every ounce of my high school goldenness, every single iota of my college education—gone. The only thing left is the Ya-Yas.
And now here I am, standing in my missing daughter’s room. I can see her navy blue round-toed Keds in the closet. Her stack of books on the nightstand. I can smell her eleven-year-old smell, spicy, and new.
And in an instant I know exactly where my child is.
I fling open her bedroom door and run down the hall.
Caro! I scream, Call the police!
She hands me the phone. The damn police, they treat me like I’m some kind of nut. Calm down, they say, we’ll handle this.
I hope you burn in hell! I tell them. Don’t you dare treat me like I don’t know what I’m talking about! Screw you and the horse you rode in on!
I hang up the phone, light another cigarette, and dial so hard I break a fingernail. The mayor himself answers the phone and I say, Kidd, this is Vivi Abbott Walker.
Then I tell him what I need and he says, You got it, Vivi.
That is the thing about living in a small town. I once dated Kidd Gerard. I broke the man’s heart while he was at Auburn, sending me telegrams once a week. I know he’ll do what I ask, even though he hasn’t kissed me on the lips in twenty-two years. I always tell my two daughters: Don’t ever underestimate the power women have over men. And don’t ever let them know you have it either.
I make Mother stay with the kids. Then Necie and Caro drive me in Necie’s station wagon. They are such good friends to me. They keep lighting me ciggies and Caro has her arm around me saying, Don’t worry, Vivi, we’ll find her. We will not let anything happen to that child, you hear?
Necie drives that station wagon like a bat out of hell and we beat Kidd there. I take some deep breaths and say a prayer to St. Jude, patron saint of the impossible. Sidda could be roasted to death. She could be suffocated like the millions of children who crawl up into abandoned refrigerators and the door slams shut and they are locked in there for all eternity.
The bookmobile is parked underneath a crepe myrtle behind the library in the gravel parking lot. I getout of the car and take the flashlight I’ve brought with me and walk over to it. I stand right next to the van and I can still feel the heat of the day on the outside of it. I try the door, but it’s locked. I knock loud and hard.
I say, Sidda baby, it’s okay. Hold on, honey, we’ll take you home before you know it.
If she’s not in there, then it’s all over. If she’s not in there, then she is nowhere and I will kill Shep Walker because I am too chicken to kill myself.
Then Kidd pulls up, looking handsome as ever. He strides over to me with a huge ring of keys and says, Hey Vivi. What can I do for you this evening? I got the keys to unlock anything you want.
I can’t believe the man is flirting with me after all these years, and my daughter almost dead.
I say, Open that bookmobile door, would you, please, Kidd? I think my oldest child is in there.
He does just what I say. I love a man who can take orders. I step inside and it is simply stifling in that van. The air conditioner has been off for hours. She could be dead, I think. Is that what you want, Vivi Walker? Do you want her dead?
Sidda? I call out. It’s me, baby. It’s Mama.
That bookmobile is hot as hell, it’s a 475-degree gas oven.
I shine the flashlight around. No air, no Sidda. Once you shut off the air conditioning in a book van and shut the door and windows, it’s as good a way as any to commit suicide.
I will not throw up. I will not let the thoughts in my head push me over the edge. I will not have a child of mine kill herself. I will not lose the twin and her too, both without me having any say-so whatever.
I shine the light. I can see the titles on the books. Look, there is Hemingway, Papa Ernest. Why did he put a bullet through that gorgeous male head of his? Blood all over that thick sexy beard.
Sidda, I call out, please! Baby,
And now here I am, standing in my missing daughter’s room. I can see her navy blue round-toed Keds in the closet. Her stack of books on the nightstand. I can smell her eleven-year-old smell, spicy, and new.
And in an instant I know exactly where my child is.
I fling open her bedroom door and run down the hall.
Caro! I scream, Call the police!
She hands me the phone. The damn police, they treat me like I’m some kind of nut. Calm down, they say, we’ll handle this.
I hope you burn in hell! I tell them. Don’t you dare treat me like I don’t know what I’m talking about! Screw you and the horse you rode in on!
I hang up the phone, light another cigarette, and dial so hard I break a fingernail. The mayor himself answers the phone and I say, Kidd, this is Vivi Abbott Walker.
Then I tell him what I need and he says, You got it, Vivi.
That is the thing about living in a small town. I once dated Kidd Gerard. I broke the man’s heart while he was at Auburn, sending me telegrams once a week. I know he’ll do what I ask, even though he hasn’t kissed me on the lips in twenty-two years. I always tell my two daughters: Don’t ever underestimate the power women have over men. And don’t ever let them know you have it either.
I make Mother stay with the kids. Then Necie and Caro drive me in Necie’s station wagon. They are such good friends to me. They keep lighting me ciggies and Caro has her arm around me saying, Don’t worry, Vivi, we’ll find her. We will not let anything happen to that child, you hear?
Necie drives that station wagon like a bat out of hell and we beat Kidd there. I take some deep breaths and say a prayer to St. Jude, patron saint of the impossible. Sidda could be roasted to death. She could be suffocated like the millions of children who crawl up into abandoned refrigerators and the door slams shut and they are locked in there for all eternity.
The bookmobile is parked underneath a crepe myrtle behind the library in the gravel parking lot. I getout of the car and take the flashlight I’ve brought with me and walk over to it. I stand right next to the van and I can still feel the heat of the day on the outside of it. I try the door, but it’s locked. I knock loud and hard.
I say, Sidda baby, it’s okay. Hold on, honey, we’ll take you home before you know it.
If she’s not in there, then it’s all over. If she’s not in there, then she is nowhere and I will kill Shep Walker because I am too chicken to kill myself.
Then Kidd pulls up, looking handsome as ever. He strides over to me with a huge ring of keys and says, Hey Vivi. What can I do for you this evening? I got the keys to unlock anything you want.
I can’t believe the man is flirting with me after all these years, and my daughter almost dead.
I say, Open that bookmobile door, would you, please, Kidd? I think my oldest child is in there.
He does just what I say. I love a man who can take orders. I step inside and it is simply stifling in that van. The air conditioner has been off for hours. She could be dead, I think. Is that what you want, Vivi Walker? Do you want her dead?
Sidda? I call out. It’s me, baby. It’s Mama.
That bookmobile is hot as hell, it’s a 475-degree gas oven.
I shine the flashlight around. No air, no Sidda. Once you shut off the air conditioning in a book van and shut the door and windows, it’s as good a way as any to commit suicide.
I will not throw up. I will not let the thoughts in my head push me over the edge. I will not have a child of mine kill herself. I will not lose the twin and her too, both without me having any say-so whatever.
I shine the light. I can see the titles on the books. Look, there is Hemingway, Papa Ernest. Why did he put a bullet through that gorgeous male head of his? Blood all over that thick sexy beard.
Sidda, I call out, please! Baby,
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