Dara
stood at the smeared window with one of the squalling babies in her arms. The
tike who is colicky, oozes instability from her skin, mouth, hair and eyes,
swirls it around the room, and into the spongy souls of those around her.
Tamitha, who repels the caregivers like the Devil’s child, is inconsolable this
morning, and only adds to Dara’s dark depression. The sitter stands with her
ward at the front glass, sending out distress signals to her mates, dreaming of
4:00 when she can flee the spitting, vile infant’s breath. It is only Wednesday
and she can hardly imagine the torture of another three days in the work week.
Unfortunately, it is time to move in with grandpa and grandma. Though she
assured The Gramps it will be for two weeks, tops, she is certain it will drag
on for millions of years, tearing away at her confident flesh, until the
searing looks from the elders melts her into the weedy back yard. She smokes
the same brand as grandpa, lucky for her, not so much for him. He claims he
will stop smoking this weekend since cigarettes have gone up to a shocking $8 a
pack. “Too rich for my blood,” he insists.
Difficult
to discern, what she sees with her own two heavily made-up eyes, hears from her
friends (since not much sinks-in when someone older than 20 speaks,) reads in
the scut mags her peeps pass along, watches half-heartedly on tv, what is
actually real life, and what is truly fiction. It pains her to consider the new
skinny jeans she buys, substantial amounts of black eye liner, and other necessities
that prevent her from paying her portion of the minimal rent, let alone
cough-up for the ready-to-eat meals from the super huge slob of a corner
grocer, whom inevitably hits on her as she reviews the mac and cheese section
in the din.
Wally
has not been much help these days. He lies on the couch, since losing his
stocking job at Walmart, and dropped out of Voc Tec College, which was a joke because he
never went to class. His parents insisted he attend school or would have to
move out of the house. Sandra, Wally’s mom came home from work early one day to
find him saturated into the floral sofa, sucking down her diet Pepsi and eating
cheese puffs out of the crinkled bag. He had mentioned a full day of exams at
the breakfast table, over a mound of blueberry waffles and dripping Wisconsin maple syrup. Boyfriends are not supposed to
screw up, they are there to help out a girlfriend in need yet, more often than
not, Wally has his saucer-hand out for her hard-earned bills whenever they hang
out. Dara is getting sick of his complaining, whining about not having any cash
and his mom being on his back all the time. Bob, Wally’s step dad, is idyllic,
ignorant and a waste of space. Sandra and Bob met when Wally was five. He was
the pool guy, with killer abs and a dreamy smile that landed him in Sandra’s
bed by the third cleaning. He never left. Bob never seems to miss the wads of
coin Wally pulls from his wallet, keeps reprimands to himself, and is a fan of
Sci Fi films, like his step son.
The
neighbors are going out of town this afternoon and phoned to let Sandra know,
so she can keep a look out. There have been a number of break-ins, kids who
scour the terrain for electronics and small items that they can bail out of the
back of a car easily. The Neighborhood Watch Program had helped people feel
comfortable but the recent robberies have put folks more on edge. Wally
overheard his mother mentioning the vacation dates to her friend, Denise
yesterday. Now he is making Dara crazy, calling her every ten minutes to talk about
how to sneak into the house next door, and check out the goods. Dara has to
duck into the hallway or go out to the overcrowded sun porch to talk privately
on her cell phone at work. She is fully aware of the five other helpers with
their gynormous ears, constantly looking for a way to scorch her
self-confidence. Penny, who is married with three kids, from elementary to
middle school, chained to a deadbeat truck driver husband, can’t keep her
thoughts to herself. She has Goody Two Shoes Turrets and a mouth as big as the Grand Canyon. Penny makes damned sure everyone knows who
needs attention, could mean everything from a colonoscopy to a bikini wax. Dara
avoids Penny, especially when she is on the phone. Penny is like a Sharp
Shinned Hawk that spins her head so fast, it appears to turn a 360 degree
radius.
Wally
mentions he will break the window well glass and slip into the next door
neighbor’s house tonight. He is certainly thin enough to slide in but wants
Dara to come over at 9:00 to be the look-out. She is terrified. This isn’t the
first time Dara has been talked into an illegal activity and they never end
well. The last time, she contracted an ulcer from the anxiety, blurted out the
indiscretion to the mail carrier, who promptly contacted the Sheriff’s office.
Stan was subsequently caught with the goods in his trunk. Since Stan had been
bragging about his escapade, all over town, he had no clue it was Dara who
turned him in. That summer, she tore nearly all of the hair out of the left
side of her scalp. It has grown-in alarmingly thin. God knows how this incident
will manifest.
If she doesn’t go through with it, however, Wally will have no one. She cannot
abandon him, he has no job and no future.
Dara
complains to Wally, on the tenth call, that she has to move her meager things
out of the apartment and into The Gramps’ pad tonight. She can’t possibly help
Wally with the break-in. He moans at her stupidity and assures her she can move
another day. He can help this weekend, using Bob’s van. Maybe Bob will even
help lift the bigger pieces. A despairing sigh escapes her crooked thickly
glossed lips. She doesn’t dare roll her eyes since Penny must be watching from
her perch somewhere. Dara quickly agrees and hangs up.
At
8:30, after sweating, packing and nibbling on stale Ritz crackers and slightly
moldy tasting cheese, Dara heads over to Wally’s place. She is a nervous cat,
dressed in a black tank top and black stretch pants that meld into her pointed
hips. The ponytail holder is roosted and far too taut for comfort yet she in
unaware that the pinching pain is coming from her head.
Wally
meets her at the back of the alley, in the nook between the crooked white fence
and chain link that borders the houses. He is wide-eyed and excited, chattering
like a cat that needs to go outdoors to hunt. His long sleeves and long pants
will prevent scratches from the window sill. He has a garden glove on one hand
to break the glass without harm. They move quickly to the back of the targeted
home. Before Dara knows it, the glass shatters and Wally is partially inside
the window. He gets frantic when confronted by a series of spider webs that hug
and adhere at his eyes, making him surge backwards. A cigarette is all Dara can
think about. Imagines herself sucking, as the red tip sings relief. She fingers
the lighter in her pocket and counts the minutes. Wally’s legs disappear in one
fell swoop. She bolts to the back of Wally’s house to light up. They didn’t
talk about how long she needed to stay parked next to the window. That would be
too much of a giveaway anyhow. She can see the back of the house clearly from
her spot. Lights go on in the basement, much to Dara’s consternation. He is
sure to be caught and they will both go to jail. She isn’t sure Stan is
released by now, and her mind wanders to that confrontation.
Wally
appears at her side with an armload of equipment. He races to Bob’s van, parked
in the closed garage, and swings open the side door to discharge everything
onto the long back seat. The jumble of black wires and boxes appall Dara. She
starts as Wally turns to go, obviously intending to rescue more items from the
neighbors’. “I have to leave now,” she states, rather weakly. Wally, in a
rewarding daze, brushes her off. “I got it,” he declares, charging off to
gather more inmate evidence.
The
next afternoon, the doorbell rings at Dottie’s Day Care. A pair of police
officers stand at the ready, badges secured with a clip, smiles pasted-on to
reassure the door attendant. Dara is in the bathroom, changing a smelly diaper
and did not hear the commotion. She comes out, lifting and turning the child as
she adjusted him on her hip. A fellow caregiver pinched the baby as Dara’s
wrists were turned behind her back in a handcuff. Her purse is in the co-hart’s
hand and the jacket she had forgotten last week, over his arm. No questions, no
remarks, no hums of comfort, just quick, jerky movements towards and out the
door. The offender swung Dara in the back of the squad and driver began his
practiced speech. They were on their way to the local jail, offenses: Breaking
and Entering, possession of stolen goods and theft. Dara has seen enough cop
shows in her life to know she has to keep her mouth shut. She knows any
sideways explanation would cost her in the long run.
The
Gramps will be pleased she won't be taking up their spare room, gradually
turned into an office, that was never used for anything resembling a business.
She molds her buttocks into the seat, assuming everyone she knew is watching
her on the joy ride. Dara vaguely thinks about Wally, the obvious Suspect, and
his sorry rationalization that leads to her arrest.
……
The
sun is high in the sky as Dara peeks out into the lobby. Her plastic bag,
lacking air, pinched her thin fingers. She considers the green Volvo wagon that
pulls up to the curb. Lifts the back hatch to place her belongings on top of
the clothes pile, noting they are wrinkled, soiled, and mostly men’s casual
wear. The front passenger door is pushed open, a reedy hand, fingernails gnawed
to the quick, reaches out to touch her as she sits. Grandpa hands over his
Camel straights box with a black lighter. No words pass between them, the four
months yawning behind.
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