V: Running away

Chapter: Kid, Running Away

I have decided to run away from my house. We live on a street called
Greenbriar, the only place I remember living. My sister has told me
about another place we lived, an apartment. An apartment is like a
house, she told me, only they're all stuck together and there was a
pool that all the families shared. She said we lived on the second
floor at the top of some stairs, and that I got lost once at the bottom
of the stairs and walked back and forth crying. She watched me, she
said, and laughed until I heard her and came back home.

My mother and father don't know I'm running away, but my sister is
suspicious because I borrowed her suitcase. The suitcase has orange and
red and yellow flowers on it, with green leaves in the background. The
inside smells like baby powder. I had to promise I'd bring it right
back, even giving her my set of Lincoln Logs until I did. I figured I
need the suitcase more than the Lincoln Logs.

I am running away to find Johnny Quest, the boy on the television
cartoon who I am in love with for his blond hair and his friends and
his father, who teaches Johnny all kinds of tricks and lets Johnny
drive a boat. I think Johnny is real, because he is on the television
day after day, saving people with his dog and his dark friend who wears
a towel on his head. This is enough for me.

I am four, an easy number for my fingers because all I have to do is
hold up my hand and tuck my thumb in when people ask me how old I am. I
have just learned to tie my own shoes, getting it right when my father
drove home from the supermarket. My father didn't say anything when I
told him and pointed down at my sneakers so he could see the bows. They
weren't perfect like his but my shoes were definitely tied. He didn't
even look over, just kept driving. I decided my mother would notice,
maybe give me money.

But my mother just smiled at me and then kept reading her book. By the
time I got to my sister, one of my laces had come undone. My sister
said, "So what, you big baby. Anybody can tie their own shoes. Let's
see if you can go to the bathroom by yourself, or brush your own teeth.
That would be something." So I went to my room until dinnertime,
untying and retying my shoes, sometimes taking them off but mostly
leaving them on my feet. I managed to get the bows even.

The next day, Johnny Quest and his friends got lost but survived being
chased through a jungle by men with guns. At the end of the show,
Johnny says, "If you ever need me, I'm just up the street." That was
for me. I'm not afraid of running into men with guns, at least not like
the men on the show, who don't move anything except their mouths. Those
men sound a lot like Johnny's father, but I know this can't be true.
Johnny's father is clean, and blond like Johnny. His shirt is always
tucked in. I like him, too, but in a different way. He's there but not
there, showing up at just the right time when Johnny needs him.

What I am afraid of are the dogs that sneak around the neighborhood.
They will chase you into a tree, or bite at your ankles. My father
says, "Don't let them know you're scared. Let them know who's boss."
But I know who's the boss. The dogs.

I want to be like Johnny. He is just up the street - that's what he
said - so he is waiting for me in my own neighborhood. He might be at
the city pool, or maybe in one of those houses around the basketball
courts and picnic tables. I don't believe Johnny would lie on
television. If he says he's there, it must be true, because that's the
law.

Into my sister's flowered suitcase I put: a flashlight with no
batteries; two button up shirts I've never worn; a pair of socks that
are already dirty, the bottoms brown and green from walking on the
grass; a book I have just started about a prince who pops up on each
page. When I look down into the suitcase and see it's mostly empty, I
throw in a towel and my swimming suit. The towel fills up the suitcase.
I zip it up and put it by my window.

The window doesn't really work. It's hard to get open and then it won't
stay all the way up. A screen covers the window, little bits of bug
parts and spider web stuck into the metal wire. I push the window open,
using a wire hanger to hold it while I run my finger along the screen
edge, which is tucked into slots around the window. The screen doesn't
move, like it's been in this window forever. I could cut it out, but
that would mean getting the scissors that are sharper than the stubby
ones I have in my room. "Baby scissors," my sister calls them. I could
get a knife. My father has knives in the kitchen that are sharp enough
to cut through fence wire. They also work on magnets, like the ones
that hold the refrigerator shut.

But the kitchen is where my father is. Right now he is sitting there,
drinking his medicine and smoking a cigarette while the television runs
with no sound. That's what he usually does, anyway. I know there is no
way he's going to let me leave the kitchen with one of his
knives.

All of the windows in the house have these screens, so I think about
another way out of the house. Soon my father will be yelling for my
sister and me to outside and play. He'll say, "It'll be dark in a few
hours, damn it. Go get something done." If I'm careful I might be able
to sneak out with the suitcase. It's small but kind of bright. My
father might stop me and want to look inside.

I pick up the suitcase and walk out of my room. I peak around the
corner and into the living room. My father is sitting at the kitchen
table. He looks like he might be sleeping. His eyes are closed, but the
cigarette in his hand is still sending up its little smoke signals.
Maybe he is taking a nap. I have seen my father sleep for real in his
chair in front of the television, sitting straight up with growling
noises coming out of his mouth. I decide to sneak past him.

It's not a long walk through the living room and to the front door.
Except for my sister's very bright suitcase, I am just walking, going
outside. If my father opens his eyes, he'll see me doing what I do
every day, only I'm holding a suitcase and wearing shoes. My shoes are
neatly tied, like they've always been.

I move fast, putting myself between the suitcase and my father. It
takes a long time to reach the front hallway, open the door, and walk
outside. But finally I am outside.

I hear laughing from inside the house, and I run down the driveway, the
suitcase hitting my leg as I cut across the neighbor's lawn. I don't
mean to do this, because if the neighbor saw me on his lawn he would be
out on his porch, not saying a word but looking at me like he has
reached the end of his rope. That's what he used to say - "I have
reached the end of my rope with you kids" - until my father caught him
yelling at us one day and walked right onto the neighbor's grass while
we watched. My father just watched until the neighbor went back into
his own house, saying something under his breath that I couldn't
catch.

I get to the street and slow down, looking over my shoulder at our
porch. It's empty except for some plastic crates and a tall stick my
sister found in the bayou and is trying to dry out. The stick is up
against the bricks on the wall, next to my bedroom window.

I left the window open. I can just make out the hanger that's holding
it up. I turn all the way around, walking backwards while looking at my
open window. The window shouldn't be like that, letting the cool air in
the house out onto the porch and into the yard. It should be closed,
and locked, maybe with the curtains pulled shut.