The Glass Castle_ A Memoir - Jeannette Walls [107]
“Well, don’t that beat all,” Dad said. He started going on about how a man comes home from slaying dragons, trying to keep his family safe, and all he wants in return for his toil and sacrifice is a little love and respect, but it seemed these days that was just too damn much to ask for. He said he didn’t take our New York money, but if Lori was hell-bent on living in that cesspool, he’d finance her trip himself.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few wadded dollar bills. We just stared at him, so he let the crumpled money fall to the floor. “Suit yourself,” he said.
“Why are you doing this to us, Dad?” I asked. “Why?”
His face tightened with anger, then he staggered to the sofa bed and passed out.
“I’ll never get out of here,” Lori kept saying. “I’ll never get out of here.”
“You will,” I said. “I swear it.” I believed she would. Because I knew that if Lori never got out of Welch, neither would I.
I went back to G. C. Murphy the next day and stared at the shelf of piggy banks. They were all either plastic or porcelain or glass, easily broken. I studied a collection of metal boxes with locks and keys. The hinges were too flimsy. Dad could pry them apart. I bought a blue change purse. I wore it on a belt under my clothes at all times. When it got too full, I put the money in a sock that I hid in a hole in the wall below my bunk.
We started saving again, but Lori felt too defeated to paint much, and the money didn’t come as quickly. A week before school was out, we had only $37.20 in the sock. Then one of the women I’d been babysitting for, a teacher named Mrs. Sanders, told me she and her family were moving back to their hometown in Iowa and asked if I wanted to spend the summer with them there. If I came along and helped look after her two toddlers, she said she’d pay me two hundred dollars at the end of the summer and buy me a bus ticket back to Welch.
I thought about her offer. “Take Lori instead of me,” I said. “And at the end of the summer, buy her a bus ticket to New York City.”
Mrs. Sanders agreed.
Low-lying pewter-colored clouds rested on the mountaintops around Welch on the morning of Lori’s departure. They were there most mornings, and when I noticed them, they reminded me of how isolated and forgotten the town was, a sad, lost place adrift in the clouds. The clouds usually burned away by midmorning, when the sun climbed above the steep hills, but some days, like the one Lori left, they clung to the mountains, and a fine mist formed in the valley that turned your hair and face damp.
When the Sanders family pulled up in their station wagon, Lori was ready. She had packed her clothes, her favorite books, and her art supplies in a single cardboard box. She hugged all of us except Dad—she had refused to speak a word to him since he plundered Oz—promised to write, and climbed into the station wagon.
We all stood watching as the car disappeared down Little Hobart Street. Lori never once looked back. I took that as a good sign. When I climbed the staircase to the house, Dad was standing on the porch, smoking a cigarette.
“This family is falling apart,” he said.
“It sure is,” I told him.
T HAT FALL, WHEN I was going into the tenth grade, Miss Bivens made me news editor of The Maroon Wave. After working as a proofreader in the seventh grade, I’d started laying out pages in the eighth grade, and in the ninth grade I began reporting and writing articles and taking photographs. Mom had bought a Minolta camera to take pictures of her pictures, so she could send them to Lori, who could show them around art galleries in New York. When Mom wasn’t using it, I wore the Minolta everywhere, because you never knew when you’d see something newsworthy. What I loved most about calling myself a reporter was that it gave me an excuse to show up anyplace. Since I’d never made a lot of friends in Welch, I hardly ever went to the school’s football games or dances or rallies. I felt awkward sitting by myself when everyone else was with friends. But when I was working