I thought Mom was having another tantrum. I assumed that come opening day, she’d be off in Lucy Jo’s Dart to Davy Elementary, even if we had to cajole her. But on that first day of school, Mom refused to get out of bed. Lori, Brian, and I pulled back the covers and tried to drag her out, but she wouldn’t budge.
I told her she had responsibilities. I told her child welfare might come down on us again if she wasn’t working. She folded her arms across her chest and stared us down. “I’m not going to school,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’m sick.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“My mucus is yellow,” Mom said.
“If everyone who had yellow mucus stayed home, the schools would be pretty empty,” I told her.
Mom’s head snapped up. “You can’t talk to me like that,” she said. “I’m your mother.”
“If you want to be treated like a mother,” I said, “you should act like one.”
Mom rarely got angry. She was usually either singing or crying, but now her face twisted up with fury. We both knew I had crossed a line, but I didn’t care. I’d also changed over the summer.
“How dare you?” she shouted. “You’re in trouble now — big trouble. I’m telling your dad. Just you wait until he comes home.”
Mom’s threat didn’t worry me. The way I saw it, Dad owed me. I’d looked after his kids all summer, I’d kept him in beer and cigarette money, and I’d helped him fleece that miner Robbie. I figured I had Dad in my back pocket.
When I got home from school that afternoon, Mom was still curled up on the sofa bed, a small pile of paperbacks next to her. Dad was sitting at the drafting table, rolling a cigarette. He beckoned to me to follow him into the kitchen. Mom watched us go.
Dad closed the door and looked at me gravely. “Your mother claims you back-talked her.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s true.”
“Yes, sir,” he corrected me, but I didn’t say anything.
“I’m disappointed in you,” he went on. “You know damn good and well that you are to respect your parents.”
“Dad, Mom’s not sick, she’s playing hooky,” I said. “She has to take her obligations more seriously. She has to grow up a little.”
“Who do you think you are?” he asked. “She’s your mother.”
“Then why doesn’t she act like one?” I looked at Dad for what felt like a very long moment. Then I blurted out. “And why don’t you act like a dad?”
I could see the blood surge into his face. He grabbed me by the arm. “You apologize for that comment!”
“Or what?” I asked.
Dad shoved me up against the wall. “Or by God I’ll show you who’s boss around here.”
His face was inches from mine. “What are you going to do to punish me?” I asked. “Stop taking me to bars?”
Dad drew back his hand as if to smack me. “You watch your mouth, young lady. I can still whip your butt, and don’t think I won’t.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
Dad dropped his hand. He pulled his belt out of the loops on his work pants and wrapped it a couple of times around his knuckles.
“Apologize to me and to your mother,” he said.
“No.”
Dad raised the belt. “Apologize.”
“No.”
“Then bend over.”
Dad was standing between me and the door. There was no way out except through him. But it never occurred to me to either run or fight. The way I saw it, he was in a tighter spot than I was. He had to back down, because if he sided with Mom and gave me a whipping, he would lose me forever.
We stared at each other. Dad seemed to be waiting for me to drop my eyes, to apologize and tell him I was wrong so we could go back to being like we were, but I kept holding his gaze. Finally, to call his bluff, I turned around, bent over slightly, and rested my hands on my knees.
I expected him to turn and walk away, but there were six stinging blows on the backs of my thighs, each accompanied by a whistle of air. I could feel the welts rising even before I straightened up. I walked out of the kitchen without looking at Dad. Mom was outside the door. She’d been standing there, listening to everything. I didn’t look at her, but I could see from the corner of my eye her triumphant expression. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry.
As soon as I got outside, I ran up into the woods, pushing tree branches and wild grape vines out of my face. I thought I’d start crying now that I was away from the house, but instead, I threw up. I ate some wild mint to get rid of the taste of bile, and I walked for what felt like hours through the silent hills. The air was clear and cool, and the forest floor was thick with leaves that had fallen from the buckeyes and poplars. Late in the afternoon, I sat down on a tree trunk, leaning forward because the backs of my thighs still stung. All through the long walk, the pain had kept me thinking, and by the time I reached the tree trunk, I had made two decisions.
The first was that I’d had my last whipping. No one was ever going to do that to me again. The second was that, like Lori, I was going to get out of Welch. The sooner, the better. Before I finished high school, if I could. I had no idea where I would go, but I did know I was going. I also knew it would not be easy. People got stuck in Welch. I had been counting on Mom and Dad to get us out, but I now knew I had to do it on my own. It would take saving and planning. I decided the next day I’d go to G. C. Murphy and buy a pink plastic piggy bank I’d seen there. I’d put in the seventy-five dollars I had managed to save while working at Becker’s Jewel Box. It would be the beginning of my escape fund.
THAT FALL, TWO GUYS showed up in Welch who were different from anyone I’d ever met. They were filmmakers from New York City, and they’d been sent to Welch as part of a government program to bring cultural uplift to rural Appalachia. Their names were Ken Fink and Bob Gross.
At first, I thought they were joking. Ken Fink and Bob Gross? As far as I was concerned, they might as well have said their names were Ken Stupid and Bob Ugly. But Ken and Bob weren’t joking. They didn’t think their names were funny at all, and they didn’t smile when I asked if they were putting me on.
Ken and Bob both talked so fast — their conversation filled with references to people I’d never heard of, like Stanley Kubrick and Woody Allen — that it was sometimes hard to follow them. Although they had no sense of humor about their names, Ken and Bob did like to joke a lot. It wasn’t the sort of Welch High humor I was used to — Polack jokes and guys cupping their hand under their armpit to make fart noises. Ken and Bob had this smart, competitive way of joking where one would make a wisecrack and the other would have a comeback and the first would have a retort to the comeback. They could keep it up until my head spun.
One weekend Ken and Bob showed a Swedish film in the school auditorium. It was shot in black and white, and had subtitles and a plot heavy on symbolism, so fewer than a dozen people came, even though it was free. Afterward, Lori showed Ken and Bob some of her illustrations. They told her she had talent and said if she was serious about becoming an artist, she needed to go to New York City. It was a place of energy and creativity and intellectual stimulation the likes of which we’d never seen. It was filled with people who, because they were such unique individuals, didn’t fit in anywhere else.
That night Lori and I lay in our rope beds and discussed New York City. The things I had heard always made it sound like a big, noisy place with a lot of pollution and mobs of people in suits elbowing one another on the sidewalks. But Lori began to see New York as a sort of Emerald City — this glowing, bustling place at the end of a long road where she could become the person she was meant to be.
What Lori liked most about Ken and Bob’s description was that the city attracted people who were different. Lori was about as different as it was possible to be in Welch. While almost all the other kids wore jeans, Converse sneakers, and T-shirts, she showed up at school in army boots, a white dress with red polka dots, and a jean jacket with dark poetry she’d painted on the back. The other kids threw bars of soap at her, pushed one another into her path, and wrote graffiti about her on the bathroom walls. In return, she cursed them out in Latin.