Not-Just-Anybody Family Read Online Free Page B

suspicion.
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s your medicine,” the nurse said.
    Junior let the pill roll around in the cup. Sometimes Maggie played nurse with him, but she used catsup for medicine.
    “Now, open wide,” Maggie would say. She’d pour some catsup into a tablespoon, hold his nose, and poke the catsup in.
    He loved to play patient, but he didn’t want to be one. Suddenly he was homesick. Maggie made a better nurse than anybody in this whole hospital. Tears filled his eyes.
    The boy in the next bed said, “If you don’t take your pill, they bring in a great big needle—thaaat long, and they give you a shot in your rear end.”
    “Now, Ralphie,” the nurse warned, “you shouldn’t scare Junior. He hasn’t even been here one—”
    Before she could finish, Junior had swallowed his pink pill. “Water?” He shook his head.
    He handed the nurse the empty cup, lay back, and closed his eyes. For the first time in his life he was glad not to have see-through eyelids.

CHAPTER 7
Going to Town
    “I’m tired,” Maggie said.
    Vern said, “Keep walking.”
    “I can’t. My flip-flop’s broken.”
    “Fix it.”
    “Well, stop and give me a chance.”
    Without turning around, Vern stopped. He put his hands in his pockets. He sighed with impatience. He stared ahead at the road. Beyond the curve and the pointed pine trees a huge red sun was sinking. Vern was not admiring the view. He sighed again, louder. “We have a long way to go. We haven’t even crossed the Interstate yet.”
    Maggie sat on the side of the road and pushed the worn piece of plastic back into the sole of her flip-flop. Then she slipped her dirty foot through the thong. Without getting up, she said, “I think we ought to call Mom.”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “I told you. We are only supposed to call if it’s an emergency. You know that. The last thing Mom said was for us not to be calling all the time.”
    “This is an emergency.”
    “An emergency is what we can’t handle ourselves.”
    “That’s what this is. We can’t handle this. Pap may be in jail.”
    “We can handle it.”
    Vern did not turn around during this conversation. He just faced the sunset. His mouth was a straight line in his tired face.
    The reason Vern spoke with such firmness about not calling their mom was that the week before, he had tried to call her himself. He had wanted to hear her voice so much that he had walked three miles to the Exxon station and stepped into the pay phone booth.
    Every week their mom wrote postcards to let them know where she would be staying. Their mom still went on the rodeo circuit in the summers—she was a trick rider; and she never knew exactly what motel she would be staying at till she got there.
    In Vern’s hand was the latest postcard, the latest phone number.
    When their dad was alive, they all went on the circuit. They had had a camper, and all three kids had slept on a table that made into a bed. Their parents slept over the cab.
    Vern, who was old enough to remember those days, thought they were the happiest days of his life. Just one long stretch of dusty, interesting days and bright nights. Even the rainy days and the mud had been fun.
    Vern had looked again at the number. His mom was staying this week at the Paisano Motel. There was a picture of a long brick motel with a sign shaped like a sombrero. The number was printed in big letters. He dialed them.
    “Is this a credit card call?” the operator asked.
    “No, I’ve got money,” he said. The money was lined up on the shelf under the phone—quarters, then dimes, then nickels, neat as a bank.
    “Deposit three dollars and thirty cents.”
    It took Vern a long time to get that much money into the phone, but it was worth it. Immediately the phone began to ring and a voice said, “Paisano Motel.”
    Vern cleared his throat. “Could I speak with Vicki Blossom?”
    “Who?”
    “Vicki Blossom. She’s staying there.”
    “She’s not registered.”
    “She has