Pigs in Heaven
Page 41
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Well, look,” he says finally. “Don’t even tell me where you’re going next, because maybe Miss Jaxkiller will come back and seduce me, and I’ll tell all.”
“I’m thinking we’ll head north,” Taylor says. “I’m so nervous right now I can’t think right. I’ll call you from somewhere outside the state.”
“Have you slept with another man yet?”
“Jax! Good Lord, it’s only been forty-eight hours.”
“So you’re saying you need more time.”
“Thanks for calling. You’re really making my day here.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, this is harder than it looks. You pack up your unripe fruit and drive out of here and you’re gone.”
“We didn’t leave you, Jax.”
“I know.”
“We’ll be back. This will be all right.”
“Make me believe.”
“You’ll see.” Taylor hangs up, wishing she had Angie’s power to make the entire world sit down for milk and cookies.
“For an adventure you have to have rations,” Taylor insists.
She’s in the grocery, trying to get Turtle interested in food.
She made the mistake of panicking, hurrying Turtle away from Lucky and into the car after Jax’s phone call, and now Turtle has gone deep inside herself. In situations where other children have tantrums, Turtle does some strange opposite of tantrum.
“Look, these pears are three pounds for a dollar. You can tell they’re ripe because they smell like pear. We’ll eat these until the apricots turn ripe.”
Turtle sits backward in the shopping basket with her eyes fixed on Taylor’s shirt buttons. This is the Turtle of years ago; for months after Taylor found her, Turtle gazed out at the world from what seemed like an empty house. But all through those mute seasons Taylor talked and talked to Turtle, and she does it again now, to keep her fear at bay.
People in the store look at her and then look closely, for ten seconds too long, at this child too big to be sitting in a shopping basket. Taylor doesn’t care.
“Okay, listen up because I’m going to give you a valuable lesson on how to pick the best checkout clerk when you’re in a hurry. Okay? As a general rule I say go for the oldest. Somebody that went to school in the days when you still learned arithmetic.”
“I know arithmetic,” Turtle points out quietly, without expression. “I know how to add.”
“That’s true,” Taylor says, trying not to leap at this. “But that’s because you come from a privileged home. I taught you how to add when you were four years old. Right?
What’s three plus seven?”
Turtle recedes again, giving no hint that she has heard.
Exactly as in the old days before she spoke, Turtle seems to be concentrating hard on some taste at the back of her mouth. Or a secret sound, a tuning fork struck inside her head.
Taylor considers the checkout options: three female teenagers with identical sticky-looking hairdos, and a middle-aged Hispanic man with a huge mustache. Taylor heads her cart toward the mustache. While they wait she scans the tabloids by the register, half expecting to see news of herself and Turtle on the run. She was right about the cashier: their line moves twice as fast as the others and promptly the store has expelled them into the parking lot. When she loads in the groceries and slams the trunk, apricots go flying.
“Those damn things!” she says, and Turtle’s mouth hints at a smile. Taylor lifts her with some effort out of the basket and sets her down beside the car. She stands motionless, a stuffed child skin, while Taylor returns the cart. Taylor has been swearing at the apricots since they left Tucson, and Turtle has found it funny: the fruits roll around noisily on the shelf behind the backseat and bobble forward like a gang of little ducks at every hard stop. There are green apricots in the ashtray, on the seat, on the floor. Taylor is pretty sure they were a bad idea. Instead of turning yellow, most of them seem to be hardening and shrinking like little mummy heads.
She lifts Turtle into the front seat and she scoots across and buckles up mechanically, letting Taylor in after her. “Will you look at this?” Taylor reaches down and fishes an apricot from under the clutch. Pretending to be furious, she throws it hard out the window, then ducks her head when it hits another car. Turtle giggles, and Taylor sees then that she is back, there is someone home behind her eyes. “So what we’re going to do now,” she says calmly, touching the tears out of her own eyes, “is we have to look for a sign. Something to tell us where to go.”
“I’m thinking we’ll head north,” Taylor says. “I’m so nervous right now I can’t think right. I’ll call you from somewhere outside the state.”
“Have you slept with another man yet?”
“Jax! Good Lord, it’s only been forty-eight hours.”
“So you’re saying you need more time.”
“Thanks for calling. You’re really making my day here.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, this is harder than it looks. You pack up your unripe fruit and drive out of here and you’re gone.”
“We didn’t leave you, Jax.”
“I know.”
“We’ll be back. This will be all right.”
“Make me believe.”
“You’ll see.” Taylor hangs up, wishing she had Angie’s power to make the entire world sit down for milk and cookies.
“For an adventure you have to have rations,” Taylor insists.
She’s in the grocery, trying to get Turtle interested in food.
She made the mistake of panicking, hurrying Turtle away from Lucky and into the car after Jax’s phone call, and now Turtle has gone deep inside herself. In situations where other children have tantrums, Turtle does some strange opposite of tantrum.
“Look, these pears are three pounds for a dollar. You can tell they’re ripe because they smell like pear. We’ll eat these until the apricots turn ripe.”
Turtle sits backward in the shopping basket with her eyes fixed on Taylor’s shirt buttons. This is the Turtle of years ago; for months after Taylor found her, Turtle gazed out at the world from what seemed like an empty house. But all through those mute seasons Taylor talked and talked to Turtle, and she does it again now, to keep her fear at bay.
People in the store look at her and then look closely, for ten seconds too long, at this child too big to be sitting in a shopping basket. Taylor doesn’t care.
“Okay, listen up because I’m going to give you a valuable lesson on how to pick the best checkout clerk when you’re in a hurry. Okay? As a general rule I say go for the oldest. Somebody that went to school in the days when you still learned arithmetic.”
“I know arithmetic,” Turtle points out quietly, without expression. “I know how to add.”
“That’s true,” Taylor says, trying not to leap at this. “But that’s because you come from a privileged home. I taught you how to add when you were four years old. Right?
What’s three plus seven?”
Turtle recedes again, giving no hint that she has heard.
Exactly as in the old days before she spoke, Turtle seems to be concentrating hard on some taste at the back of her mouth. Or a secret sound, a tuning fork struck inside her head.
Taylor considers the checkout options: three female teenagers with identical sticky-looking hairdos, and a middle-aged Hispanic man with a huge mustache. Taylor heads her cart toward the mustache. While they wait she scans the tabloids by the register, half expecting to see news of herself and Turtle on the run. She was right about the cashier: their line moves twice as fast as the others and promptly the store has expelled them into the parking lot. When she loads in the groceries and slams the trunk, apricots go flying.
“Those damn things!” she says, and Turtle’s mouth hints at a smile. Taylor lifts her with some effort out of the basket and sets her down beside the car. She stands motionless, a stuffed child skin, while Taylor returns the cart. Taylor has been swearing at the apricots since they left Tucson, and Turtle has found it funny: the fruits roll around noisily on the shelf behind the backseat and bobble forward like a gang of little ducks at every hard stop. There are green apricots in the ashtray, on the seat, on the floor. Taylor is pretty sure they were a bad idea. Instead of turning yellow, most of them seem to be hardening and shrinking like little mummy heads.
She lifts Turtle into the front seat and she scoots across and buckles up mechanically, letting Taylor in after her. “Will you look at this?” Taylor reaches down and fishes an apricot from under the clutch. Pretending to be furious, she throws it hard out the window, then ducks her head when it hits another car. Turtle giggles, and Taylor sees then that she is back, there is someone home behind her eyes. “So what we’re going to do now,” she says calmly, touching the tears out of her own eyes, “is we have to look for a sign. Something to tell us where to go.”
