a real house. “I just need to get us a spread of land,” he kept saying. I pictured someone taking a knife and spreading land out in front of us like peanut butter on a slice of bread.
The spread he finally found was at the dead end of a dirt road at the very edge of town. He bought it from Mrs. Varnick when her husband died. It was cheap for a reason. Seven acres without a good spot to build a house. There were outcroppings of bedrock and no easy place to lay pipes. Pine trees everywhere. It took my dad a year to clear brush and boulders and dig a well, two more to get a foundation in, but then he met Irene and the boy and stopped caring about making sure we got “our piece of the pie.” The foundation filled in like a swimming pool, drawing swarms of mosquitoes and a humongous snapping turtle. Then my dad stopped coming home altogether.
* * *
I try to write for almost an hour, but the only good rhyme for lies is skies, and I don’t want to give my dad the satisfaction. I hear him snoring from the bedroom, this honk-sheeeee noise that sounds like a cartoon. His Carhartt work jacket is wadded up in the booth and I know his truck keys and wallet will be in the inside pocket. I put his jacket on and decide to go stock up on groceries.
He’s parked all the way at the end of the driveway. Truck turned to the road, backed in to ensure an easy escape. He’s always acted guilty like that, even when you can’t point to anything specific he’s done wrong.
Since it’s his gas, I drive out to the Big M in Harristown instead of shopping at the Nice N Easy in Little River. I change all the presets on his radio. Irene has him listening to Christian rock and Evangelical talk show crap. He used to like The Doors. He listened to Floyd. He used to say Bob Dylan was God.
There’s three hundred bucks in his wallet. Cash. He doesn’t trust banks. I start out thinking I’ll spend it all, but then I feel bad and rein it in to a hundred. It’s not all he has. There’s probably a stash in a hole cut in the mattress or taped under one of Irene’s dusty-pink La-Z-Boys. It could even be in the truck somewhere, so Irene won’t come across it while she’s cleaning. It’s not like he doesn’t owe me, but there won’t be any more coming in for a while. So I take four twenties and two tens and shove them in the back pocket of my jeans as I walk across the Big M parking lot. Inside, I grab a cart and hit the aisles. Family sizes and name brands on everything. No more store brand toaster cakes and dented tuna cans for me. I spend five minutes debating the merits of yellow American cheese singles versus white ones before I decide to buy both and do a taste test. I buy Pop-Tarts in five different flavors and Coke in glass bottles that look like they came from the fifties. I get three bags of cheese puffs like the ones Margo got us that time—the ones that are more crunchy than they are puffy. I buy cold medicine, ibuprofen, and tampons, and stock up on soap and toilet paper so I don’t have to steal from school. I walk around for over an hour filling up the cart, counting on my fingers and rounding up to make sure I don’t go over a hundred. I don’t want to pull out my dad’s wallet at the store. And I don’t want to have to put anything back. Not today.
In line at the checkout, this woman behind me with frosted mom hair and a big coupon wallet watches me unload my cart onto the conveyor belt. “Sweetheart, I think you missed a few food groups,” she says, like she thinks I’m dumb enough to hear it as suggestion instead of criticism.
“It’s for a party,” I say.
When the checker rings everything up and it only comes to ninety-three dollars, I pick out two Mars bars, a bag of M&M’s, and four packs of Juicy Fruit from the rack next to me. Mrs. Coupon Wallet shakes her head. “Take the change off her bill,” I say to the checker, while Coupon Wallet is busy loading her six gallons of milk onto the belt. It’s only a dollar and change, but I’m sure it’s enough to throw her off her game.