Mary Wolf by Cynthia D. Grant Page A

heads toward the highway.

Eleven
    When I was little, I played with neighborhood kids, but Rocky’s the first real friend I’ve ever had. He’s close to my age; he’ll be eighteen in January. I feel like I’ve known him forever.
    We hang out together. We can talk about anything. That’s all we ever do, just talk. My father doesn’t like him.
    â€œYou’re seeing too much of that boy,” he said. He had his head under the hood, changing the RV’s oil. “I don’t want you spending so much time with him.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œSomething could happen.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike sex.”
    â€œIt’s not that way with us.”
    â€œI didn’t say it was. But things just happen.”
    â€œNot with me and Rocky. We’re friends.”
    â€œI understand that, Mary. Hand me that can of oil. He seems like a very nice boy. But he’s not the kind of boy you want to get involved with.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œHe’s a drifter.”
    â€œSo am I.”
    â€œDamn it to hell.” Daddy threw down the oil can so hard it bounced. Mama stuck her head out of the RV, saw our faces, and withdrew. “That’s not true. Why do you say things like that? You know I’ve got a job lined up in San Francisco. We’ll be moving soon.”
    â€œA real job? Since when?”
    â€œAre you calling me a liar?”
    â€œIt seems like you didn’t have a job, now you do.”
    â€œThe point is this, I’m not having you involved with somebody like that, some kid you don’t even know his background.”
    â€œHe knows my background and he still likes me. At least he’s not prejudiced like you!”
    â€œDo you hear what I’m saying?”
    â€œYou can’t tell me what to do!”
    â€œCome back here when I’m talking to you!”
    I kept walking. He’s worried about money lately and takes it out on me. Mama hasn’t been doing her flea market gig; the last time scared her, and anyway, there’s nothing around here worth stealing. Daddy’s made a couple of phone calls from City Hall, trying to borrow money from my grandparents. Grampa said no and Daddy got real mad. Then he got ahold of Grandma and she promised to send some to the Western Union office in Fort Bragg. Dave’s taking him up there this week. Daddy doesn’t drive the RV unless he has to; it uses too much gas. Dave’s real nice, he gives people rides. A lot of people here don’t have cars that run.
    His wife Janice takes Mama to the free-food pantry in Fort Bragg. Andy usually stays with me. He’s bigger every day, roly-poly and pink. The disposable diapers got too expensive, so we’re using cloth ones, which we wash by hand. They dry stiff in the wind and chafe his skin.
    I wish she’d take him for his vaccination shots. Polly had them so she wouldn’t get a disease. Some of the women here think the shots are unnecessary. They say they might even make your baby sick. Mama never used to believe that, but she bends in the breeze of the strongest opinion.
    She’s been trying to talk Daddy into applying for welfare. Some of the families get county aid and are telling Mama we might qualify, too. It’s a complicated process but it’s worth a shot. Daddy flatly refuses.
    â€œWhat’s your self-respect worth, Wendy?” he brayed the other night. The volume goes up when he’s been drinking beer. “Are you willing to trade your pride for food stamps?”
    I was sitting at the table, making the girls practice their handwriting. Mama cringed and didn’t answer him. That made me angry.
    I said, “I guess I’ll fix a side of pride for supper tonight. Daddy, how do you want yours cooked?”
    â€œYou shut your mouth.”
    â€œDon’t talk to me like that. You always act like this when you’ve been drinking.”
    â€œI haven’t been