The little girl stared at himwhen she thought he wasn't looking. Oh, but he was pretty, just like Robin Hood in the adventure books; with the same wavy dark pretty hair and pretty golden-type eyes and pretty moustache, kind of like Magnum's on Nickelodeon, only longer. In fact, if she could only stretch her breakfast longer, she might get to see him don his green peaked hat (with long red feather) — she wasn't exactly sure what "don" was, but in the old books about Robin Hood they were always donning different things, like hats or cloaks — or even hauberks, whatever that was. But it was exciting, because "donning your hauberk" could just be about anything in the whole wide world, and sometimes she could spend hours counting the different things "donning your hauberk" was, and many of them were naughty. Okay, so most of them were naughty.
His golden-type eyes glanced her way.
The little girl looked back into her watery oatmeal. She was very hungry and her tummy kept growling. One more bite of this stuff and something nasty might come puking up — straight out of her nose, if she were lucky.
"Would you just eat it," her big mother said, poking the little girl with her big foot.
The little girl stared into the oatmeal. She put her spoon in. Puke alert, puke alert, the siren in her mind wailed. She could just see all the ambulance guys come rushing in to give her tubes and punch her in the chest, and one of the cute ones would have to give her mouth-to-mouth, and the big mother would stand by squeezing her fingers like she thought milk was in them or something, and then —
"Listen to yer mum, Kate," the man at their table said. That's how she thought of the man at their table, not father or dada or daddy or papa, but as the man at their table. He told her to call him daddy, perching her on his lap, but she never would, because he wasn't, and that was that. "Eat it," the man at their table said, softly now, with a certain purr, looking at her in his special way, dragoning cigarette smoke as he leaned across the table, "or I might get mad."
The little girl took a spoonful of the oatmeal and she refused the thoughts spinning about outside her head, the thoughts about cute ambulance guys and puke alerts and Robin Hood, because she was on the edge, as the big mother always said, you're on the Edge, Kate, you're always on the edge, Kate, and it's not his fault, and it's not my fault, it's only your fault, Kate, you just bring out the beast in people, Kate, so move back from the edge.
The little girl took a spoonful of the oatmeal, brought it to her lips, and shifted her pale blue eyes to the other table where the man with the golden-type eyes sat. He was watching her. And he smiled.
She looked away, busying herself with the oatmeal. The very first bite wasn't all that bad and her tummy growled again, just like a sleepy puppy. Of course, that was just a guess, because she'd never had a puppy, sleepy or otherwise. She once had a kitty, but that was only for a day, maybe less, until the big mother found it. She swallowed the goop and tried not to listen to the big mother chewing on chicken skin, the sound of the man whooshing down cigarettes just like a dragon belching fire in reverse, and the sound of slurping coffee, the sound coming from all around the room, the invasion of the coffee slurpers, they would — all the people in the restaurant — slowly climb out from behind their booths, and come for the little girl, coffee drooling down their necks, all of them twitching with that nervous coffee jitter, chanting: "Join us, Kate, Join us Kate!" And she hated the name "kate," it was kind of dumb. In her mind, deep down, she thought of herself as "Kathryn," with a "Y." Now that was classy. Someone named Kathryn might actually hang out with Robin Hood and his merry men. She tilted her head down, allowing her too-long bangs to fall across her face. Her tummy made more funny noises now, but not because she was hungry, because she wasn't.
Years ago, maybe five, when the little girl was about three, maybe four, she had a dream she could still remember, as if it were a movie, or even more, real life; she had been in the big trees, running through the trees, and something was chasing her, she could hear it smashing sticks and knocking over trees, popping pine cones. She kept running and it kept getting darker and darker in the trees, and no matter which way she ran it only got darker, the trees closer together, and, just like all those dumb scary movies, she fell down. What a dummy. Of course, she was only three, maybe four tops. What could you expect from a little kid that age, not much more than a baby? It was almost embarrassing to remember that she had really been that young, all those years ago. A bear came out of the woods and growled: "You smashed my cigarettes, you little bitch!" and then it brought up a huge paw to scratch her, maybe even smash her flat like in all the best old cartoons, only the bear never hit her, it staggered backward and its eyes turned into crooked Xs, and it fell over, a big arrow sticking up out of its neck...
...and Robin Hood came out of the trees, and he bent low, and he picked her up, and he smiled at her with his golden-type eyes, and she was safe. She was safe.
Stupid dream.
The man at the table spilled some coins onto the table. "Time to go."
The girl took some exaggeratedly slow bites, chewing methodically, cranking her jaw like a rusty wind-up toy. The big mother stuffed some biscuits into her purse, plus some chewed-on fish that wasn't even from her own plate, and a whole chicken wing, all bunched together in napkins.
"I don't think the stupid one heard," the man at their table said, pushing away from the table, standing, rapping his knuckles, three times slowly on the table, a clear signal that meant you're close to the edge, Kate.
The big mother herded the little girl away from the table. She never even got the chance to peek over at Robin Hood (because he might be looking back). She wanted to wave and say: "Please say hello to Little John for me, thank you," and she wouldn't mention Maid Marian, because she wasn't sure what she felt about that chick, running around in the big woods with all those merry men, but they were out into the cloudy day that smelled like the old oil that sat around in the garage too long, and then she had to climb up into the cab of the old truck and the man at their table was now become the man in the truck behind the steering wheel and the big mother sat cuddled up next to him, and they were driving away, and the little girl looked at the windows of the diner but they were exactly like mirrors (what a waste of mirrors, she thought, picturing people brushing their teeth and straightening their hair while people watched them from the other side of the glass, slurping coffee, chanting: "Join us, join us, join us!"). She felt tears, close behind her eyes, but she was a big girl now, she wasn't a little girl who had to dream about Robin Hood saving her from the angry bear, she was almost nine years old, for goodness sake, and so she sat very still and listened to the radio.
There was a song on about a bad moon rising, the music tinny through the truck's old speakers, and the man was humming along, a cigarette pointing straight out from his face, and the big mother had one of her hands around his neck and the other down under his gut. Gross. The girl looked out the window and tried not to be there with them. She put the right side of her face against the cool glass, soothing, it felt cool under her right eye and cheek where the puffiness was almost gone, but not quite. She sighed and wondered where Robin Hood could be, right now.
Then "Wildfire" by Michael Murphy swelled out of the old speakers, only now the sounds weren't so tinny, they swelled up strong and beautiful and she smiled against the glass, happy for maybe the first time in her life — okay, so she was exaggerating, but she felt so happy, this was only like her favorite song in the whole wide world, a song about her pony — she adores horses and ponies and all animals — and she is that little girl in the song looking for Wildfire, lost in blizzard, only, she always make-believes, at the very last second just before they die, she finds Wildfire, and they keep each other warm, she petting the pony's soft nose, a velvet nose, what would that really and truly feel like? It was hard to imagine, but the sun rises and they ride far and have so much fun and they never come home —
"Ouch!" the little girl cries, putting her hand down to her calf, holding it. She just knew the skin was turning dark already. She hated those hard pinches, oh she hated them.
"I've told you a million times to shut up and let me listen to the music," shouted the man behind the steering wheel, the truck swerving. Then he switched the station, and the song was only halfway over, and it was an oldie-but-goodie so what were the chances she'd get to hear it again, and the man behind the steering wheel put on a stupid baseball game if you can believe.
The little girl held her leg. It hurt, oh yes, lots. No, LOTS. But she wouldn't cry, oh no, she swore, they could go at her with chainsaws and she'd never let go a single solitary peep, not her, because she was a big girl now, almost nine. Never cry. Never. Never. Never. Until the man did something much, much worse, later, then she couldn't help but cry. She told herself not to cry as the big tears spilled down her cheeks, running all the way down to her throat. The tears felt hot and tasted salty when they accidentally leaked into her lips. Stupid tears, here they'd finally escaped from her body, and they wanted back in again! Not her, if she got out, she'd NEVER come back. And she wasn't really crying, no way, not on the inside where things really mattered, not in a million years would she cry in there.
"You asked for it, Kate," the big mother said, leaning close for just a second, reaching over and petting the girl's hair like she thought the little girl was a puppy, or a kitty. "Don't worry, Little. In Nevada we're going to be happy. Your daddy's gonna get a job in one of them big casinos, one of the biggest — we'll make lots of money and get you some new clothes."
The girl did not look away from the window. She wasn't seeing anything out there, only the pictures in her mind. But she did not look away from the window or give any sign that she had heard, because she hadn't, not really, not deep inside where it really matters. She wished she could look out the rear window, but all the junk piled up in the truck bed blocked the view. All the stuff in the world, all their stuff anyway. How stupid to move from Colorado to Nevada.
They stopped for gas two hours later and of course a bar was next door to the gas station and of course the man that manned the truck radio had to go into the bar with the big mother under his arm.
"Don't touch anything," he said, just before they went in. "Especially not my radio."
The girl sat quietly, her hands in her lap, staring at the radio. Dumb baseball game. What if she turned the knob, and it worked? Of course, she knew there had to be a key in the ignition for the radio to work. But what if it did work, just this once, like by magic or something?
She reached and cranked the left knob. The radio came to life. She fiddled with the right knob until she found a station with music, Shania Twain, but one of the new songs that were hardly even country any more. The little girl sat back and sighed. She could almost be happy. Then the miracle happened. Wildfire was the next song up! She sighed again and smiled, a real smile. What were the odds? She drifted away across the land until she found her pony again and they rode, and rode, and then the next miracle happened, the DJ went and played Wildfire AGAIN, for a second time IN A ROW! And Kathryn sang along, her voice beautiful, and she was up on stage and she looked just like Faith Hill, and the people loved the song and they waved lighters in the air
She stopped. Sat for a while and looked at the silent radio. For a second she was fearful she might really have turned the dial to a different place and then when the man in the bar came back and put the key in the ignition, loud jungle music would fill the truck, and then the big mother would start fussing with her make-up which was smeared, and the man back again behind the wheel would reach across the seat —
— the girl switched the left dial until it clicked. Great, so she really had monkeyed with the radio, sometimes it got hard to tell the difference between what she was imagining and what she really was doing! She spun the right dial until the little orange indicator was back where she thought it had started, and then she rolled both windows down, and then rolled them back up. She sighed. The world was empty, so empty, and she had nothing except what was in her mind, so she took her bridge from her mouth, and spun it in her fingers, and the five false teeth (don't worry baby, they're only baby teeth, you won't have to wear it for long) became a carousel, going around and around, and Wildfire was playing from the calliope, only now there were no words, only the popping oomp-pah-pah tones that sounded like a giant music box, and there were such horses on this carousel, going round and round, some blue with long flowing golden manes and others shimmery pink with blazing red tails all done up in French braids...
...a blue Volkswagen Bug chattered into the gas station. And wonder of wonders, Robin Hood got out and started pumping gas.
The girl, watching, nodded her head. Exactly the kind of car that Robin Hood would ride, a car that looked just like a pony. She put the bridge back in her mouth and pushed her fingers through her head. She watched him, Robin Hood, and wanted him to look over and see her — this time she would wave at him, and even call out: "Say hello to Maid Marian for me!" Because, let's face it, the maiden must be okay, sticking with Robin Hood like that with all the troubles when it would have been easiest to get a divorce or something, so okay, Kathryn wouldn't mind hanging out with Maid Marian, when it came right down to brass tacks.
She sat taller in the cab of the truck. Come on, guy, look over here. But Robin did not look her way; just filled the little car, went inside to pay, got in the car and drove away and the girl never saw him again, never again had the opportunity to call out a greeting or warn him about that evil sheriff.
That was no good. Too depressing. She sighed. Okay, let's try it again.
Only, he didn't drive away. The Bug pulled in next to the truck. Robin Hood got out and looked right at the little girl.
He smiled. And this time, wonder of wonders, Kathryn smiled back.
Robin Hood turned and jogged across the street to the little store. The girl looked at the little car. It really did seem nice enough. Sure, it was old, kind of dented. But still, it was a pony of a car. Yes, that nice, a pony of a car. She hopped out of the truck and looked over at the store across the street. No sign of Robin Hood. She looked back at the little car, and it still looked oh so nice.
The girl looked at the truck. Ugly. An elephant of a truck. Long snaking cracks in the windshield, paint faded and all the tires had little wires sticking out at crazy angles. If she listened, she could hear the radiator hissing at her, a snake beneath the hood.
One last look from the entrance to the bar to the Bug to the store across the street and then to the truck. No, it would be too crazy. Just get back in the truck and wait. Like a good little Kate. That's the going rate. Wait, wait, wait. She looked over at the store. No sign of Robin Hood. Back to the Bug...
...and Maid Marian was there, beckoning with a long perfect white hand. The girl swallowed hard — Maid Marian was so beautiful. In fact, it just might be Faith Hill in the Bug!
She looked back to the bar entrance, and then quickly opened the truck door and this time really and truly stepped down from the truck, slammed the door, and then, heart hammering in her bony breast, she hurried to the Bug, opened the door, moved forward the front seat, and then plunked herself down in the tiny back seat.
And she smiled.
"Glad to have you, Little One," Maid Marian said and she had a plate of brownies in her hands. Plump brownies bulging with colorful M&Ms. "Would you like a few, Little One?"
Kathryn took two. Then she looked to her side, because a big dog was sitting beside her!
"We call him Wildfire," Maid Marian said.
Kathryn blinked her eyes hard. This was no big dog. It was a miniature pony, sitting beside her, a little bow tie under his chin. The pony reached and took up a brownie in his little hoof.
"It's very nice to meet you," the pony said.
Kathryn smiled at him, still too shy to speak directly to the pony. Instead, she said to Maid Marian: "He seems to be a very nice little pony."
"Oh," Maid Marian said, "Mr. Wildfire is a very nice pony. And he'd really like to take you for a ride. That is, if you would like to."
"That might be fun," she said, not looking at the pony, though she didn't think he looked big enough to ride.
"Mr. Wildfire heard you singing, you know. For years, he has been listening."
Kathryn nodded. She felt herself turning red, because she knew she sang like a drowned rat, that's what everyone said, even a baseball game sounded better than her. She still felt too shy to look at Mr. Wildfire.
"He's heard you every time, and he cries a little bit every time, too."
"How can he hear me? Is he magic? Why does it make him happy?"
"You ask a lot of questions!"
"I'm sorry!"
"No, it is fine, truly. You're supposed to ask a lot of questions, that's your job as a little girl!"
"I'm not a little girl, I'm a big girl now!"
"Almost nine, yes, we know. But it's still okay to have fun like a little girl, until your ten years old, okay? Good, so go ahead and look at Mr. Wildfire."
She peeked over at the pony and he nodded at her. He couldn't speak at the moment because his mouth was full of brownies.
The door opened on the driver's side of the Volkswagen and Robin Hood sat down behind the steering wheel. He didn't look at the girl. The car blurted to life, very loud, and then the Bug pulled out backwards, fast, whipping about, and then they jerked forward and the bar and the elephant truck were way back there and suddenly the world was bright and the girl decided she would never look back over her shoulder again, because no bear was there, there was no need to fall down, because Robin Hood was in front of her, and he would keep her safe.
She was sitting in the front seat alongside Robin Hood and she just had to stare at him. She wasn't afraid to stare, not now, after meeting Maid Marian and Mr. Wildfire, why should she be afraid of Robin Hood? He was just as pretty close up, she saw; of course, he hadn't shaved in a while, but it was probably hard to get shaving cream and Bic Disposables in Sherwood Forest. And Robin wore a shirt with real buttons on it — she'd never once seen the man in the bar wear a shirt with real buttons on it, his were all T-shirts with girls not wearing too many clothes.
"Hey, I believe you will find that Robin Hood is a gentleman," said a voice from the backseat.
The girl looked back. Mr. Wildfire was sitting quietly between a suitcase and a duffel bag. Kathryn noticed that the very gentlemanly pony was wearing pressed plaid pants and a green lumberjack shirt, with a red bow tie beneath his chin. She nodded to him and smiled shyly.
"Robin?" Kathryn asked.
The man looked at her.
"May I sit in the backseat with the pony?"
He smiled at her again, and nodded.
Kathryn clambered between the seats and snuggled in next to Mr. Wildfire. She took one of his miniature hooves in her hand.
I don't feel it bending any more, the man thought. At least that, at least there's that. Everything had started bending and twisting for him about two months ago, and each new day had found things getting worse, rather than better.
He heard the voices echo forward and fill his head: "For painting a whole apartment I'll want at least a gram," he'd heard from the bedroom. He had just arrived home from his 48-hour stretch at Thompson's Ambulance and his wife had not heard him come in — he'd hung his coat and undid the front of his shirt and that's when he'd heard the giggle and the words from the bedroom, for painting a whole apartment I'll want at least a gram, she'd said.
Great, the old monkeys were coming back, chattering, chittering, tossing coconuts from the palm trees. He'd gone back to the kitchen and poured some coffee, and stood with his favorite tall mug, staring out the window, feeling the heat rise from the coffee to warm his face, smelling the pure dusky smell, feeling everything about him beginning to bend and buckle...
..."The most important thing, Robbie," his grandpa said, digging in the rocky soil, "is to have a family you can love and protect. I've lived 80 years and I can tell you, that's the most important thing."
Robin jumped on the shovel alongside his grandpa and lifted the load to dump it into a wheelbarrow, matching Grandpa shovel for shovel — he had to match grandpa's output, or else the old man would work that much harder, and when you're an 80-year-old man three years past triple-bypass surgery on your ticker, you didn't need to work harder than your 25-year-old grandson.
"That's what I think, too," Robin said.
"Kelly's a good girl," Grandpa said. "Maybe a little flat-chested, but she'll make you a good wife."
"She sure will," Robin agreed, smiling. Of course, Grandpa didn't know about Kelly's smoking, or the other, worse things, but none of Robin's family knew of Kelly's past, her years of dealing and doing, stealing and screwing, because what good would it do if anyone knew? You can't change the past. Can't change, isn't that what everyone says? Of course, Kelly will change. No, Kelly has changed. For him. She'd given everything up. For him, all the bad stuff, she'd given up all the bad stuff for Robin.
"We're going to be working a family, soon enough," Robin said, watching as the old man sat back on the grass, a long shaft of afternoon sun stroking his cheek, lighting up the old man's white whiskers like silver beads of rain.
"Good, Robbie, no rush, no rush. You're still at the age when time moves so slowly. No rush. No rush."
Robin looked into his coffee. He sipped a little. Strong. Hot. Kelly always made good coffee, and it was always here waiting for him when he got home. Should he say anything? Admit that he'd heard her talking on the phone, most probably with Margo, that head if ever there was a head. User, abuser, obit peruser. Great coffee.
"Didn't hear you come in."
Robin turned. His wife pressed into his arms. Best not to say anything. He set aside his favorite coffee mug. Trust her. That's best, because what is a marriage without trust?
"Hard shift?" she asked, kissing his chin and both sides of his nose. He nodded, sighing, holding her, feeling her warm hair against his neck, the protrusion of her belly against his pelvis, her hands pushing against the small of his back.
"Missed you bad," he breathed against her hair, rubbing his chin against the top of her head. Missed you so much, Kelly, and please don't, please don't do what I heard and know you're planning to do, if not for me, then for my little guy.
"I missed you, darling," she said.
"How's my little boy?" Robin asked, easing one hand down to her belly.
"Idiot, I told you, it's Kathryn. With a 'Y.' And Kathryn is just beautiful, and she loves her daddy, too."
"Don't do it," is what he should have said, but he didn't, of course, because what is marriage without trust? The room bent. Everything shimmered, for just a second, like this was not at all real, as if he were inside someone else's dream. He closed his eyes, don't throw up, he told himself, holding his eyes closed, because things don't bend, do they, that's not natural, this isn't real, it's as if I'm inside another person's dream, that I'm not real, that none of this is real, that the proverbial gram is not real nor the apartment that demands such an exorbitant price as a gram, nor the painting.
"I have to go over to Margo's tonight, okay?"
"NO," he should have said, and tied her up, tied her down, whatever it took, like in the old Lon Chaney Jr. movies, where he knows he's going to turn into a werewolf and begs his love to lock him up, good and tight, because ole Lon Chaney doesn't want to harm anyone, doesn't want to kill anyone, right? Like that, he should tie Kelly up because she can't help it, could she? Don't go, don't do it, he should have said, but he didn't, he didn't say any of it, he didn't tie her down, he didn't fall at her knees and beg her to protect the little guy, or Kathryn, for sweet Kathryn, please protect her, that's our job, that's my job.
"Just for a few hours, promise, double-boy scout and all that crap," she said, giggling, standing away from him at attention, saluting him.
"You shouldn't go over, not with the baby," he said, how weak, but at least he'd said that much, didn't he? Or had he clammed up and not said a thing?
"Robbie, I'm only two months along, nothing is going to hurt the baby, okay? Plus, most people don't even consider it a baby yet."
"Most people, you mean like Margo?"
Robin looked briefly in the rear-view mirror. The girl was talking to some imaginary friend. It hadn't even surprised him when she had called him by his name, Robin, because some things were meant to happen, weren't they? Synchronicity or providence or fate or God's will, or whatever. She called him Robin, Kathryn had called him Robin — did he just think of her as "Kathryn?" He smiled, wouldn't surprise him at all. She asked him if she could sit next to the pony. Got to remember that, a pony, her imaginary friend is a pony. But why shouldn't she know his name? I mean, there's Batman's sidekick, and even the master thief, he who took from the rich and gave to the poor — and what am I, now, but a thief, a child snatcher, a criminal, and why is everything bending? He clenched his eyes, remembered he was driving, snapped his vision open, there's no bending, none at all, who cares if she knew his name? He ran a hand over his scratchy jawline. How long had it been since he'd shaved? But then again, he thought with a smile, it's hard to get Bic Disposables in merry old Sherwood."
"Lost my job, remember that," he muttered quietly. Can't have the amazing bendable man driving an ambulance, can we?
And what was he doing now? Was all this real, or just another dream within a dream? Was he actually kidnapping a little girl, stealing her away from loving parents?
He laughed at that, because those two, those two creatures were probably the real kidnappers. Poor little girl, little Kathryn, she probably wouldn't even make it to adulthood, with a face twisted like that, what kind of condition was that for a little girl to be in? Of course, those two creatures would probably claim that she fell, and often. Filthy abusive creatures.
But with me, she could have a good life, the life we were both meant to have, right? He glanced at her in the mirror. Her nosed was twisted badly to the left side, and the right side of her face seemed to sit a little higher up than the left, and it looked like she was missing teeth, several, and her black eye and bruised cheek were almost better, and they were going to stay better, too, if Robin had anything to say about it. She had kept that eye turned away from him in the diner.
Those weren't parents. Monsters, more like it. Yes, monsters. He could picture them coming out that bar, drunk, disorderly, clambering into their old Jed-Clampett-mobile and weaving down the road, never even missing the precious cargo that was now sitting in the back of his Bug. He blinked, and when did I get a Volkswagen, anyway? Probably just more of the bending, that's all.
Those two had kidnapped the little girl from some adoring family and beat out half of her precious life. They took this little angel away from a father who adored his little girl, who lived for her and treasured every moment with her and would never allow her mother to get stoned out of her gourd while she was preggers. It's only a choice, though, right? It's not really a baby, just my choice, and just a choice.
He glanced at Kathryn in the mirror again. Such pretty pale blue eyes.
Checkpoint up ahead. Great, a roadblock. Caught him, so soon. Here's where it ends. The police up there waiting and they've got their guns out and they don't know about the mistake the mistake of the wrong parents having the right child or the wrong wife doing the wrong thing to pass her on to the wrong mom or the right father losing his precious one in a rush of blood over a closed toilet lid my baby and these police are going to blast out his life because he's a kidnapper and he glances back briefly at the little girl and she is busy talking to her pony pal Pokey and he is only one man and all those guns against one man aren't the best of odds but he can ram their roadblock yes he can with his mighty Bug made of tin and here they come now they're pointing their guns he's almost at the guard booth and he's not slowing down what is he crazy —
— and the guard nods to him because he's not really a guard but only a catering guy and he's holding up a hotdog or a burrito not a gun and what is wrong with me, because we just crossed into Nevada, and now the bending was getting worse.
"Kathryn?" Robin slipped.
"Huh?" she replied, hardly looking away from her imaginary friend.
Kathryn. That couldn't really be her name, could it? She knew my name, I knew her name. The angel and the bandit. What is happening to me, is there really a little girl sitting back there, or just more bending? He swallowed. If this was just more bending, it was about as bad as it could get. He swallowed. He hoped.
"Are you hungry?" he croaked.
"Yes please," she returned, scrambling up between the seats.
"How about McDonalds?"
They were passing a huge billboard with a picture of French fries on it, and above the giant potato poster was a one-word caption: YIELD.
"Oh," the girl said.
"Hmm?" the man said, looking at her. Great. She was crying, very softly.
"What is it, Kathryn?"
"McDonalds is my favorite place to eat," she said, smiling bigger than he ever thought she could manage.
Robin smiled, because it had been his favorite place to eat when he was a kid. He glanced at the funny billboard which was just now drawing abreast.
"Do you like fries?" Kathryn asked Mr. Wildfire.
"Look out!" the pony cried.
The car jolted simultaneously with the angry report, like a gunshot, so loud they all three went deaf, the man and the girl and the pony, and the car lurched crazily over on one side.
"Don't panic," the man said, calmly, at least trying to maintain his calm, "it's going to be okay."
He steered with the blow-out which was the proper thing to do, but it did not good, not much at all, and the car flew off the road, across two whole lanes, and then bit into the soft shoulder of the steeply sloped median. Another tire blew, this one not so loudly, and the rims bit crosswise into the gravel, and then the entire car was rolling over.
The man gripped the steering wheel.
What had he just been thinking about, he wondered. Memories of Grandpa, or was it Kelly, and her choice. And why all the dust, he could barely breathe. The stinking windows were open and the wind was blowing into the car, and all the dust, where were they, the dustbowl?
"Are you okay?" said a voice close to him.
He looked to the side. The little girl, Kathryn, was watching him.
"Did we just go and roll this little car?" he wondered.
"Yes, I think so," the little girl said.
"Tell him he ought to do some checking," Mr. Wildfire said, dusting glass off his dusty clothes. "Make certain that both you and he are all right."
"Mr. Wildfire says you should make sure we're okay," Kathryn told Robin.
Robin blinked. Mr. Who? But that was a good point. He had some blood on his face, the rear-view mirror told him, and the mirror was now cracked. Bad luck, it followed Robin, unmerciful and unkind, he couldn't find a place where it couldn't find him.
The man opened the door and got out. His neck was stiff. He couldn't believe that this had happened. What an idiot he was. He didn't even know where this car came from. The last thing he could remember was lying in the hospital bed, staring at his wrists, wondering why the room bended, and then what, maybe eating breakfast in the diner. He looked up. That stupid sign crouched like vulture right above them. YIELD.
"I can't believe this."
The he recollected himself and hurried about the car to the passenger door.
"Are you okay, Sweetheart?" he inquired, checking her out as she came into his arms.
"Yes, Papa."
He hugged her and for the first time the bending stopped. He felt like a normal joe, and she hugged him in return, and it was as if they had both been lost in a pasture of clover, and now, at the very same moment, each had found their very own magical talisman, their very own four-leaf clover. And when you found a four-leaf clover, you just didn't leave it behind, did you? They had found someone, the right someone, to love, and to be loved by.
"Ooh, blood," Kathryn said.
He kept thinking he was reliving some dream he'd had a month before, after one of his more brutal 48-hour shifts, riding in the back of the ambulance with a little boy who'd swallowed his mommy's valiums, enough to overdose mommy, let alone his forty-pound body. The blue lips, those pretty blue lips, pouted and sweet, and Robin knew it was just too late, too late, those blue lips. That night in the station house he dreamed about the accident, and today, this accident in the Bug, even when in the taxi the cigar-chomping cabby babbling about which casino paid out the most, really, and other stuff about crazy California drivers who kept crashing their rental cars, but that's strange, thought Robin, since we're coming from the other side, but probably just more of the mixed-together dreams, that's all, because the boy had told him that drugs had killed him, and so they were linked, the man and the boy, since it had happened to the man's own daughter even though she was not really a child at all, not yet, but still just a choice. Robin felt the sense of déjà vu while completing the forms for the EMTs, except now he was not one of the EMTs, but just a confused man with a bad headache -- Robin kept telling himself that he had dreamed this, or was dreaming this, because wasn't he still in that hospital bed, the one for nutzoids that couldn't cope, whose world kept bending?
The taxi let them off at a nice motel just inside Vegas, and Kathryn was asleep, so he carried her up three flights of stairs, carrying his duffel and the suitcase, and to the best of his senses, no pony followed them. He set the little girl and the luggage down on one of the two queen-size beds. His head was light. In the little dressing room outside the bathroom he checked his head, a V-shaped cut on his forehead, and two more gashes high on his scalp, another directly below his right eye. But thank God the girl was unharmed, no cuts, no bruises, not scratches, like a miracle, really.
The girl was there, beside him, dabbing at his cuts with a wet cloth, and he was upon his knees, watching her as she worked. She was undamaged — well, all the damage done to her had been done before Robin met her. He closed his eyes and sighed, her little hands were gentle.
Kathryn could not be more happy. She heard Robin Hood tell the sheriff that she was his daughter. Somewhere deep inside herself she had always known that she was the daughter of Robin Hood! What else could have allowed her to survive the most painful things in her life?
Late that night, when the bending was at its worst, Robin pushed his pillow up against the headboard and tried to keep everything still, everything quiet. But no luck.
"I lost it today," was when the true bending took over. He had come off a 48-hour shift and Kelly was waiting for him. She would not speak, not at first, only would she cling to him. Then she led him to the couch and cried quietly into his heart. I lost it today, that's what she told him, but we'll try again, it's not like we really lost anything, not really.
"What?" he had said, stupidly, but knew exactly what she was talking about. But important thing, the wise words she had consoled him with, is that millions of people choose to lose theirs, but not us, ours just happened.
Didn't choose. Just happened. A gram for a whole apartment.
Robin started. The little girl climbed into his arms. She'd left the second bed and was now in his. She cuddled up close and went right to sleep. He looked around the dark room. It was no longer bending. He sighed. Then he wept, tears pouring from his eyes on the day he had gained a daughter, not like his dry eyes on the day he had lost one.
From somewhere in the dark room came the sound of miniature hooves tapping across the floor.
* * *
"My, my, my! What a pig you are, Little Bittle! Two whole hamburgers!" Little John chuckled, throwing a Big Mac down his gullet.
Kathryn giggled, giving a fry to Mr. Wildfire.
"Why are you crying, Sweetheart?" Robin asked her in his gentle way, watching her with his golden-type eyes.
Kathryn rubbed the tears away from her eyes, and didn't reply.
"Tell him it's because you are happy," Maid Marian said.
"Tell him it's because you love him," Mr. Wildfire said.
"Tell him it's because you're hungry and you'd please like another Bic Mac!" Little John said, rubbing his belly.
"Because I'm happy," Kathryn said. And I love you.
Robin Hood laughed.
And she was happy, every day, all the time, now. Each new day was an adventure with Robin and his Very Merry Band. A new hotel every day, each one with a swimming pool and a Jacuzzi! And her favorite foot at her very favorite place, every day!
The only thing that would make her happier was if Robin, her papa, would only notice Maid Marian once in a while, because the maiden really wasn't all that bad, once you got to know her, and if he'd only talk to Little John once in a while, and poor sad Mr. Wildfire. She had seen it was Will Scarlett at the cash register -- he had winked at Kathryn, but Robin never even seemed to notice.
"Give him time, Little Bittle," Little John said, going after his fifth Big Mac. The huge man smiled at her showing off his huge blocks of crooked teeth.
And then the girl's eyes widened with wonder as she looked to Robin.
With shy and tentative fingers, Robin held out his hand, offering a fry to Mr. Wildfire!
* * *
The door opened with a shattering creak of metal on metal and the cab light came on too bright and the little girl came fully awake from her dream state with wide blinking eyes as the big mother shoved her over to the passenger side. The man behind the steering wheel shivered in the cold, blowing into his big oily hands. He glared at her, and a tiny smile was evident in his brooding face.
"If you screwed with this radio, Kate, you're gonna be one very, very sorry little pig," the man said, whiskey vapors emanating from his foul mouth, as he moved the key toward the ignition.
The little girl yawned. Oh well, no matter. Deep inside herself she still had her wonderful family, her own private very merry band.
