Every mile or so, another billboard appeared, but food seemed to be the main order of business. Coney Island hot dogs, homemade apple pie (like “Mom’s”—except Linwood wouldn’t have baked an apple pie if her life depended on it), frosty old-fashioned root beer, on and on. I hadn’t been hungry when the signs began, and now I felt a little sick.
Then, when I was resigning myself, came a new enticement:
“That’s half a ton,” said June.
Half a ton sounded like even more than a thousand pounds. How could anyone, a woman, lift that much weight? “Maybe she weighs a thousand pounds herself,” I said stupidly.
“Like you,” said June.
“I don’t either!” Usually this conversation didn’t bother me, but, like I said, my nerves were frayed.
“Close to it, Fatty.”
“Linwood,” I said, clutching the back of the front seat, “tell June I’m not fat!”
“Goddammit!” said Stan. “How many times do I have to tell you not to hit the seat when I’m driving?”
“Fatty,” said June. “Lean on the seat and you break it!”
“I’M NOT FAT!” I wailed.
“Absolute silence,” Linwood said. “Total silence for fifteen minutes or no allowance and no sweets this week. Do I make myself clear?”
“Are we stopping at Running Redskin’s?” June demanded.
“Yes, if you shut up.”
Totally silent, afraid to breathe—had I gone too far?—I snipped away at my hats. Deep shame. Shouting and shoving and evil thoughts. No wonder Sammy had abandoned me.
I glanced out the window and watched the network of electric poles, mean cats’ heads, strung on silver up to the sky.
We only passed one more sign for Running Redskin’s: no Hannah, only creamy fudge. June poked me in the side and mouthed “Fatty,” but I kept my dignity. And, even when the fifteen minutes had passed, we were both wise enough to maintain our silence until Stan was pulling the car into the parking lot.
Two enormous plywood figures dominated the front of what was only a small, concrete building. The figures towered at least three stories high: the wily Redskin and the resplendent Hannah. When you first saw them, they were as impressive as cartoon gods—his blue and yellow loincloth, his feathered headdress; her pink and green polka-dot bikini, the flowing mane of platinum hair. But also their bodies were godlike, his sleek and linear, a runner this Indian, and hers all curve and muscle bulge. Slave bracelets on her upper arms emphasized the power of her biceps. Her thighs reminded you of Paul Bunyon, of Viking legends. Stan snorted when he saw them; June and Linwood laughed.
But I wanted to cry. Okay, she was silly, but that’s who I wanted to be. A woman like that: she had power. She could protect people. This was what Sally the Snake Queen intended to be, and failed so dreadfully. Could I ever grow up to look like that, with my slight build and my hair, thin as water and brown as mud?
Stan opened his door and I weaseled out of the backseat.
“I’ll meet you inside,” I called over my shoulder. They probably thought I had to use the ladies’ room. But what I wanted was to see Hannah before they all had a chance to make fun of her. I had a mission, and this time it was all for me.
Inside was nothing special, just a long lunch counter and the usual rows of dusty trinkets. Where did they keep the world’s strongest woman? Behind the counter, a redhead in a bowling shirt (MOLLY) was reading a movie magazine.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Where’s Hannah?”
Her eyes lifted from the movie magazine in surprise.
“You know, Hannah. Who lifts a thousand pounds.”
“Why, out back,” the woman said. Then she winked.
I raced out back at the same time I heard my family walk in the front door. But outside was nothing except a kind of stable. Inside the stable was a scruffy old mule.
I ran back inside. The woman was reading once again.
“All I see is a mule.”
“That’s Hannah,” said the woman. “And she’s carried a thousand pounds before.”
I merely looked at her.
She looked right back: in her stare there was both sympathy and daring. My mouth opened and I meant to say that I was angry, I had been tricked, I would make a citizen’s arrest for false advertising, but nothing came out. My mouth slammed shut like a trapdoor.
The woman nodded sagely. Her eyes were the no-color of ice. “The sign didn’t say Hannah was human.” Her voice turned kind. “It’s a sort of a joke.”
But not my kind of joke. “Then who’s the lady out front?”
“Lady out front?” She shrugged. “Why, it’s nobody. It’s just a pitcher.”
“But—” What was the use? “Well, who painted it?”
She shrugged again, and her face looked a little older. “Guy name of Fred? He does all the billboard stuff around here.”
“Did he have a model or anything?”
“Honey, forget it,” said the woman, losing patience. “It’s just a pitcher. It ain’t alive.”
Ka-boom! Stan put his hands on my shoulders. This gesture was meant to look friendly but felt like the yoke of doom. “Leave the lady alone, Pet.”
“Hannah’s a mule!”
“So what?” He tightened his hands around my neck. “You and June can each pick out whatever you like, as long as it’s under two dollars.”
I couldn’t quite give it up. I sensed it was hopeless, but I still couldn’t quite give it up. “Is there any woman in the world who can lift a thousand pounds?” I asked the two adults.
“Your mother,” said Stan. The woman laughed.
But even as we drove away, and I realized that once more Sammy had failed me (though to be frank, it didn’t seem like his sort of place), or I had failed him by expecting him, or simply failed because I was a child, without power, and couldn’t understand, I stared out the back window at Hannah in her pink and green polka-dot bikini, white-blond hair wafting around her powerful chest and shoulders, and I knew she was around somewhere. Maybe not there, maybe not then, but she damn well existed.
“Piece of fudge?” June offered her box.
“No, thanks.”
She looked relieved.
I opened up the bag with my trinket. It was a copper bracelet, a big one. I pulled up the sleeve of my sweater and fastened it to my upper arm, the left one in hopes that June wouldn’t see me. Furtively, I raised my arm muscle-man style. Wasn’t that just the barest bulge of a biceps?
“You won’t believe what Pet’s doing!”
Linwood whipped her head around, so fast I didn’t have a chance to resume a normal posture.
“Honey,” she was trying not to laugh, “what’s all that?”
Talk about feeling like a dope. Coolly, I rolled the sleeve down over my bracelet, crossed my arms, and stared out the window. Green trees and more green trees.
“She thinks she’s that Amazon on the billboard.”
The front seat snickered.
I wasn’t going to cry. I felt the warmth of my new bracelet spreading energy through my upper arm. I should have gotten two. But never mind. This was only one more thing nobody understood.
June beat her chest and yodeled. “Me Tarzan,” she said. “You Fatso.”
But out in the greeny woods I thought I saw the shadow of a great big woman, climbing the trees as easily as pie, her broad back fit to carry the weight of the world.