Homecoming

  “Maybe we can find some on the ground,” James suggested. “If we look.”

  “Anyway, we’ve already got dinner for tonight.”

  James studied the map. “Where were we yesterday?” he asked. Dicey showed him. “Only there? We’ll never get to Bridgeport.”

  “Yes, we will. We’ve just got to keep moving, that’s all.”

  “Why?” James asked.

  “Because that’s where Aunt Cilla is,” Dicey said. “And Momma might be there too.”

  “What if she’s not there?” James asked.

  “She will be,” Sammy said. “Don’t say that. She knows we’re going there.”

  “That’s how much you know,” James said.

  Sammy attacked James. He hurtled his little body at his brother, using his feet to kick as fast as his hands pummeled. Dicey pulled him off.

  “Cut that out, Sammy. You hear me? Do that again and I’ll whip you for sure.”

  Sammy stood, sullen and silent.

  Maybeth had watched this. “Momma said to do what Dicey tells us,” she reminded Sammy.

  “Anyway, it’s time to go,” Dicey said. She took Sammy’s hand and pulled him, none too gently, after her. In her other hand she carried the grocery bag that held their clothes and food.

  It was another hot day. The white pavement of Route 1 shimmered in the heat and in the fumes from gas and oil. The noise of traffic pounded in Dicey’s ears. Her feet marched beneath her, step, step, step, plodding. As repetitive, as relentless, her mind marched over the same problems: money, food, distance, where to sleep, Momma: step, step, step.

  They marched, rested, marched, lunched on water and a box of stale doughnuts, walked, rested, and once again on the final lap, Dicey carried Sammy on her back.

  They were more tired at the end of the second day than they had been the day before. They had spoken little all day. Once again, Dicey led them off Route 1 toward the water to find a place to sleep. This second night they sheltered in a small stand of pines, a few yards from the road, and within sight of a big brick house. They couldn’t risk a fire, so they ate the hot dogs uncooked.

  The one bright spot in the day had occurred in the afternoon, when Sammy spied a dime on the sidewalk outside of the supermarket where Dicey bought the doughnuts. Added to the two pennies Maybeth and James had picked up earlier, Dicey figured that they were only twenty-one cents out of pocket for food. That left her with three dollars and fifty-nine cents. Still enough.

  On the morning of the third day, the sky was overcast. James awoke with his usual observation, “It’s still true.” He was the only one with the energy to speak. The others were too hungry and thirsty. They assembled themselves quickly to return to Route 1.

  A breakfast of milk and bananas (fifty cents) gave them energy. As they came closer to New London and the busy Thames River, Route 1 became increasingly cluttered with restaurants, bars, quick food chains and shopping plazas. Sammy found a quarter on the roadside.

  “I’m tired of doughnuts,” Sammy said, as they approached a supermarket.

  “What do you want then?” Dicey asked. “Doughnuts are cheap, that’s why I get them.”

  “I want a hamburger and french fries. I want a Coke.”

  “Not possible,” Dicey said. “How about peanut butter sandwiches? We could spread the peanut butter with our fingers. And if I get a whole loaf of bread, we could have them again for dinner, so that would be okay.”

  The younger children agreed without enthusiasm. She found a loaf of bread on sale for fifteen cents and a jar of peanut butter for seventy-one cents. That totaled eighty-six cents, for lunch and dinner. That would leave them with two dollars and forty-eight cents. Still enough?

  Dicey didn’t say to herself, enough for what. She couldn’t have. Neither could she have said what amount of money would not be enough.

  Before going to the checkout line, Dicey drifted by the meat counter. Hamburger was expensive. Chicken, on the other hand, wasn’t too expensive, not by the pound. But would they be able to cook it? She lingered by a package of chicken wings, which, at twenty-nine cents a pound, held some interest for her. Then she wandered over to the fruit and vegetable counter and discovered potatoes. Potatoes were cheap. You could eat all of a potato. If they could just build a fire.

  That night it was in an unfinished house in a new development that they slept. Dicey picked out the house, but would not let them go into it until dark. Until then, they wandered around the maze of roads in the development, watching the children at evening play. At last it was dark and Dicey let them return to the half-built house. Only the joists had been put in for walls, but the rough floors were down. They lay on plywood. Dicey gave Sammy and Maybeth the extra clothes from the bag to make pillows. Dicey lay on her back and looked up, past the roof frame to the sky. Low clouds reflected light from the ground, which blurred softly as she fell asleep.

  Fear of being caught woke Dicey before dawn. She knew that construction work began early in the day. It was one thing to be seen camping in the woods; that might be kids having a night out with their parents’ permission. But four kids sleeping in an unfinished house—that would be police business.

  She woke them all at the first gray light. “It’s still true,” James said. But he seemed to expect no response.

  After a skimpy breakfast of milk, they started out and soon were crossing the Thames River on a bridge that arched like a rainbow, high enough to allow huge cargo ships to travel under it. The river, seen from the height of the bridge, seemed blue and sparkling clean. They knew better, because they had seen it close up. But the look of it refreshed Dicey. It reminded her of the sea, and it reminded her that they were heading for the water.

  Sammy, cranky since the time he’d gotten up, had to be dragged away from the railing of the bridge. He had to be scolded every few steps to keep up. He never answered, just kept his eyes fixed to the ground. His jaw muscles worked. Dicey ground her teeth and stamped her feet in anger, still walking.

  Step, step, step, on hard concrete sidewalks that made their feet hurt. Stop at the lights, then start again. Horns blared. Engines roared.

  They ate lunch sitting on a bench at a bus stop on Route 1, finishing the bread and peanut butter, scooping it out with their fingers and licking it off. It was not really enough for lunch, none of them was satisfied, but Dicey pushed them on, to get out of the city.

  When the smaller, quieter Beach Road turned off of Route 1, she told them to go on it. Immediately, even though the sky hung low and heavy with moisture, even though James protested and Maybeth’s eyes glistened, even though Sammy lagged behind and her voice was hoarse with nagging at him, Dicey felt better. They were heading toward the water.

  At a small supermarket, she purchased two pounds of chicken wings and four potatoes. Instead of starting right off, she pulled out her map and showed the younger children where they were. “It’ll be less populated,” she pointed out. “We’ll be able to have a fire and—”

  Rain began to fall, in fat drops that slapped the ground.

  Dicey’s heart sank. You couldn’t build a fire outside in the rain. She hoped maybe the rain would stop, but she didn’t think it would. She had never eaten a raw potato. She couldn’t imagine eating uncooked chicken. She didn’t know what to do.

  So she urged them up and on.

  “It’s raining,” Sammy said.

  “I know that,” Dicey said.

  “It’s like a bath,” James said. “It’ll clean us off.”

  “It’s cold,” Sammy said.

  “Not that bad,” Dicey answered.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Sammy said. “And you can’t make me anymore. You can’t.”

  Dicey’s patience was at an end. She spoke bitterly. “No I can’t. And maybe I don’t even want to. You’ve been a pill all day. I’ll tell you what, you don’t think I’ll leave you, but I will. I’ll be glad to leave you behind.”

  “I know.” Sammy’s voice was low. “So go a
head. Go on, because nobody cares about me except Momma, and Momma will come find me but she won’t find you, so go ahead.”

  “All right, I will. Come on, you two.” Dicey stood up and strode off. James followed hesitantly. Maybeth waited.

  “He’s been holding us up all day long,” Dicey called back. “And now he’s doing it again. It’s not fair to the rest of us.”

  She saw Sammy bend over and pick up something. She saw Maybeth go back to Sammy and hold out her hand to the little boy. Sammy put his hand in hers and came trudging after.

  Dicey walked ahead of the others through a rain that resolved itself into drifting mist. It was gray, cool, chilling. She clutched a grocery bag in each hand and then, as the brown paper grew sodden, under each arm. She didn’t allow an afternoon rest, just kept moving ahead.

  They came to marshlands, tall grasses and cattails, shadowy in the gray afternoon. They passed bigger houses that had larger lawns. Then Dicey saw water on the right, a large inland pond. You couldn’t sleep near it though; it was surrounded by sharp-edged marsh grass that grew only on muddy ground. However, opposite it a sign pointed to a dirt road running off into sparse, piney woods. PUBLIC BEACH, the sign said.

  Dicey turned and waited for the others to catch up with her. Rain had plastered their hair down over their foreheads. Beads of moisture hung from their eyelashes, and their faces glimmered with water.

  “Let’s go there,” she said.

  “How far is it?” James asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dicey answered. “But it’s sure to be deserted, isn’t it?”

  The growth of pines was not thick enough to do more than interfere with the rain, and the needle-carpeted ground underfoot was damp. Their feet squished in their sneakers.

  The beach at the end of this road was backed by low, rolling dunes, which flattened out to a narrow belt of sand before giving way to the placid gray water. The four children stood atop the dunes and looked down over the empty sand. Three picnic shelters had been erected for the pleasure of the people of Noank, three open-sided structures with shingled roofs, tables, and in each shelter a stone fireplace for cooking.

  “It’s going to be all right here,” Dicey said softly.

  “Look,” Sammy said, coming up beside her. “Look what I found, all together. Somebody must have had a hole in their pocket.” He held out a little square hand to show Dicey a cluster of pennies and nickels.

  “Good for you, Sammy,” she said. Her relief at finding shelter and a way to build a fire had washed away the anger of the day. She smiled down at him. “And look what I have for us.”

  She pulled gently at the top of the smaller grocery bag. The bag split, but she caught it from the bottom. “Chicken. And potatoes.”

  All together they ran down toward the nearest shelter, through the gentle rain. Halfway down the incline, Sammy tripped. He rolled the rest of the way, not trying to stop himself. When he came to join them under the roof of the picnic shelter, he was a sight. Dicey giggled. Then she laughed helplessly. Sand coated his wet hair and face and clothing. He looked like a cookie rolled in sugar.

  At first, she thought Sammy was going to get angry. Even so, she couldn’t stop laughing; and James and Maybeth joined in with her. But instead, Sammy smiled, threw up his arms and executed a stiff little jig, joining in their laughter. For just that moment he was again the little boy Dicey remembered, who loved to wrestle and tickle and never asked you to stop, who made games out of everything and anything.

  The younger children scoured the beach for pieces of wood. Dicey went back to the woods to get needles and dry branches of quick-burning pine.

  When the fire had burned down to coals, Dicey spread the potatoes out on the grate. Then they all went back down the beach to find more driftwood. They returned with arms laden, and Dicey turned the potatoes, rinsed in rain drops, over and then arranged the chicken wings near to the edge of the fire so they wouldn’t scorch. Rain padded softly on the beach and water. The fire spat when chicken fat dripped into it. The smell of cooking chicken rose faintly on the air. The four children stood watching by the stone hearth. Their skin dried, then their hair and finally their clothing.

  They tried to pull one of the tables over nearer to the fire, but it was bolted to the cement floor, as was every bench, so they ate in the chilly air beyond the fire’s heat. The food was hot enough to warm them from within.

  They ate without speaking, first wolfing it down, then savoring each bite, chewing on the narrow bones, eating every scrap of potato. There was more than enough chicken. Everyone was stuffed full by the time the food was gone, even James.

  “I wish we had some butter,” Sammy said.

  “Or salt,” Dicey added.

  “Barbecue sauce is what I want,” James said, “and some corn on the cob and some watermelon for dessert or a sundae, a chocolate sundae. I wish we had that.”

  “I wish we had Momma,” Maybeth said.

  Silence fell again.

  Dicey got up and put two fat pieces of wood on the fire. She sat down in front of it. James gathered up the bones, put them into the trash can and came to sit with her. Sammy and Maybeth followed him. The fire glowed feverish on their faces. While the early evening light was still adequate, Dicey spread her map out.

  “We’ll go there tomorrow,” she decided quickly, pointing her finger at a green square labeled “State Park.” “It’s the one I told you about. We’ll rest a day there. How does that sound to you? We’ve been walking for four days now.”

  “It sounds great,” James said. His finger traced the red Thruway markings down to Bridgeport. “It’s a long way,” he said. “Why is it all yellow there?”

  “Densely populated area,” Dicey said.

  “Like yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’ll we sleep?”

  “How should I know, James? We’ll just have to worry about that when we come to it.”

  Dicey put her hand in her pocket and took out her money. She asked Sammy to give her the money he’d shown her. He didn’t want to but she insisted, and he retreated to a sulky silence. They had one dollar and fifty-six cents left now. Still enough.

  Dicey folded up the map and put it on top of a table. She went down to the water’s edge and came back with a heavy rock, which she dried on her shirt and then placed on top of the map. Over the water, the air turned purple with twilight. She rejoined the others before the fire, sitting between Maybeth and Sammy. Maybeth moved closer to her and began to hum.

  “I know an old lady who swallowed a fly,” Dicey sang.

  “I don’t know why she swallowed a fly,” James answered her.

  Dicey leaned over toward Sammy. She pointed her finger at him.

  “Perhaps she’ll die,” he sang out, his eyes lighting up.

  They sang the whole song through until Dicey spoke the last line. She waited, just long enough, before saying, in a solemn voice, “She died, of course.”

  Contentment blanketed them. Full bellies, the warm crackling fire, the rain pattering on the roof and falling gently on the sand pulled them together and held them close.

  “Sometimes,” Dicey remarked, “I feel as if we could do just about anything. Because we’re the Tillermans.”

  “And I am too,” Sammy said.

  “Yes, you are,” Dicey answered.

  James spoke quietly. “Dicey? Do you know where Momma is? For sure?”

  “No.”

  “Why did she go?”

  Maybeth spoke when Dicey didn’t. “Momma’s gotten lost. That’s what I think.”

  “How could she get lost?” Sammy asked. “She knew where we were.”

  “Not lost from us,” Maybeth said.

  “Lost from who?” Sammy asked.

  “Not lost from anyone,” Maybeth said. “Just lost. But we have Dicey to take care of us.”

  “Dicey’s not our momma,” Sammy said.

  “Lucky for us she isn’t,” James remarked.

  Sam
my turned on him. “Don’t you say that. That’s not nice.”

  “But it’s true,” James insisted. “Dicey wouldn’t ever go off and leave us. You wouldn’t, would you, Dicey?”

  “No,” Dicey said.

  “See?” James asked Sammy.

  “Momma loves me,” Sammy said.

  “You know what?” James asked. “We’re the kind that people go off from. First our father and now Momma. I never thought of that before. Whadda you think, Dicey? Is there something wrong about us?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “No, but think about it. We were always alone out there in our house; nobody came to see us. And Momma talked different from other people, sort of more slow. I can’t think of anybody else like us in Provincetown. Did Momma ever talk to you about our father? Did she say where he went?”

  “No,” Dicey said.

  “Do you remember him?” James insisted.

  “A little.”

  “Tell,” Maybeth asked.

  Dicey gathered together her few memories, like scattered marbles. “He was tall and dark-haired, with hazel eyes like Momma’s. We all have eyes like theirs. James reminds me of him, and I guess I do too. You little ones look more like Momma. He had a skinny head, like James and me. He had a big, loud laugh. He built our beds for us.”

  “I know that,” James said.

  “I remember him picking me up and sitting me on his shoulders. He’d call me his little only. I don’t know why.” This was vivid to her, the masculine voice crooning, “the little only, only in the world, only only.” “He could pick Momma up too, when he was excited, and swing her around in a circle. They’d sing, sometimes, when just the two of them were home. But most of the time he had friends who’d come to see him, and Momma would take us to the beach—me and James and Maybeth. Once he bought Momma a bright red sweater and I saw her kiss him.”

  Dicey stared into the fire, trying to piece together something whole from her few vague memories.

  “He knew about cars. During the summer, he’d work as a bartender. They had fights sometimes. Real fights.”

  “Is that why he left us?” James asked. “I don’t blame him if it was, because Momma sometimes was—you know.”