Family Drive

On Saturday morning J.C. called me up to ask if I'd be interested in helping him track down his wife. They'd had a torrential fight on Wednesday and she'd taken off with the car. It wasn't a good time. I hadn't gotten any sleep because the morning before I'd woken up with a huge cockroach on my face—its thick, hairy leg was draped over my eye (I think it'd been sitting on my ear—I kept hearing chiming noises, rhythmic and loud like workman drilling you out of your sleep). With a choking scream, I was out of bed, crouched terrified on top of my dresser. God, it was huge, the size of a fat mouse—it had snuggled right into the indentation where my head had been, luxuriating in the warmth of my pillow. After an hour, I realized I had to get down from the dresser. I had to kill it. I used an entire can of roach spray.

Afterwards I called in sick. I was too unnerved to go to work. Every time I saw a flicker of dust moving, I jumped. Why is it that cockroaches never die gracefully? There's always this flopping around and a final attempt to run—and why is it they always comes running back towards you? In a last bravado act of defiance or a pleading of mercy—you can't help but feel remorseful. But even in nature there are rules. Or maybe that's especially in nature. Every creature must defend its territory. Win respect or die.

Plus I was babysitting Patty the Parrot for my neighbor Mrs. Neuhause. She was in Vegas for the weekend with her Late Bloomers club. There were only two people she'd ever trust Patty with. Me and her sister Katrina, whom the parrot hated. Patty the Parrot was a very needy bird. It was huge. You never left it alone for more than an hour. It'd go insane. Last summer it'd plucked itself bald—Katrina had had a nasty fall on the sidewalk and Mrs. Neuhause had spent the entire day in the emergency room with her—when she finally got home, there was Patty busily plucking herself. (There was a frightening glazed look in her eyes, a real disturbed jerk as she let the feathers fall.) Patty the Parrot was on Prozac for months. And it wasn't as if Mrs. Neuhause could really afford all those bills from the vet and animal shrink, either. This was one of the reasons she'd gone to Vegas—to win some money and bail herself out of debt. And she absolutely adored Vegas. She would have sold her soul to be a Vegas show girl and strut her stuff half naked. She sometimes did her little routines for me in her leotard, a cheap glass tiara and feathers on top of her head. She'd do them nude, but I think she knows what my boundaries are. (Thank God.)

J.C. was pretty insistent, so I told Patty to grab her gear `cause we were going for a nice, long drive. Patty preened joyously, singing, "Goody! Goody!" Patty was crazy about long drives, being chauffeured around town. Mrs. Neuhause says Patty loves changing scenery, but I think, like a baby, what Patty really loves is being lulled by the motion of a car. She looked so serene, cared for.

"Libby love Patty? Libby love Patty?" she asked me as we went down the elevator.

"Libby loves Patty!" I said. How can you not love something so desperate for it?

When we got to J.C.'s, he looked in the back of the car and said, "What the hell is that?"

("Hello! Hello!" Patty kept singing, hurt that J.C. wasn't responding.)

"It's Patty the Parrot, my next door neighbor's baby."

"What's it in?"

"It's a parrot seat—you know, like a baby seat." Bob, Mrs. Neuhause's gorgeous boyfriend, had built Patty a car safety seat. It was very clever—Patty was snugly encased in durable foam wrapped in sturdy red vinyl, just ready for any mishap that might come along. He'd actually tried to market it—five thousand dollars down the drain. Bob was clever, but none too savvy.

"Crazy," J.C. commented. J.C. was a real practical kind of guy. If you got a pet, you got either a dog or cat, and certainly, you never chauffeured it around town. He started to get in the driver's side.

"Hey—I'm driving," I said.

"But I know where we're going."

"But it's my car. No one drives my car. You'd better give me good directions, J.C. Don't wait until we're right on top of an exit, either. So, where are we going?"

J.C. was pretty sure Chrissy had gone to her cousin Alice's. That was three hours away.

"We'd be there in two if I was driving," he complained.

I really should have let J.C. drive. I was so tired.

"So how are things, J.C.?" I asked. I hadn't seen J.C. in a while. "How's your mom?"

"Alright. Last time I saw her. What's Babe up to?"

"Babe's going to finish medical school in a couple of months."

"She gonna call herself Dr. Babe?"

"I don't think so." My little sister had gotten much too dour for that. Ever since she became the good child, she'd lost most of her sense of humor.

"So—what was the fight about?" I asked.

"Usual shit."

"First year of marriage is suppose to be the toughest."

"Was it?"

"Oh, the second year was pretty bad, too."

My two-year marriage to Phil, the would-be punk guitarist, was known to my family as the Lost Years. Well, he wasn't really a would-be punk guitarist—he fantasied about it like I'd fantasied about a lot of things. He was really a nice, kind-hearted boy who should never have gotten married right out of high school. And joined the army.

"You think it was a mistake—me getting married?" J.C. asked.

"You always wanted to get married, J.C. You knew it wasn't going to be all sunshine and happiness."

"Yeah—but we fight all the time."

That was about as reflective as J.C. ever got. He believed in things. There was a right way and a wrong way and b always followed a and if it didn't, he didn't want to hear about it. He could get away with that because he was a likeable kind of guy. He had that I'm-on-to-you look, the crusty exterior that can appeal to people. The trouble with J.C. though was that he could never respect anyone unless they were junior versions of him. Chrissy—I liked Chrissy. She was tough and shrewd and never backed down—if anything, J.C. was a junior version of Chrissy. You aren't suppose to marry someone who's too much like you—but if J.C. had married anyone different, he would have ended up belittling and bullying, getting away with much too much and in the end enjoying and expecting it. Chrissy came along at a good time for J.C.

I like to think I did too. J.C.'s mom used to take care of me and Babe so J.C. and I grew up together. The first time we saw each other (we were about four), we knew right away we'd have to battle for things. We were always giving each other bloody noses and black eyes trying to establish the pecking order. J.C. was slightly bigger than me, but I knew just where to hit him to maximize pain. J.C.'s mom was a lax referee. She believed in nature working things out. My mother had a more interventionist outlook on life, but she was so afraid of having to look for another child care provider, she always did the apologizing. And she'd give J.C.'s mother an extra ten bucks.

I think J.C. knew how that made me feel. Sometimes he'd go out of his way to make it look like it was his fault, but his only audience was his own mother who thought boys will be boys so it didn't really matter. But as they say, it's the thought that counts. And between J.C. and me, it was mostly what we had, the thoughts.

"Libby love Patty? Libby love Patty?"

I'd ignored the bird too long.

"Libby loves Patty! Libby loves Patty!"

"Can't we dump the bird?" J.C. asked.

"Shh! Patty's very sensitive. Tell her you love her."

"I will not."

"J.C. loves Patty! J.C. loves Patty!"

"That's a lie, bird."

"Patty loves J.C.! That's a lie. Bird." I swear there was a self-satisfied look in Patty's eyes after she'd said this. J.C. went howling in protest.

"What the—Libby, if I knew you were going to bring that thing—"

"We'll turn right back J.C. and I'll drop you off."

"Shut up, Libby." J.C. looked around for a car stereo. "You don't have a stereo?"

"Nope. Every time I get one, someone breaks into my car. Hey, Patty's better than a stereo. Patty—Patty—do Helen Reddy. Come on. I am woman, hear me roar! Patty— I am—" She was too fixated on J.C., trying to figure him out, win him over. "She does a great Tom Jones."

"Tom Jones is so sexy!" Patty said, Mrs. Neuhause's voice thick and rich from her mouth. For a second I thought it was Mrs. Neuhause. "Saw him in Vegas! Threw my underwear right up there with the rest of them. It was clean underwear—not what I was wearing. I don't always wear underwear. Who needs the panty lines!"

J.C. and I started cracking up.

"Oh, you should see Mrs. Neuhause when Patty does her. She freaks—starts shaking—"

"You're a bad bird! Bad bird!" Mrs. Neuhause said via Patty. And then Patty began laughing like Mrs. Neuhause's sister Katrina. It was a strange, bone-chilling laugh.

"That bird's psycho," J.C. said.

Funny thing about Patty, she had a good sense about people. There wasn't anything apparently sinister about Katrina—but if animals start showing up mutilated in some devil-worship rite—Mrs. Neuhause told me this story about Katrina. Mrs. Neuhause was about five, maybe four, so Katrina was around ten. Until Mrs. Neuhause's exalted birth, Katrina was the treasured, long-awaited only child—the miracle baby. And then out of the blue Mrs. Neuhause was conceived and she became the miracle child, permanently putting Katrina's nose out of joint.

Anyway Mrs. Neuhause swears Katrina once tied her up in a chair, tipping her over to torture her. She remembered smelling the carpet. It smelled musty and also of freshly crumbled crackers, which made Mrs. Neuhause a little bit hungry. She tried to turn away, but all she could see was Katrina's face, looming large and fat above her, turned upside down, the eyes cold and flat where the mouth should have been. She was holding a sharp X-Acto knife, pointing it right at Mrs. Neuhause's face. Mrs. Neuhause began whimpering, and then crying, realizing how tightly bound she was to the stiff back of the chair, the cold rods of its front legs.

"Shut up! Shut up! If you don't shut up, I'll kill you," Katrina hissed.

Mrs. Neuhause started screaming. Katrina quickly stuffed cotton in her mouth and sealed it shut with masking tape. Wondering why she hadn't done this sooner, Katrina got to work, singing sweetly You Are My Sunshine Gently, she bathed Mrs. Neuhause's face with rubbing alcohol, and then with the X-Acto knife, patiently, like a well-trained craftsman, carved tiny "x"s on Mrs. Neuhause's cheeks. What saved Mrs. Neuhause was Hazel, the family mutt, who'd come wandering lazily into the room. Sensing Mrs. Neuhause's distress, Hazel howled so loud, Mrs. Neuhause's mother woke up from her nap and discovered the scene.

"And how can you remember something like that? You were only four?" Katrina would later say. Or she'd sometimes say, "You're remembering that time I drew stars on your face for Halloween. It wasn't a knife—it was Magic Markers!" And Mrs. Neuhause remembered the stars and how happy she'd been, walking hand in hand with Katrina in her ballerina outfit. Katrina was dressed as a witch. She was always dressed as a witch because she was crazy about the shoes with the huge buckles and the curling toes. Like I said, I don't think that was the only thing about witches she was crazy about—if you know what I mean.

A 7-Eleven flashed by.

"I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat," I said, making a fast left turn around.

"Come on," J.C. said, getting out of the car.

"I can't leave Patty. Just heat me up a burrito and get me a Coke."

"What kind?"

"Beef."

While J.C. was getting us food, I went into the back and fed Patty.

"Look—I got us a lottery ticket," J.C. said when he came back.

"Hey, I gave Mrs. Neuhause ten bucks to play the slot machines for me," I said, wolfing down the burrito.

"You trust her?"

"Last time Mrs. Neuhause won me a thousand dollars. She gave me every cent."

"How do you know you didn't really win ten thousand?"

"It's a little hard to win ten thousand playing slot machines."

"Well, what if she took what she won from the slots to play something else and then won ten thousand?"

"Well, maybe I didn't really win anything and Mrs. Neuhause pretended I won and gave me a thousand out of her own winnings to make me feel good?"

J.C. gave me a look.

"Well, if we win, it's fifty-fifty," J.C. said.

"Thanks, J.C. Can you watch Patty for a few seconds? I'm going to get a candy bar. Want anything?"

"Nope."

There was a long line inside because the clerk couldn't get the paper to feed into the cash register. I would have left, but I'd already eaten half the bar so I had to wait and pay. In line I picked up a magazine and read my horoscope: Saturn is sticking around for a while, so get used to feeling a little blue. (Tell me about it!) Treat yourself! Buy a new lipstick! Get your hair cut! Right.

When I got back to the car, J.C. was drinking beer, smirking.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Nothing."

Anxiously I checked on Patty. She had a funny look to her. Her head was weaving in a syrupy motion.

"J.C.! What'd you do to her?"

"She started yakking so I gave her some beer to shut her up."

"J.C.!"

Katrina's laughter began up again. And then "You don't love me, Patty. You just say the words like everybody else. Just like Phil. Everyone's just like Phil." It was my voice, my crying. I could feel myself burning. J.C. looked away, embarrassed.

"Get rid of your beer," I said. "You can't have an open can while I'm driving."

"Don't worry about it," he said.

I took us back on the road. Mercifully, Patty began to doze.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Phil. It's weird to loose complete track of someone you were married to. I suppose I'll see him at my high school reunion. God—won't that be awkward. I think I was scared of having to leave home and that's why I got married. It doesn't make any difference if it doesn't make any sense because it took a long time to even get any sense into it. I was sixteen and my parents so proud that I was heading off to Stanford. Things came to a head and I remember reaching a state of hysteria, tears that seemed to stem directly from my heart, breathing so rushed I thought I was going to faint, words pummeling back at me, my words and my parents—the look on their faces as they realized something had to give and it had to be them. After this, they were very stoic. "Of course it's your life," they said (and if you want to throw it down the drain, who are we to say anything—we only gave birth to you!), "we just want you to be happy." They plunged immediately into every detail of the wedding. I was overwhelmed, but glad to have things my way. And I even got to stay home because Phil had already joined the army and left for boot camp a week after our marriage. If he had died in war, there would have been something very noble about it. Sometimes I think I see him, on t.v. when they show shots of soldiers in the Middle East. God, I bet he hates the desert. He really hated getting sand in his shoes.

After our divorce, I went to Stanford. My parents acted as if nothing odd had happened. I was going off with all the other 18-year-olds. But to me I felt as if I'd done life backwards or inside out. I never told people I'd been married.

Up ahead one of the lanes was blocked off so all the traffic was forced to merge into the right lane. We could see the state patrol was stopping cars, going through them with heavy aluminum flashlights.

"I wonder what's going on?" I said.

"They're probably checking for drugs."

We had a problem with drug trafficking and every once in awhile they'd set up a road block. Traffic wasn't heavy, so we were at the check point pretty fast. J.C. hid his beer under his coat.

"Having a good evening, folks?" the state patrolman asked.

"Yes, thank you, officer," I said. I had this compulsion to say, "J.C.'s hiding beer under his coat!"

The patrolman gave us a thorough, quick once over before looking into the back of the car. "Well, will you look at that!" He'd noticed Patty sleeping in her safety seat.

"Safety first, officer," I said.

He shook his head and laughed, waving us through. "You folks have a good evening."

We waved back respectfully. Chrissy's cousin's place wasn't too much further. When we arrived, J.C. hopped out of the car while I stayed behind with Patty. He tried the doorbell, but no one seemed to be home.

"I'm going to check out back," he hollered, pointing in case I couldn't hear. Two Dobermans came to the gate and jumped onto his chest. J.C. pushed them down and washed down their bodies with his loving hands. They couldn't lick him fast enough. While he was gone, a large woman in a faded pink house coat came out of the house next door. I got out of the car and met her half way.

"Looking for Chrissy?" she asked.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"I'm Chrissy's aunt. Thought I saw J.C. We've all been wondering how long it'd take J.C. to show up," she said with a chuckle. "Listen, hon, they're over at Chrissy's sister's. You know the way?"

"I'm sure J.C. does."

"Alright then. I'd wait to say hi to J.C., but I left the baby running around and I got something on the stove."

I nodded sympathetically and watched as she went back into her house. J.C. finally came back, smelling of wet dog.

"J.C.," I said, "let's go home. Chrissy'll come back when she's ready."

"But she's got the fucking car!"

"I'll let you have my car until then. She'll probably be back tomorrow anyway."

"Alright," he grumbled. He looked tired and defeated, not at all like the J.C. I knew. I guess marriage can sometimes do that to you.

As I drove back I couldn't help thinking about what the patrolman must have thought, seeing Patty snug in her seat like a baby. It was kind of like a family, J.C. the husband, me the wife, Patty the baby, on a nice family drive out to visit the relatives. I don't think I could expect much more, my life inside out the way it was. But maybe someday it'll work itself right side out—or maybe I'll learn to like it the wrong side in—sort of like Mrs. Neuhause.

"J.C., remember that time you and me and Phil went fishing? And some how the lines got all tangled up and Phil fell into the water trying to fix it and I thought he'd be really mad, but he thought it was funny and almost drowned because he laughed so hard?"

"Yeah, I remember. Why?"

"It's nice you remember. Hush now, or you'll wake up Patty."