“I’ve always wanted to take lessons,” she said. She looked back at me. “Sorry to come by so late. I just got off work and I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“Really?”
“Really. Thanks to you. I’ve felt like a madman this past week. You breathed sanity back into me.”
She smiled. “Good.”
“I’m surprised you found my place. It was midnight in the middle of a blizzard when you dropped me off.”
“I got a little lost. But just for a moment.”
“Were you at the…coffee shop?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I’m not really sure what your coffee shop is called.”
“That’s okay, no one does.”
“What do you mean?”
“When it first opened, it was called the Java Hut. Then, like five years ago, Jeff, the owner’s son, took over. He’s all into science fiction and Star Wars and he thought it would be cool to change the name around to Java the Hut; you know, like Jabba the Hut, that big lizard guy in the Star Wars movie. I don’t think people even make the connection anymore, but most people just call it the Hut anyway.”
“Jeff would like Victor,” I said.
“Who?”
“No one,” I said quickly. “I came by… the Hut…when I got my car this morning. I wanted to see if you were there.”
“I only work the night shift.”
“When I asked about you, they said there wasn’t a Macy Wood working there.”
“That’s because everyone thinks my name is Mary Hummel.”
“Why would they think that?”
“It’s what’s on my Social Security card and that’s what my boss put on the work schedule when I first started…It doesn’t matter, I answer to about anything.”
“How do you go from Macy Wood to Mary Hummel?”
“I have kind of a”—she hesitated—”interesting life.”
“Interesting as in fascinating or interesting as in a nightmare?”
“Yes.”
I nodded slowly. “Last night, when I told you I felt like an orphan, you said you knew what I meant. Did you also lose your parents?” She looked away from me, seemingly uncomfortable with my question. “If you don’t want to talk about it…”
“No, it’s all right.” She looked back up and smiled sadly. “Actually it’s more like they lost me.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was seven, I was given up for adoption.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally I said, “I’m sorry.”
“It was pretty tough, but I was a pretty tough kid by then. My parents were alcoholics and drug addicts. I had been in and out of foster homes and drug rehabilitation centers so many times the only constant in my life was change. When I was seven, the state intervened and I was adopted by the Hummels. Mrs. Hummel didn’t like the name Macy, so she changed the c to an r. Mrs. Hummel wasn’t a very nice lady. I ran away from home at fifteen and haven’t been back since. Mary Hummel is my legal name, but my real name is Macy Wood.”
“Where did you live after you ran away?”
“Mostly at friends’ homes. I just kind of sofa-hopped for a year or so. Then when my friends started leaving home themselves, I spent a few months on the street. Those were the worst days. But like they say, it’s always darkest before dawn. That’s when I met Jo.”
Revealingly, my heart sank. “Joe’s your boyfriend?”
She smiled. “No. Jo’s a woman. Actually her real name is Joette.”
“Joette?”
“It’s what happens when your parents are named Joe and Yvette and they only have one child. I was busing tables at a Denny’s and she was a waitress there. She said she was looking for a roommate to help with expenses. She only charged me twenty-five dollars a month. It wasn’t until I was older that I figured out she was really just trying to get me off the street. I eventually quit Denny’s and came to the Hut, but I still live with Jo. She’s looked after me ever since.”
“I never would have guessed your life had been that hard.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re so…”
“Normal?” she offered.
“I was going to say nice.”
“Just too many scars to jest at wounds.” She sighed. “Well, that was a lot more of my history than I planned to share. So I guess we’re even.”
“It happens.” After a moment I asked, “Is there anyone else in your family?”
“A little sister,” she said softly.
“How has she fared?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was adopted.”
After a minute I asked. “Have you ever thought of trying to find her?”
“A few times. Especially recently. I’ve been having these dreams. I’m at a public swimming pool and I hear a little girl calling for me like she’s drowning. I go to help her when Mrs. Hummel grabs me and carries me away.” She looked at me. “I don’t know why I’ve been having them.”
“Maybe it’s a sign.”
“I’ve wondered that. The thing is I don’t really know where I’d start. Or maybe I’m just afraid of what I might find. Or not find.” She sighed again then looked down at her watch. “I better go.”
We got up together and she stopped at my doorway. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”
“Thanks for checking up on me. Could I have your phone number?”
“Sure.”
I grabbed the first piece of paper I could find—I think it was a tract from the Watchtower Society—and she wrote her number down on the back of it.
“I’ll walk you out,” I said.
Outside, Macy lingered at her car, searching through her purse for her keys. When she found them, she looked back up, leaned forward and hugged me. When we parted, she looked into my face.
“I’d like to hear you play your guitar sometime.”
“Are you busy tomorrow night?”
She frowned. “I’m working.”
“How about Friday?”
“I have to work every night this week. Actually, all I do is work.” Then her face lit. “I have an idea. Every Thursday night we have live entertainment. It’s usually Carlos, this old hippie guy who plays the guitar. But the last couple of weeks he’s been out with bronchitis or something. You should come play. We’ll hang out afterwards.”
“I’ve never really performed in public,” I said. “Outside of my sophomore talent show. But it sounds fun. I don’t get off work until seven. Would seven-thirty be okay?”
“That’s perfect. We have a sound system. So you just need to bring your guitar. And it pays ten dollars an hour plus tips.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Good night.” She climbed into her car and I stood there until she had driven away. Then I walked back inside amazed at how happy this girl made me.
I’ve wondered why it is that some people come through difficult times bitter and broken while others emerge stronger and more empathetic? I’ve read that the same breeze that extinguishes some flames just fans others. I still don’t know what kind of flame I am.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
DECEMBER 3, 1974
There was something different this time. Even at the age of seven, Macy had developed a sense about these things. In the last year she had bounced in and out of foster homes with such frequency that she had already lived with seven different families. But this time there was something about the confederacy of big people that set off warning signals inside her head as shrill as a school bell. Where was her little sister?
A squat, melon-faced woman with dyed yellow hair looked at her flatly, a cloud of smoke billowing up from the cigarette clamped between her teeth. She wore a thick black wool coat that fell to her shins and fit her body like a cover on a barbeque grill. The only color she wore was a Christmas tree broach with bright red and green faux jewels. The woman’s eyes emotionlessly crawled over he
r while the other two adults, her father and the woman from the state, seemed to avoid looking at her at all.
It was late afternoon. Macy rocked on her heels, occasionally kicking a little at the snow with her oversized red Converse sneakers.
She had sensed that something would happen today. Yesterday was a good day, maybe the best in years, and experience had proven there was always something suspicious about that. She had spent the day with her father, just the two of them, on an all-day daddy-daughter date. She had asked where her Sissy was, but her father said this was a special day for just them. They had gone to a movie and bought popcorn and Raisinets. Afterward, they had gone down to the dollar store where there were more treats: a caramel apple, a pencil with a jack-o’-lantern eraser, a candy valentine’s heart, a green shamrock: every special day of the year combined into one. Then her father had carried her home on his shoulders, a rare treat, for he still limped from his childhood bout with polio. They had chattered and played all day, blissfully ignoring the question she knew would be answered in time. Life had taught her that no good day went unpaid for.
Her father wore the same clothes as the day before: the tan down vest, the motor-oil-stained T-shirt not quite concealing the tattoos on his upper arm. Still he looked different now.
The woman from the state looked like a giant to her—taller than her father by nearly a head—gaunt in the face, her cheeks pale, her nose red from the cold. She was a caseworker and Macy had seen many of them. Most of them had been kind or sympathetic, others frantic or burned out, but to Macy they were all the same—ushers to new unwelcome worlds, away from her family’s problems.
Always there were problems. She didn’t understand why caseworkers and foster parents had to be a part of their family’s problems. Ever since her mother died, their problems had gotten worse. Much worse. Why didn’t her father just stop using the drugs that made the problems and these people come? Why didn’t the caseworkers take the drugs away instead of her?
The tall woman finished speaking to her father, then turned to Macy, crouching down on her haunches so that she was only slightly taller than the little girl. “Macy, this is Mrs. Irene Hummel. Mrs. Hummel is your new mother.”
Macy glanced furtively at Mrs. Hummel, then to her father, and his expression did not change with the caseworker’s words. Mother? This woman didn’t look like any mother she would want.
“I had a mother, thank you,” she said meekly, hoping against experience that something she said might make a difference.
Mrs. Hummel blew out a large puff of smoke, briefly obscuring her face.
“You’re very lucky,” the caseworker said. Most kids over four never get adopted.” The caseworker stood back up and it seemed that she was even taller now. “It’s time to say goodbye.”
Her father knelt down next to her. “You okay, sport?”
She tried to act brave but her stomach hurt. “What about Sissy?”
“She’s not going with you.”
“Who will take care of her?”
“She’ll be okay.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “She needs me.”
“She’ll be okay.”
“But I don’t want to go.”
“I know.” There was futility in his eyes and Macy knew it would happen. It always happened the way the grown-ups said it would. “I have something for you. You fell asleep before I could give it to you last night.” He handed her a box containing a bright red glass Christmas ornament. Written in glitter were the words NOEL. DECEMBER 25. She looked at it, then wiped her face with her mittens.
“It’s from Mom,” he said.
“Thank you.” She took the box in her hands.
He exhaled loudly, then stood. There was a quick glance between her father and the yellow-haired woman. The woman said to Macy. “C’mon.”
Macy looked at her father and the caseworker with hope, but neither would look at her. So she picked up the black plastic garbage bag filled with her clothes and followed the woman, who was already walking to her car. The car was pieced together with body panels from at least three different automobiles, all of different colors: dull metallic blue, brown and lime green. Macy opened the back door, threw her bag on the seat opposite her, then climbed into the car and fastened her seat belt. The seats were ripped in places and the foam rubber protruded, enmeshed between springs. The car reeked of cigarette smoke in spite of the tree-shaped air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror.
The woman started the car, then reached down and turned on the radio to a country station. Macy glanced back once more at her father. The caseworker was talking to him and he looked at the ground. Then, as the car started to move, he looked into her eyes once, then looked away. And then he was gone. Macy closed her eyes tightly and tried not to cry out loud.
Ten minutes into the drive the woman turned down the radio.
“You had lunch?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she lied. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Eating was one area of her life where she felt control.
“You’re skinny as a paper clip.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Case you’re wondering, you have a sister and two brothers.”
Macy just stared out the window in silence. Her mind reeled in ways she couldn’t explain. She had developed mechanisms to cope with her fear, and she had retreated into herself, or perhaps out of herself, as she felt as if she were outside her body, watching this little girl thrown into a frightening new world. The woman just sucked on her cigarette. She had expended all the effort she would in conversation.
The ride seemed interminable.
Twenty-five minutes later the car passed a supermarket and turned down a narrow dead-end road. The second house from the end was a small, prefabricated home with green aluminum siding and a gray shingle roof. The front porch was elevated and it had an aluminum-awning covering. The picture window to the side of the porch had been broken and there was cardboard duct-taped to it on the inside. The yard was filled with weeds, and to the side of the house were cars in various stages of cannibalization. As they pulled in to the driveway, the woman said, “This is your new home.”
“It’s very nice,” Macy said. She had learned to always say this because it made the big people happy. But if it affected this woman at all, she couldn’t tell.
The woman shut off the car and opened the door. She threw what was left of her cigarette on the ground then climbed out. “Get your things.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Macy followed her to the front porch. The aluminum outer door was missing a panel. There was a cardboard sign over the doorbell that read BROKE. It was stuck to the wooden frame with a flesh-colored Band-Aid. The door had been scribbled on with crayon.
The woman opened the door and shouted, “We’re back,” as she walked inside.
Macy stepped in behind her onto the vinyl parquet floor entry. The front room was small, the floor covered with tan shag carpet. There was a peculiar smell to the room, like dog, though the odor was mostly obscured by the clinging stench of cigarettes. There was a Christmas tree in the corner of the room, decorated with a red felt tree skirt, colorful ornaments and strands of popcorn, and in spite of everything else this made Macy happy. Maybe they would let her hang her new ornament on the tree as well.
A girl and two boys ran into the room. The girl was stout, slightly younger than Macy and bore a resemblance to the woman. Standing behind the girl one boy appeared to be Macy’s age, the other a few years older. They all stared at her as if she were some new species of animal. For a moment no one spoke. Then the girl said, “That’s not Buffy.”
The woman took off her coat, hooking it to a coat tree. “I told you Buffy was already taken.”
Macy glanced back and forth between them. Who was Buffy?
“I wanted Buffy.”
“You’ll take her.”
“What’s her name?” the older boy asked.
“I’m Macy,” she said trying to sound chee
rful.
“Stupid name,” the younger boy said.
“Not as stupid as Buffy,” the older boy said, laughing. “Booooffeeee,” he said, taunting his sister.
“You said I could have Buffy for Christmas,” the girl whined.
“Just shut up,” the woman said. “Buffy’s gone. Someone else got her.”
“What are your names?” Macy asked.
“Bart,” said the oldest. “He’s Ronny and that’s Sheryl.”
“Hi, guys,” Macy said brightly.
No one answered. Just then a dog came into the room. It was large—gigantic to Macy—with brown, brindled fur. Its head looked awkwardly large for its body. It stopped when it saw Macy and a deep, fierce growl rose from its throat.
Macy took a step back. She was afraid of dogs. Especially this one.
“Buster don’t like new people,” Bart said.
“Eat her, Buster,” Ronny said.
Macy froze with fear. The dog’s ears fell back and it barked loud enough to hurt Macy’s ears.
“Get that dog outta here,” the woman shouted at Bart.
“She’s a pit bull,” Bart said to Macy. “They call them that cuz they made them for fightin’ in pits. She could kill you in one second flat.”
“I said get! And clean up his mess on the back porch.”
“It’s not my turn.”
“I don’t care whose turn it is, I told you to do it.”
“Make the new girl do it,” Ronny said.
“Yeah,” Bart said to Macy. “That’s your new job, cleaning up after Buster.”
“Now!” the woman screamed.
Bart groaned, then grabbed the dog by the collar and began dragging it away. “C’mon, Buster.”
The woman turned to Sheryl. “Now show her the room.”
Sheryl defiantly crossed her arms. “She can’t sleep in my room.”
The woman shot a fierce glance at the girl and she wilted beneath it.
“Okay, fine,” Sheryl said.
Mrs. Hummel walked from the room. Sheryl turned to Macy, her face screwed up in anger and defeat. “C’mon.”