By Steve Vineis

You taught her well. I told her if she kept the dog quiet while we drove she could grow her hair out. We’re in Indiana and she looks quite pretty with her hair like she wants it—all messy and loose. Says she can’t wait for it to get long, wants to grow it down her back. There’s no room at Sissy’s so we’re in some hotel out of the way of anywhere. I know I haven’t called, you know why. I’m writing because I know it’ll take a couple days for this to get to you and a couple more for you to read it, and I know you need the time. I let her have a Dr. Pepper while she watched TV. Just the one, I promise. She’s been through a lot and I’m not trying to say it’s just you but I hope you’re understanding all this. She’s getting really pretty. I was always told growing up by my folks—it’s hard to watch them grow up but beautiful at the same time. Never understood that but I do now. The less they need you, the more quiet they are about their own little lives…makes you wonder what kind of example you’ve set, if what you taught ‘em is stuck like law at this point or if they hate you enough just to ignore it. I think we’ve got a couple more years before we have to worry. When she and I got to Sissy’s we smelled so bad Don wouldn’t let us in the house, gave me the money for the hotel. I hosed the dog off by the spigot off the garage and she cleaned her feet and hands, dried them on a rag from the trunk. You must have told Don something wrong, he couldn’t wait to get rid of us. Fuck, you could be on your way, I’m sure he told you where we are. I just couldn’t stop, you get it? I know what it must be like for you—I know you can’t stop either. I started driving, then I was really driving, just lost in the driving, and I wasn’t thinking about anything but staying awake. Sometimes I’d hit the dashboard to get a few spits from the air conditioner but it wasn’t much—so damn hot outside even going eighty-five with the windows down feels like sitting in the lip of a screaming kettle. She slept most of the way, I don’t know how. Woke her up a couple of times just to talk and make sure I wasn’t dreaming all this. She was scared in the backseat, she told me. She said she couldn’t believe I hit you and I can’t believe it either, but I’m not running even though I know you called the police, probably right after you called Don. It’s not some court room or some cell I’m afraid of—or a divorce and paid outs and the 50/50 if that’s what it comes to. What made me afraid is that I swore I could’ve killed you. I would’ve killed you. Even in the summer that basement gets so fucking cold. She took up your cause. I had to win her back just to get her to slide up to the front with me. I told her I’d let her take the wheel for a few seconds if she sat shotgun. I saw my mother get her jaw cracked a handful of times growing up and she’d put a fridge-cold steak wrapped in a paper towel over her mouth while she smoked her skinny cigarettes in the kitchen. Never saw a bruise or nothing, in case I left one on you. I’m apologizing because I don’t want to be my father and that’s it. I was more worried about getting her out of there than finishing you off and Goddamn it I was going to finish you. I can’t sleep because I think of how I’d do it if I ever saw you again, if you were to find us.

She woke up for a minute and asked me where we were going and even if I knew where, I wouldn’t put that in this letter. She says she wants to go to Portland—one of your magazines she took says it’s the greenest state, whatever that means. She says since it’s so green and since we’re Irish they’ll be nice to us, and no one will notice how we don’t have any of our good clothes. I asked if she knew where Portland was and she said it was in the state under Washington—not the Washington where the President lives but the Washington where there’s still trees. She’s so smart, says some funny things. I got scared at a rest stop. I was outside smoking and she took too long in the bathroom. I almost went in. Instead I waited a little longer, lost in all the faces. The dog shit right next to my foot and I almost stepped in it. Forgot bags to pick it up, you probably still have a couple in your purse, don’t you? When she came out the front of her little sundress was wet but I didn’t say anything. She changed in the backseat. Indiana is just like I’ve heard them say—all flat with nothing to look at but all that open space where you can’t disappear. Not even ghosts could hide here. There’s some show on the TV. Two guys going around to these old dumpyards and junk houses and picking through the stuff. Those were the best times. I don’t know why we stopped. We could still do those things, babe, you don’t even have to ask. She’d like it too. On this show there’s a little boy, he finds the best stuff. I told you you should quit the drink, it’d make you ugly after a while. I was right. You’re just as pretty as ever, sure, even if we both got old quick. You can still light up a room but I know there’s something inside begging to be drowned and I know you gotta feel better however you can. You blame me, but it’s a sin, I’ve said enough about it. It was the right thing to do. When I saw that padlock on the basement door, and I knew she wasn’t upstairs. I keep asking myself why and I know…I just hate to admit it. I know I’m not around and you’re left to handle home. I’ve got the volume really low, the commercials are always louder than the shows. I don’t want to wake her, let her get some good sleep tonight. She’s so beautiful, a little you—and don’t think that doesn’t scare me too.

We’ll make it back home, I’m sure. I don’t know when but we’ll make it home. Whether or not you’re there is up to time, I guess. Things will be better. I understand a little more. It’s like at those old estate sales, where we got the crib and beds and the stuff. For our haunted little house. Everything must go. Everything.

always,

N.