Melody

  "It's a long trip back to Sewell, West Virginia, Melody."

  "I know, but it's the only real home I've ever known where there are people who love me."

  "There are people who love you here," he said. He turned and smiled. "May and me for starters."

  "I know. I'm sorry about May. You'll explain it to her. Please."

  "Sure. But who will explain it to me?"

  "Cary, it was horrible, sitting there and hearing the story and seeing Grandma Olivia's anger. I never felt more like an unwanted orphan," I explained.

  He accelerated.

  "She shouldn't have done that. She should have made something up, something more sensible, something that wouldn't have upset you this way."

  "More lies? No thank you. I've been brought up with lies. I've eaten them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It's time for the truth. It's time to get back with people who don't know what lying is."

  "Everyone lies, Melody, to someone else or to himself," Cary said.

  Raindrops splattered on the windshield. I thought about him having to drive back alone.

  "I feel terrible about you doing this, Cary."

  "Don't. I would feel terrible not doing it," he said. "Tell me more about what Grandma Olivia said."

  I recounted our conversation and he listened attentively, his green eyes growing darker and smaller.

  "It makes some sense now, the whispers, the words I picked up here and there."

  "It's terrible. I feel as if my insides will be tied into knots forever. I feel betrayed, fooled, Cary. The man who loved me and called me his princess wasn't really my daddy."

  "Well, being a father doesn't have to be dependent on blood, does it? He was good to you, wasn't he? You never doubted he loved you. You told me."

  I nodded, swallowing back my tears. "Still," I said softly, "it leaves me feeling. . . incomplete. You've got your family name, your heritage. It's so important to you and your family. I see that, even more than I saw it in West Virginia. I'm nobody. I'm Melody Nobody," I said laughing. He looked at me. I laughed harder. "Meet Melody Nobody." My laughter started to hurt and soon turned into tears, sobs that shook my shoulders so hard I thought I would come apart.

  He pulled the truck to the side and stopped. Then he slid over and embraced me, kissing the tears off my cheeks and holding me tightly.

  "Don't do this to yourself," he said.

  I caught my breath and sucked in some air with deep gasps. Then I nodded.

  "I'm all right. It's okay. I won't do that again. I promise."

  "It's okay to do it as long as I can be next to you," he said, "but I hate to think of you alone out there, crying your eyes out with no one to comfort you, Melody."

  "There'll be Mama Arlene," I said.

  He stared at me a moment and then slid behind the wheel again. We drove on. Car headlights blinded us in the rain, but he drove relentlessly, firmly.

  Cary talked me into stopping for something to eat. I did it for his sake more than my own, although the hot coffee helped and something warm in my stomach gave me needed energy. I lost track of time afterward and fell asleep with my head on his shoulder. When I opened my eyes again, he told me we were pulling into Boston and heading for the bus depot. I sat up and scrubbed the sleep from my cheeks with my dry palms.

  Cary went into the bus station with me. We spoke with the ticket seller who, after we explained where I wanted to go, said the best ticket was one to Richmond. There was a shuttle service to Sewell, but he couldn't guarantee the schedule after I had arrived in Richmond.

  "Once I get to Richmond, I'll be fine," I said. Cary paid for the ticket and then insisted I take another fifty dollars.

  "Somehow,Ill pay you back," I promised.

  "You don't have to as long as you promise to call me from Sewell and then write letters."

  "I'll promise you that if you promise me you'll pass all your tests and graduate."

  "Big promise, but okay," he said. "You've convinced me to work harder." He smiled.

  "That's the bus to Richmond now," the ticket seller announced.

  Cary gazed into my eyes, his eyes full of sadness and fear for me.

  "I'll be all right once I get home," I said. "Don't worry." He nodded.

  "I wish that somehow you had come to think of Provincetown as your home."

  "When you have no real family, home has to be where you find love," I said.

  "You found it in Provincetown," he said indicating himself.

  "I know," I whispered. I leaned toward him and kissed him softly on the cheek. "Oh," I said. "Your jacket." I started to take it off.

  "No, please keep it."

  "Thanks," I said.

  He followed me out to the bus and watched me get on. After I sat at the window, he held up his hand.

  "Good-bye," I mouthed through the glass. The bus driver started the engine. Cary's face seemed to crumple, his lips trembling. There were tears on his cheeks, and his tears put tears in my heart. I put my hand against the glass as if I could stop his crying by doing so. He raised his hand. The bus started away. He walked alongside it for a few feet and then the bus turned. He was gone.

  I knew where he would go when he got home. He would go to his attic and he would curl up on his cot and he would think of Laura and me and wonder why all that was good and soft in his world seemed to slip through his fingers.

  I closed my eyes and thought about Mama Arlene's smile and Papa George and Alice and the warm living room in my old trailer home.

  Like a beacon in a storm, the light from those memories held out a tiny spark of hope.

  17

  There's No

  Place Like Home

  .

  I rode the bus all night. People got on and off at

  various stops, but I didn't take notice. I was vaguely aware that someone sat down next to me after one stop, but I curled up and fell back asleep. When I opened my eyes again, whoever it had been was gone. It wasn't until an hour or so later, when I was fully awake and moving around in my seat that I realized so was my purse. The shock of it put electric sparks in the air. I screamed so loud, the bus driver hit the brakes and pulled off for a moment.

  "What is it? What's wrong back there?" he called. Everyone on the bus was looking my way.

  "I can't find my purse with all my money in it," I wailed. It had been right at my feet and I had Cary's fifty dollars in it, the money that was supposed to get me home.

  Someone laughed. Most people shook their heads. The bus driver snorted as if to say, "Is that all?" and started away. A small black woman with kind eyes sitting two rows down smiled at me. "You ain't much of a traveler, are you, honey?"

  "No ma'am."

  "You can't take your eyes off valuable things when you travel, honey. I wear my purse under my dress," she said. She shook her head in pity and turned away.

  I sat there stunned and angry. How could someone be so cruel? Another voice inside me asked, "How could you be so stupid?" By now I should have known to trust no one, to depend on no one, to believe in no one. "Expect nothing and you'll never be disappointed," the little voice continued.

  It was morning when we reached Richmond. I stepped off the bus, still dazed from the trip and from being robbed. I found my way through the depot and could only look longingly back at the ticket counter where I might have been able to purchase a ticket to Sewell. Now, I had to find my way to the right highway and hitchhike.

  I was hungry, and even more so when I passed counters where people sat enjoying their breakfast. My stomach churned as the aromas of fresh rolls, bacon and eggs, coffee, and Danish pastries visited my nostrils. I was tempted to finish a chunk of discarded white bread I spotted on a bus depot bench, but the birds got there before me.

  I hurried on, getting directions from a gentleman in a gray suit who looked as if he were on the way to work. He was in such a rush he continued to walk as he shouted back the route I should take. I followed him like a fish on a hook. I listened to his directions and t
hen shouted my thanks.

  I walked along the street, my head down, my limbs still aching from the cramped position I had been in most of the night. At least it wasn't raining. In fact it looked as if it was going to be a nice day. Some time later I reached a turn in the road and a sign indicating the direction to Sewell. Cars flew by with the drivers glancing at me and my stuck-out thumb, but none so much as slowed down. Discouraged, I walked rather than just stand there and wait for another vehicle. Standing and waiting only reminded me how hungry and tired I was. Every time I heard a car, I spun around and jerked my thumb in the air, again with no success. One woman driving by glared at me with such disapproval I thought she might stop her car and get out and lecture me.

  There was a lull, then another stream of vehicles. This time a light brown van with dents all over it slowed and pulled up just a few feet ahead of me. I hurried to catch up. When I looked into the van, I saw a man with a rainbow-colored headband. He had a straggly brown beard and wore dark sunglasses. An earring dangled from his right ear and he had a necklace made of what looked like bullet shells. His hair was dirty brown and long, but it looked as if he had either chopped it away from his ears himself or had an amateur do it. He wore a faded gray sweat suit.

  "Where you headed?" he asked.

  "Sewell."

  "I'm not going there, but I'm going nearby," he said. I thought for a second. The closer I got, the better it would be, I concluded.

  "Thank you," I said and opened the door, but to my chagrin, there was no passenger seat.

  "You'll have to crawl in back. Someone stole the seat last night," he explained.

  "Stole your seat?"

  "These seats are in demand and they're expensive. They sell them to chop shops," he said. "If you're coming along, get in. I got to make

  Jacksonville before nightfall."

  I hesitated. No one else had stopped for me and I was tired. I decided to go so I stepped into the van and then crouched to go into the rear. There was a mattress with a ragged sheet placed sloppily over it, a pillow with no pillow case, and a thin, tattered wool blanket. Beside that was a small Sterno stove, some cans of food, packages of bread, cookies, jars of peanut butter, jelly, and jam. There was a pile of clothes to the right and two cartons filled with magazines.

  He leaned over to close the door of the van.

  "Just find a spot," he said. "You can sit on the bed."

  He pulled away quickly and I nearly fell. I lowered myself gently to the mattress. There was the odor of stale food and general mustiness that came from someone living and sleeping in here for some time.

  "What's your name?" he called back.

  "Melody."

  "Great name. You sing?"

  "No."

  "How come you're hitchhiking?"

  "I had my purse stolen while I was on a bus."

  "Boy, if I have heard that story once, I've heard it five hundred times. If you're hungry, nibble on anything you want," he said.

  I gazed at the food, trying to decide what, if anything, looked clean enough to eat. I thought maybe a piece of bread and a little peanut butter might be all right.

  "Thank you."

  I dug deep into the package and came up with a slice of bread. It felt a few days old, but wasn't moldy. I wiped off a butter knife and dug out some peanut butter.

  "How far you come?" he asked.

  "I rode the bus from Boston, but I started out on Cape Cod."

  "No kidding." He turned to look at me. "How old are you?"

  "Almost seventeen," I said.

  "What are you, a runaway?"

  "No." I chewed and swallowed, "In fact, I'm going home," I said. He nodded with a skeptical smile.

  "Ain't we all," he muttered, and put on some music. I saw him reach over and take something from the glove compartment. When he lit it, I recognized the sweet aroma. "Want a joint?"

  "No thank you."

  "Gotta stay cool in this world," he said. "Don't let the stress get to you. That's the secret." Then he began to sing it to the tune of "London Bridge is Falling Down":

  "That's the secret of my life, of my life, of my life, that's the secret of my life, my fair lady." He laughed.

  I stopped eating and looked more closely at one of the cartons of magazines. The flap of one was open just enough for me to see what was on the magazine cover. It looked like a picture of a naked little boy.

  "Are you in the magazine business?" I asked, realizing he had never told me his name.

  "You might say I'm a distributor." He laughed. "But if you're only seventeen, you can't look at those." He turned and smiled. "Now you really want to look at them, right? That's the way to get someone to buy into your concept--forbid them to do it. Stupid politicians," he mumbled.

  His dark eyes were slick as oil, scary. My heart stopped and then started to thump. A clump of ice formed at the base of my stomach and telegraphed chills up and down my bones, making my hands and feet feel numb. I felt as if I couldn't move and the terror that had begun to take form, like some ugly beast in my brain, grew bigger and bigger with every passing second he stared back at me.

  "I've been riding for hours myself," he said. "And I forgot to eat. I'll just pull over here and get something."

  He slowed the van and turned off the road onto what felt like a gravel drive. I couldn't see the ground because I was so low down, but I did see some trees.

  "Here we are, a safe spot," he said. He shut off the engine.

  I couldn't swallow. I couldn't breathe. He got up slowly and turned into the rear of the van.

  "How's the bread?" he asked sliding beside me.

  "Fine," I managed. "If we're stopping, I'll just go out and get some air," I said.

  He laughed.

  "What's the matter, my house smells?"

  I didn't reply.

  "You look older than seventeen. I bet you can pass for nineteen, huh? I bet you've done that, gotten into places where you could drink, see X-rated movies."

  I shook my head.

  "Hey, I've been there," he said jabbing his thumb into his chest. "I understand. Don't worry." He puffed on his joint and then again offered it.

  I shook my head. "No thank you."

  "It's good stuff."

  "No, thanks," I said. He shrugged.

  "More for me," He puffed again.

  "Can I get out?" I asked.

  "Sure." He leaned back so I could get by him, but as I started past him, he flipped his joint into the front of the van and seized me at the waist.

  I started to scream as he turned me around hard and slapped me back on the mattress.

  "Come on," he said. "Stay inside. It'll be nicer." He laughed thinly.

  "Let me go!" I tried to sit up, but he kept his weight on my shoulders and looked me over. The stink of his marijuana, mingled with the sour smell of his body and clothes, reeked down at me, churning my stomach.

  "I can get you into a magazine," he said. "I know lots of photographers real well. You can make serious money."

  "No thank you. Now let me up."

  "Sure, only first you got to pay the fare."

  "What fare?"

  "I forgot to tell you. This is like a bus. You get on, you pay the fare."

  "I have no money. I told you I was robbed."

  "There's other ways to pay." He smiled, revealing uneven teeth streaked with green and brown stains.

  He slid his hands over my breasts and then moved down to straddle my legs. Desperate and terrified, I found the glass peanut-butter jar and clutched it like a rock. While he explored under my skirt, I swung the jar with all my strength and struck him on the side of the head. The jar shattered, but it stunned him enough to drive him off me and I jumped up. He howled as I dove for the door. My hand found the handle just as his found the hem of my skirt. He tugged, but I flew forward and he lost his grip.

  I stumbled from the van, quickly realizing we were a dozen or so yards from the road. When he appeared in the doorway, a streak of blood ran down
the side of his face. I got to my feet and ran for the road, screaming for help.

  He didn't follow. At the highway, I practically ran in front of an oncoming tractor trailer. The driver hit his horn as hard as he hit his brakes. I got across the road just in time, but his truck came to a stop.

  The van backed out of the driveway and spun around, kicking up gravel. It headed in the direction from which we had come.

  The truck driver got out of his cab and strutted angrily toward me. He was a tall, stout man about fifty. "What do you think you're doing? Do you know you could have caused an accident and been killed? Who--"

  "That man tried to rape me!" I cried, pointing to the disappearing van.

  He stopped and looked after it.

  "I got out and ran just as you were coming. I'm sorry." I gasped, trying to regain my breath.

  "Who was he?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I was hitchhiking."

  "Hitchhiking?" He shook his head. "Where are all the parents in this country?"

  I started to cry, the realization of what I had just escaped finally hitting me.

  "All right, take it easy. Where are you going?" he asked.

  "Sewell," I moaned through my tears.

  "Is that where your parents live?"

  "Yes," I lied.

  "All right. Get in my truck. I'm going through Sewell. I'll drop you off. Even though I'm not supposed to take riders," he emphasized. My hesitation infuriated him. "Get moving if you want to get home," he ordered. I walked back with him and got in the truck. He checked the road, shifted, and started away, glancing at me with disapproval. "Don't you kids know how dangerous it is hitchhiking? Especially for a girl!"

  "No, sir. I don't do it much, so I didn't know."

  "Well, in a way I'm glad you got a good lesson," he said. After a few minutes, his anger subsided. "I've got a ten-year-old girl of my own and it's a battle today raising kids."

  "Yes," I said. He glanced at me.

  "How come you're so far from home all by yourself'?"

  "You should be in school, right? You ran away, didn't you? And then you realized how good you had it back home and couldn't wait to get back, right?" he said with confidence.

  I smiled to myself. "Yes."

  "Thought so. Well, at least you're okay now."