The Vanishings Page 2

  The bus was full. It was obvious the trailer park was the last stop on the route. Only the first two kids of the twelve boarding from the trailer park found a seat even to share. Every morning they jostled for position to be one of the lucky first ones aboard. Vicki had given up trying. Two senior boys, smelling of tobacco and bad breath and never, ever, carrying schoolbooks, muscled their way to the front of the line.

  No one on the bus looked at the trailer park kids. They seemed to be afraid that if they made eye contact, they might have to slide over and make room for a third person in their seat. And, of course, no one wanted to sit next to “trailer trash.” Vicki had seen them hold their noses when she and her neighbors boarded, and she had heard the whispers.

  How was a freshman girl supposed to feel when people pretended not to see her, pretended she didn’t exist, acted as if she were scum?

  The bus driver refused to pull away from the trailer park until everyone was seated, so the two senior trailer boys—who had already found seats—rose and scowled and insisted that people make room. Some “rich kids,” which they all seemed to be if they didn’t live near Vicki, begrudgingly made room.

  The first day, Vicki had found herself the last to find a seat. She looked in the front, where most of the black kids sat. They had to be among the first on the bus, because no one seemed to want to sit with them either—especially the trailer park kids. In fact, Vicki’s friends called the black kids horrible names and wouldn’t sit with them even if they offered a seat.

  Vicki had been raised to believe black kids were beneath her too. No black people lived in the trailer park, and she didn’t know why they were supposed to be inferior, other than that they were a different color. Her father had said they were lazy, criminal, stupid. And yet that was how Vicki saw her father himself. At least until two years before.

  When she was twelve, something had happened to her parents. Before that they had seemed the same as most of their neighbors. Every Friday night there was a community dance where drunk and jealous husbands fought over their wives and girlfriends. It was not unusual for the dances to be broken up by the police, with one or more of the fighters being hauled off to jail for the night. Often, her mother bailed out Vicki’s dad, and then they would fight over that for the rest of the weekend.

  Vicki’s father had trouble keeping a job, and her mother’s waitressing didn’t pay enough to cover their bills. Vicki’s dad had been a mechanic, a construction worker, a short-order cook, and a cashier at a convenience store. Being arrested or late or absent from work one too many times always cost him his job, and then they would live on welfare for a few months until he could find something else.

  Vicki had wished her parents would stay away from the community dance every Friday night, but they seemed to look forward to it as the highlight of their week. She had to admit she used to love hanging around with her older brother Eddie and little sister Jeanni and their friends during those dances. They were always off sneaking around and getting into mischief while their parents danced, sang, drank, and fought. It was while running with those kids that Vicki learned to smoke and drink. When Eddie graduated from high school, he moved out on his own to Michigan.

  There were a few trailer park families who never came to the dances. They, Vicki’s father said, were the “religious types. The goody-goodies. The churchgoers.”

  Vicki’s mother often reminded him, “Don’t forget, Tom, that was the way I was raised. And it’s not all bad. We could do with some church around here.”

  “I rescued you from all that superstitious mumbo jumbo,” he had said.

  That became Vicki’s view of church. She believed there was a God out there somewhere, and her mother told her he had created the world and created her and loved her. She couldn’t make that make sense. If God created this lousy world and her lousy life, how could he love her?

  One Friday night when Vicki was in seventh grade, the family heard the loud music signaling the weekly dance and began moseying to the parking lot to hear the band. Vicki’s plan was to ditch Jeanni as soon as the party started and run off somewhere with her friends to sneak some cigarettes and maybe some beer.

  But before she could do that, the music stopped and everyone looked toward the small stage in surprise. “Uh, ’scuse me,” the lead singer said. “One of our neighbors here has asked if he can introduce a guest who’d like to speak to us for a few minutes.”

  Sometimes local politicians said a few words at the dances, or the police reminded people to behave, or the landlord reminded everyone that “this is a privilege and can be ended if there are more fights.”

  But the neighbor with a guest speaker had never been seen at one of these dances. He was one of those church people Vicki’s dad made fun of. And his guest was a preacher. As soon as he began to speak, people groaned and began shouting to “get on with the music.”

  But the speaker said, “If you’ll just indulge me for a few moments, I promise not to take more than five minutes of your time. And I plead with you to let your children hear this too.”

  Somehow, that quieted the crowd. The man launched into a very fast, very brief message that included verses from the Bible and a good bit of shouting. Vicki had been to church only once with a friend, and she had no idea what he was talking about. She was struck, however, that everyone, even the bartenders and musicians, seemed to stop and listen. No one ran around, no one spoke, no one moved.

  The speaking didn’t seem all that great, but there was a feeling, an atmosphere. The man seemed to know what he was talking about and spoke with confidence and authority. The best Vicki could figure out, he was saying that everyone was a sinner and needed God. God loved them and wanted to forgive their sins and promise to take them to heaven when they died.

  She didn’t believe him. She hated her life, and if she did things wrong, they weren’t any worse than what her own parents did. They smoked and drank and fought. What was the big deal? And if God loved them, why were they living in a trailer park?

  Vicki wanted to get going, to run with her friends, but she didn’t want to be the only one moving. Everyone else seemed frozen in place. Vicki didn’t understand it. She hadn’t heard too much of this religious talk, and she didn’t care to hear any more. When she turned to complain to her parents, she was shocked to see her mother standing there with her eyes closed, silently moving her lips. Could she be praying?

  And her father! Usually something like this would make him nervous and fidgety. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he had tried to shout down the speaker or cause some other disturbance. But there he stood, staring at the preacher, not moving. “Daddy?” she whispered.

  He held up a hand to shush her. What was so interesting? What was keeping all these party people quiet? The preacher asked his listeners to bow their heads and close their eyes. Now there was something they would never do. If there was anything Vicki’s dad and his friends hated more than being told what to do, she didn’t know what it was.

  When she looked around, however, almost everyone was doing it! Some just stared at the ground, but most had their eyes closed. The preacher told them how they could receive Christ. “Tell God you realize you’re a sinner,” he said. “Thank him for sending Jesus to die for you, and accept his offer of forgiveness.”

  Vicki still didn’t understand. The whole thing made her uneasy, but something was happening here. She looked to her dad and was stunned to see he had fallen to his knees and was crying. Her mother crouched next to him, hugging him and praying with him.

  Vicki was embarrassed. As soon as the preacher finished and the music started again, she slipped away with her friends. “What was that all about?” she asked them.

  “Who knows?” a boy said, pulling cans of beer from a paper bag and passing them around. “You ought to ask your old man. He really seemed into it. Your mom too.”

  Vicki shrugged. Her girlfriend added, “They left the dance, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” Vicki a
sked.

  “Your mom was leading your dad back to the trailer, and your little sister was tagging along behind them. They must’ve got religion or something.”

  “Whatever that means,” Vicki said, hoping to change the subject. “I need a cigarette.”

  Vicki didn’t really need a cigarette. It was just something to say that made her feel older. She smoked, yes, but she didn’t carry a pack with her. She just bummed smokes off her friends once in a while.

  At the end of the evening, when she and her friends had had enough beer and cigarettes to make her feel wasted, she filled her mouth with gum to try to hide the smell and made her way back home. She walked through the parking lot where the music and the dancing were still going on.

  Some of the people she had seen with their eyes closed and seeming to pray were now drinking and carrying on as usual, but there didn’t seem to be any fights or any reason for anyone to call the police.

  Vicki was half an hour past her curfew, but her parents had never been home this early from a weekend dance before. She expected a loud chewing out, the usual threats of grounding (which were rarely followed through), and charges that she had been involved in all kinds of awful things. All she and her friends had done was to put firecrackers in a few mailboxes and run away, and they tipped over a few garbage cans. Her father always accused her of much worse than that, but his promised punishments were nearly always forgotten.

  This night was strange. Her little sister, Jeanni, was already in bed, but her parents were as awake as she had ever seen them. Her mother sat at the tiny kitchen table, her dusty old Bible in front of her. Vicki’s father was excited, beaming, smiling, pacing. “I want to quit smoking and drinking, Dawn,” he said, as Vicki came in. “I want to clean up my whole act.”

  “Now, Tom,” Vicki’s mother cautioned, “nobody says you can’t be a Christian if you smoke and drink. Let’s find a good church and start living for God and let him do the work in our lives.”

  Vicki shook her head and started for her bedroom, but her father called her back. “I became a Christian tonight, honey,” he said, a name he hadn’t called her since she was a preschooler.

  “What were you before?” Vicki asked.

  “I was a nothing,” he said. “Your mom was a Christian, but I—”

  “I knew the Lord,” Vicki’s mother said, “but I haven’t lived for him for years. I was pretty much a nothing myself. But I came back to the Lord tonight. We’re going to start going to church and—”

  “Church?” Vicki said. “I’m not going!”

  “Of course you are,” her dad said. “When you get saved, you’ll want to go to church. I can’t wait.”

  “I can,” Vicki said. “And when I get saved from what?”

  “Saved from hell, saved from your sin. You’ll be safe in the arms of Jesus, and you’ll go to heaven when you die.”

  “You really believe that?” Vicki said.

  “You bet I do,” Mr. Byrne said.

  “I’ll tell you what I bet,” Vicki said. “I bet you’ll be drinking and cussing and fighting and losing your job again.”

  Her father’s smile froze. She knew she had made him mad, and she could tell he wanted to hit her. She had spoken what she believed was the truth, but she hadn’t really wanted to hurt him.

  He approached and reached for her, and she flinched. “Don’t you touch me!” she screamed.

  He took her gently by the shoulders and spoke softly. “I’m not going to hit you, Vicki,” he said. “Let me hug you.” She couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had done that. “I know this all has to sound strange to you, but something happened to me tonight. It was as if God spoke to me. I don’t know why I listened or how he got through, but he did. And things are going to change around here.”

  That’ll be the day, Vicki thought.

  “I know you have no reason to believe me, hon,” her dad said. “I don’t blame you for not understanding. I’ve never given you any reason to trust me, so I guess I’ll just have to prove it.”

  “Let’s let God work on her,” her mom said. “We have enough work to do on ourselves, and he’s going to help us with that too.”

  Vicki finally pulled away from her dad. “Well, I’m glad if this works for you two,” she said, “but don’t expect me to be part of it. It sounds weird. You hear a crazy preacher for five minutes and now all of a sudden you’re holy?”

  “We’re not holy,” her mother said. “We’re just giving ourselves to God.”

  “And you don’t think that sounds strange?”

  “When God gets through to you,” her dad said, “you won’t think it sounds so strange.”

  Vicki finally made it to the little bedroom she shared with Jeanni and flopped into bed. She was scared about what was happening with her parents. She decided that if this really kept her dad from drinking and fighting and being a lazy worker, it would be all right. But this much of a change in such a short time was too much to handle.

  Jeanni stirred. “Is that you, Vick?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Did you hear what happened tonight?”

  “I heard. Go back to sleep.”

  “Then you know I’m a Christian now?”

  “You too?”

  “Yup. I got Jesus in my heart.”

  Vicki sat up. Now her parents were brainwashing her little sister! “Jesus in your heart? What does that mean?”

  “Well,” she said, “he’s not really inside me, but I took him into my life. I’m going to go to heaven someday.”

  “Oh, brother!”

  “You’d better do it too, Vicki. You don’t want to go to hell.”

  “You’d better get one thing straight, Jeanni. Everybody in this trailer park is going to hell, and that includes you and me.”

  Vicki regretted it as soon as she’d said it. Who was she to be dumping on her little sister? Maybe church would be good for Jeanni, too, as long as they didn’t make Vicki go. Jeanni’s response proved she had not been bothered by what Vicki said.

  “Not me,” she said brightly. “I’m going to heaven with Jesus!”

  Good for you, Vicki thought. Just leave me out of it.

  THREE

  Lionel—The Liar

  LIONEL Washington’s parents had moved him out of the inner city of Chicago when he was six years old. His mother, Lucinda, had been a reporter for the Chicago office of Global Weekly magazine. When she was promoted to bureau chief, the family could afford to move to the suburbs. They were among the first blacks to live in their Mount Prospect neighborhood.

  Now, seven years later, thirteen-year-old Lionel was having trouble deciding where he fit. When he visited his relatives in Chicago, or when his other relatives visited him from the South, his cousins criticized him for “losing your blackness. It’s like you’re white now.”

  It was nice to live in a neighborhood where he didn’t have to be afraid to ride his bike anywhere or run with his friends, even after dark. And Lionel enjoyed having more things than he was used to having when he was smaller. His cousins, probably to cover their jealousy of his nicer clothes and shoes and the fact that his parents had two cars, called him “rich boy” and “whitey” and said he might as well not even be black.

  Lucinda Washington was a no-nonsense woman. She had become a well-paid executive with the leading newsmagazine in the country, despite her being black and a woman. She laughed when her nieces and nephews teased Lionel. “He’s as black as you are and always will be,” she said. “Now you just go on and leave him alone.”

  Still, Lionel didn’t like it. No way did he want to give up what he thought was a better and safer life than he had known. But neither did he want to be different from his relatives. There were few other black kids in his junior high, and none of them went to his church. His older sister, Clarice, went to Prospect High School, and his younger brother and sister, Ronnie and Talia, were still in elementary school.

  That made him feel all the more alone
at his school. He grew quieter there and at home, and he could tell his mother was worried about him. Lionel didn’t like the changes in his body and his mind as he became a teenager. It was too strange. He found himself thinking more. He thought about everything.

  Mostly, he thought about his Uncle André. André was the bad apple of the family. He was a drunk and had been known to use and abuse drugs. He’d been in and out of jail for years and once even served a short term at Stateville Penitentiary in Joliet, Illinois.

  The thing about Uncle André was that he was a charming guy. When he was sober and out of trouble and working, everybody loved him. He was fun and funny and great to be around. When he was “sick,” which was the family term for when he was doing drugs or drinking or running with the wrong crowd, they all worried about him and prayed for him and tried to get him to come back to church.

  Uncle André was a great storyteller. He loved to regale the family with exaggerated tales that made them all laugh. He told the stories in a high-pitched whine, making up new things as he went along, and each story grew funnier each time he told it. He would throw his head back and grab his belly and laugh until he could barely catch his breath. Tears would stream down his face until everyone else laughed right along.

  That was puzzling to Lionel. How could Uncle André be everyone’s favorite half the time and everyone’s worry the other half? Lionel’s mother told him it was all about understanding and forgiveness. “I don’t excuse what he does when he’s weak and goes back to doing things he knows he shouldn’t,” she said, “but when he comes back to church and asks forgiveness and tries to live for the Lord, well, we have to accept him and help him if we can. I believe he’s really trying.”

  Lionel was proud of his mother, but for reasons other than that she seemed wise in the areas of forgiveness and acceptance. The truth was, with her job, she was the star of the family. Not just Lionel’s family, but the whole Washington clan. They traced their roots to the freedom riders on the Underground Railroad during the days of slavery, and many of his ancestors had been active in the civil rights movement, fighting for equal opportunities among the races. His mother was one who had proved that a person, regardless of the color of her skin or the housing project she had grown up in, could achieve and make something of herself if she really committed herself to it.