Deborah Unruh hated the girl on sight. Her son Greg had dropped out of Berkeley in his sophomore year, claiming his academic courses were irrelevant. Since then, he’d hitchhiked across the country, calling home when his funds were low and he needed money wired to the nearest Western Union office. Deborah and Patrick had last seen him the previous fall, and now, without warning, he’d reappeared, driving a big yellow school bus with a girl named Shelly in tow.
She had a gaunt face, a mass of dark tangled hair, large hazel eyes, and barely visible brows. She wore heavy eye makeup, a black turtleneck sweater, and a long gypsy skirt, the hem of which was torn and gray from trailing on the ground. When she wasn’t barefoot, she wore black tights and ragged tennis shoes. She had a little boy with her, Shawn, who was six years old. She was quick to tell Deborah the child wasn’t Greg’s. When Deborah made the mistake of asking about her ex-husband, Shelly told her she had never been married and had no idea who the boy’s father was. Her tone implied that only uptight middle-class bores would be concerned with an outdated concept like paternity.
Deborah let the matter pass without comment, but the girl’s brazen attitude netted her a black mark in Deborah’s eyes. Greg took their welcome for granted, offering no explanation of why they’d come or how long they meant to stay. Deborah offered them the guest room, but he and Shelly declined. They preferred to sleep in the bus, which they parked out behind the garage.
The vehicle was little more than a shell. They’d removed all the seats and outfitted the interior with beds, a low table and chairs, and a camp stove, though Shelly never lifted a hand when it came to meals. They used a milk crate to hold canned and dried goods and had cardboard boxes for everything else. Shawn slept on a tatty futon behind the driver’s seat while Greg and Shelly occupied a double-bed mattress at the rear. An Indian-print bedspread was hung between the two beds for privacy. The bus was left close enough to the pool house that the three could use the toilet and shower out there, not that any of them ever bathed as far as Deborah could tell.
They hadn’t been in the house five minutes before the little boy had peeled off his clothes and was running around naked. Deborah knew better than to raise an objection because Shelly was already warbling on about how our bodies were so precious and nothing to be ashamed of. Deborah was appalled. Greg had gone off to college, clean-cut and polite, and here he was back again, promoting this trashy little upstart whose values were equivalent to a slap in the face.
At the first opportunity, Deborah excused herself, went up to the master bedroom, and called Patrick in Los Angeles. He was a sportswear manufacturer and he spent Tuesday morning through Friday afternoon at his plant in Downey. She didn’t dare let him come home for the weekend without telling him what was going on. He listened to her description of Shelly, patient and bemused. He made sympathetic noises, but she could tell he thought she was exaggerating.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she sang.
Patrick’s reaction to Shelly was just as swift as hers. He was more analytical than Deborah, less intuitive, but just as quick to recoil. At forty-eight, he had wiry hair, layered gray and white, cut short, wavy over his ears where the hair was slightly longer. His eyes were brown, his eyebrows a washed-out gray. He was color-blind, so Deborah selected his clothes. His everyday attire was chinos and sport coats that she kept in a range of pale browns and grays. His shirts were a crisp white, open at the collar since he refused to wear ties except on the most formal occasions. He was slim and kept fit doing five-mile runs when he was home on weekends. Deborah was four years younger, a honey-blond wash concealing the natural gray. Like Patrick, she was brown-eyed and slender. The two made a handsome pair, like an advertisement for graceful aging. They played golf together on weekends and the occasional tennis doubles match at the country club.
Patrick tolerated “the bus people,” as he referred to them, for three days, and he was on the verge of telling them they’d have to move on when Greg announced that Shelly was five months pregnant, expecting in early August, and they needed a place to stay. For one fleeting moment, Deborah wondered if he was telling the truth. Shelly was petite, so slight and bony it was hard to picture her giving birth to a full-term infant. Deborah studied her discreetly. She looked thick through the middle, but that was the sole indication that she was with child. Neither of them seemed embarrassed at her condition and there was no talk of getting married.
Shelly used the occasion to air her views about childbirth. She didn’t believe in doctors or hospitals. Childbirth was a natural process and didn’t require the services of Western medicine, which was dominated by rich white men whose only goal was to undermine a woman’s trust in her body and the freedom to control what happened to it.
That night, Patrick and Deborah had the first quarrel they’d had in years.
Deborah said, “We can’t ask them to leave. You heard Greg. They don’t have anyplace else to stay.”
“I don’t give a shit. He got himself into this and he can get himself out. What the hell’s the matter with him? The girl’s an idiot and I won’t put up with her, pregnant or not. Is he out of his mind?”
Deborah gestured to him to keep his voice down even though Greg, Shelly, and the boy had retired to the bus. “You know if we kick her out, he’ll go, too.”
“Good. The sooner the better.”
“She’ll have that baby in a cornfield.”
“If that’s what she wants, let her do it. She’s in for a rude awakening. Wait ’til she goes into labor and then let’s hear about the joys of natural childbirth.”
“She’s already had one child. I don’t see how the process could come as any big surprise.”
Deborah let Patrick rant and rave until he ran out of steam, and then she prevailed. She was just as repelled as he was, but this would be their first (and perhaps their only) grandchild. What good would it do to voice their outrage and disappointment when it wouldn’t change a thing?
Two weeks passed before Deborah found a moment alone with her son. She’d been working in the kitchen, putting together an eggplant Parmesan that would probably go untouched. Shelly was a vegetarian. Deborah had originally offered to make a tuna casserole, remembering how much Greg had liked them as a child.
Shawn licked his lips, rubbed his tummy, and said, “Yum!”
Shelly put a reproving hand on his shoulder and said, “No, thank you. We don’t believe any living creature should have to die so we can eat.”
As soon as they left the kitchen, Deborah repeated the sentiment aloud, mimicking her tone. Pious twit! Fortunately, they’d planted Japanese eggplant in the vegetable garden. Deborah had gone out and picked half a dozen, which she’d sliced, salted, and allowed to drain.
With Patrick gone the better part of the week, Deborah was accustomed to cooking for herself and she’d had to wrack her brain coming up with meatless meals in deference to Shelly’s moral stance. Deborah sprinkled cheese on top of the casserole and placed it in the refrigerator until it was time to bake it. Washing her hands, she peered out the kitchen window and spotted Greg and Shawn in the backyard. She knocked on the glass, waved to them, and the next thing she knew, the back door opened and in they came.
Greg said, “We’re in exile for the afternoon. Shelly’s tired and needs a nap.”
“I’m happy to have the company. Have a seat,” she said.
Greg was clueless when it came to entertaining Shawn. On the occasions when he was left in charge of the boy, he usually brought him into the house and left it up to his mother to provide him with paper and colored pencils or the Tinkertoys she’d had stored in the attic since Greg was his age.
Deborah had wanted to talk to him and now that she had the chance, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. She hardly knew what to make of him these days. He was tall, slim, and fair-haired, a younger version of his dad. He’d been a good-hearted kid with an easy disposition. He’d made A’s all through school though the good grades hadn’t come easily for him. Because he struggled so hard, she thought his achievements had been meaningful to him. Perhaps he’d only excelled out of a desire to please his parents. Until he left for college, there was no sign of rebellion or defiance. He wasn’t oppositional and there was nothing in his behavior to suggest he was disenchanted with the life his parents had provided.
Shelly was a revelation. Clearly, this girl embodied attitudes he’d been harboring for years without the means, or perhaps the courage, to express them. Bringing her home, he was sending a message: This is what I want and what I admire. Deborah could only hope he’d realize how far off track he was. She’d tried to be accepting of Shelly, for his sake if nothing else, but everything about the girl was repugnant.
Of course, Shelly didn’t approve of Deborah any more than Deborah approved of her. She was smart enough to avoid Patrick altogether, sensing he was an adversary she’d regret taking on. She disdained their lifestyle and made little effort to disguise her animosity. For Deborah, tact and good manners were the ballast that kept social interactions on an even keel. For Shelly, being blunt and abrasive was proof she was being authentic. Without the buffer of mutual courtesy, Deborah was at a loss, and though she hated to admit it, she was afraid of the girl.
Greg went into the refrigerator and found a container of leftover spaghetti with meatballs that he proceeded to eat cold.
Eyeing him, Shawn said, “I’m hungry.”
“What about Velveeta,” Deborah said with a quick look at Greg. He was responsible for enforcing Shelly’s food laws when she wasn’t in the room. Deborah had given up trying to make sense of Shelly’s rules, which were arbitrary, capricious, and nonnegotiable. Greg shrugged his approval, so Deborah opened the package of Velveeta and handed Shawn a slice. He wandered into the living room, engrossed in pulling off pieces and dropping them in his mouth like a baby bird. He wasn’t allowed to watch television, and Deborah hoped he’d find a way to amuse himself without getting into trouble.
She filled the sink with soapy water, tucking in the dirty bowls and utensils before she took a seat at the table. She knew Greg didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart talk, but she had him cornered and he seemed resigned.
“I’ve been thinking about Shelly and I realized I didn’t know anything about her family. Where’s she from?”
“ Los Angeles. Tustin or Irvine, I forget which,” he said. “Her family disowned her when she was fifteen and got pregnant with Shawn.”
“That’s too bad. It must be hard for her.”
“Nah. They didn’t get along anyway, so it was no big deal. She says they’re a bunch of pigs with their heads up their butts.”
“I see.” She hesitated and then plunged on. “I’m not sure this is the time to bring it up, but your father and I are curious about your plans. I wondered if you wanted to discuss the situation.”
“Not particularly. Plans for what?”
“We assumed you’d be looking for a job.”
She heard Shawn giggling and she looked over to see him round the corner from the living room, stark naked. He dashed into the kitchen with a certain brash confidence, whooping and leaping to claim their attention. Deborah looked over at him coolly as he shook his bottom at them and galloped away. She could hear his bare feet slapping down the hall as he ran around the house, circling through the living room, dining room, kitchen, the front hall, and back through the living room. Clearly, Greg had learned to block out the child’s shrieking, which Shelly, of course, encouraged as freedom of expression.
“A job doing what?”
“You have a family to support. At the bare minimum, you have to have income and a decent place to live.”
“What’s wrong with the bus? We’re doing fine. Unless you begrudge us the parking space.”
“Of course we don’t begrudge you the parking space. Don’t be ridiculous. All I’m saying is that once the baby’s here, you can’t go on living like vagabonds.”
“Shelly doesn’t want to be tied down. She likes being on the road. Lots of our friends do the same thing and it’s groovy. You gotta go with the flow.”
“What will you do for money? Babies are expensive. Surely, I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Mom, would you just cool it with this stuff? I’m twenty-one years old. I don’t need your advice. We’ll take care of it, okay?”
Deborah let that one roll off her back and tried again. “Could you at least give us an idea how long you plan to stay?”
“Why? You want us out of here?”
Shawn tiptoed into the room, like a cartoon character, with exaggerated steps. Deborah watched him creep up on Greg with his hands out in front of him like claws. He let out a fake roar and gave Greg a swipe. Greg growled and grabbed at him. Shawn screamed with laughter as he galloped toward the dining room. “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me. Nah, nah, nah.” He stopped and made a face, fingers wiggling at his ears. Off he went again. Deborah absolutely could not stand the child.
She said, “Why are you being so argumentative? That’s not like you. I’m trying to get a sense of your intentions if it’s not too much to ask.”
“Who says I have to have intentions?”
“Fine. You have no plans and no intentions. We do. We’re willing to have you stay here until the baby’s born, but it can’t be permanent.”
“Would you get off that stuff? I said we’d take care of it and we’ll take care of it.”
Deborah stared at him, struck by his refusal to address reality. This was the first time she’d understood how immature he was. He had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. He’d adopted Shelly’s worldview, but without foundation or depth. Maybe it was the same form of parroting that had gotten him through school. “I don’t understand what you see in her.”
“Shelly’s cool. She’s a free spirit. She isn’t all hung up on material things.”
“The way we are. Is that what you mean?”
“Mom, you don’t have to be so defensive. I didn’t say that. Did I say that?”
“You’ve been looking down your noses at us since the day you walked in. Shelly despises us.”
“That’s not true.”
“Of course it is. Why don’t you just admit it?”
“You despise her so why don’t you admit that? Take a look at yourselves. Dad works to make money so you can buy, buy, buy. His employees scrape out a living at minimum wage and he reaps the profits. Are you proud of it?”
“Yes, I am. And why not? He’s worked hard to get where he is. He provides jobs and benefits for hundreds of people who’re devoted to him. Most of them have been with him for over fifteen years so they must not feel too downtrodden.”
“Shit, have you ever really talked to those guys? Do you have any idea what their lives are like? You pat yourselves on the back for doing good deeds, but what does that amount to? You and your hoitytoity girlfriends have ‘charity luncheons,’ raising a pittance for whatever tidy little cause has taken your fancy. What difference does it make in the overall scheme of things? None of you put yourselves on the line. You’re safe and you’re smug and you wouldn’t dream of dirtying your hands with the real problems out there.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge if I were you. You talk about safe and smug. You’ve had everything handed to you. You blew off your education and now you’re playing house, thinking you’re a grown-up when you haven’t accepted a shred of responsibility for yourself or Shelly or even that poor son of hers. What have you done that makes you think you’re superior?”
“I’ll tell you what we’ve done. We’re civil rights activists. You didn’t know that, did you? Because you never bothered to ask about our beliefs. We’ve marched in support of Freedom Rides, desegregating bus terminals and restrooms and water fountains in the South…”
Deborah was taken aback. “You went to Washington, D.C.?” “Well, no. There was a rally in San Francisco. There were hundreds of us. You and Dad are sheep. You’d go along with anything just to avoid making waves. You’ve never stood up for anything…”
She could feel a flash of temper. “Watch yourself, Greg. None of your political rhetoric has anything to do with what’s going on here so don’t muddy the waters. You’ve dropped a bomb in our laps and we’re doing what we can to adjust to the situation. You and Shelly don’t have the right to abuse and insult us.”
Shawn tore into the kitchen again, running full tilt. Deborah reached out a hand and grabbed him by the upper arm. “Listen here. You stop that! I won’t have you screaming and shrieking while we’re having a conversation.”
Shawn stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t accustomed to reprimands. He looked from her to Greg. His face crumpled and he burst into tears, his mouth coming open in a howl so profound there wasn’t any sound at first. He clutched his penis for comfort, perhaps realizing for the first time how vulnerable he was without clothes on. Deborah couldn’t even bear to look at him. When his tears failed to have the desired effect, he added screams. “I hate you. I want my mama. I want my mama.”
Deborah waited for his tantrum to subside, but he just revved it up a notch, the tone of his screams climbing up the scale.
Greg said, “Hey, hey, hey,” doing what he could to calm him, trying to reason and explain while Shawn collapsed on the kitchen floor. He lay on his back and kicked his feet hard, catching Deborah’s ankle in the process.
“Shit,” she said, knowing she’d be bruised for a month.
Shelly appeared in the door, the picture of righteous indignation. Her face was puffy and her hair was matted from sleep. She took one look at Shawn and turned on Deborah. “What did you do to him? You have no right. How dare you lay a hand on my child? I won’t have you interfering with my discipline.”
Adopting a pleasant tone, Deborah said, “What discipline, Shelly? All I did was tell him to stop running around, shrieking, while Greg and I were in the middle of a conversation. That’s common courtesy, though I don’t expect you to embrace anything as bourgeois as that.”
“Bitch!” Shelly grabbed Shawn and lifted him, turning on her heel and hurrying him from the room as though saving him from personal assault. Deborah gave Greg a long, cool look, daring him to take Shelly’s part.
“Jesus, Mom. Now look what you’ve done.” He shook his head, aggrieved, got up, and left the house.
For the next hour, Deborah could hear Shelly out in the bus, yelling and weeping. Accusations, recriminations. She leaned forward and laid her cheek on the cool surface of the kitchen table. Dear god, how would she get through the next four months?