It had two windows in the back, one in each of the double doors, and no windows on the sides. That was fine with Bea. The less she had to convert the trailer’s old drapes to work in her new quarters, the better. The harder it was for passersby to see in, the happier she would be.
Its sides were painted with the words “Sun Country Bakery,” with a stylized sun in the bottom curve of the S. But over the years the weather had been hard on the lettering, causing the paint to chip and peel at the edges, like Herbert’s chaotic and poorly run business near the end. Like her life with him.
It had a sticker on the rear bumper that read, “If I’m driving slowly, I’m delivering a wedding cake.” Because, in its day, that’s mostly how the vehicle had been used.
Bea worked on its interior for two days. Both days she waited until nightfall to do so, for obvious reasons.
She was inside it now, on the second night, duct-taping the bathroom curtain rods across each of the back windows. She had already done something similar with the living room drapes—affixed the curtain rod from one side of the van to the other, just behind the seats. She could now draw that curtain to separate the back of the vehicle from its cab. Anyone looking through the windshield would see nothing but two empty seats. She could draw the curtains aside while driving, to allow a rear view.
The easy chair sat in its new place in the van, which made it hard to get comfortable inside the trailer now. The previous evening she had knocked on the door of Kyra and John, the only young residents of the mobile home park, and asked their help moving it, claiming she was giving it to a friend. Kyra and John were used to such requests. To be young in a community of old people would always involve a lot of lifting and hauling, and they had learned that well enough.
She’d wanted to put it behind the driver’s seat, but John had insisted on placing it at the passenger side.
“If you were in an accident,” he’d said, “or had to stop suddenly . . . why, that thing could come flying forward and turn you into a dashboard pancake.”
Over the chair, on the van’s ceiling, Bea had stuck a self-adhesive battery-powered light she’d picked up at the dollar store. Beside the chair was a box of tissues and a carton of carefully ordered paperback books she had not yet read, or might want to read again.
She’d been able to move the chest of drawers herself, because it was only cardboard. It wasn’t her real dresser, just something she’d kept hidden in the closet because it looked cheap. But it would hold two changes of clothes, underwear, bras, socks. Two towels.
She had filled her little travel cosmetics bag—which was a silly thing to own, since she didn’t travel—with a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste, ear swabs, and a washcloth. She could carry it into a public restroom without attracting attention.
“I’ll be traveling now,” she said out loud, to no one.
In the corner of the van she had placed a plastic bucket. It embarrassed her to look at it, but she knew she needed it along. Maybe there would be no adjacent restroom on any given night. Or maybe it would be cold out, or she would doubt the safety of the neighborhood in which she had parked. She could always empty it and clean it out in the morning. Maybe she would be lucky and would never have to use it. But why take chances with a thing like that?
Every blanket she owned was stacked, neatly folded, in the other corner.
She started the van briefly and looked at the gas gauge. About two-thirds of a tank. That was all she had to last for the next three weeks. Her heart pounded again as she attempted to mentally grasp the challenge. Before the gas ran out, she had to find a place that was not life-threateningly hot, but where she would not freeze at night. She had one shot. If she chose wrong, there would be no going back on the choice. Not for more than three weeks.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought for the hundredth time.
She was supposed to be able to wait and take off on the third of next month, with a bank account full of money. With that lovely feeling that it was all hers this time. No rent, no bills. Just gas and food, and maybe some loose quarters for a Laundromat or a campground shower.
She wasn’t supposed to have to take off with a bank balance of zero, leaving behind half the food she’d bought for the month because she hadn’t realized when she’d bought it that she would be giving up her refrigerator so soon.
Then again, she thought, it wasn’t supposed to be like any of this. I wasn’t supposed to be making plans to live in this old van at all.
Bea climbed down from the driver’s seat of the van and walked back into her trailer.
Three boxes sat in the middle of her living room floor, where the easy chair had once lived. They were carefully taped and labeled with a marking pen in big, bold letters: “OPAL MARTIN C/O ROBERT MARTIN.” Those she would drop off on her way out of the valley. Not to Opal personally, because her friend would only try to talk her out of going, and feel guilty that there was not more she could do. No, Bea would leave them with the guard at the gate, and be long out of town before Opal knew she was gone.
Everything else except the cat would stay.
Bea stood in the living room, looked around, and was struck by her first overwhelming wave of panic. Everything in this tiny place, no matter how small and insignificant, was something she wanted to keep. It all had a history. It was all so familiar. It was her life, it was her. She couldn’t leave all this behind.
Every lamp had a story as to where she had gotten it. Every kitchen utensil felt weighted with history. The spoon rest from the Santa Barbara pier, bought on their first trip to the coast. The champagne glasses that had been a wedding gift. The mugs brought from Herbert’s bakery when it closed its doors. The idea of walking out and abandoning the minutiae that added up to her very existence made Bea dizzy. Literally, physically dizzy.
She sat on the couch for a moment or two, steadying herself.
Then, in one sudden act of mental fortitude, she decided it was time to go. Now. Not tomorrow, now. Arthur might stumble on the evidence of her planning if she waited. And besides, it might be like everything else: The anticipation of the thing might be worse than the thing itself.
She loaded up the three boxes for Opal, and as much perishable food as she felt she could stuff into her face before it spoiled. She had a picnic cooler, so at least it would last two or three days if she used all the ice in her freezer.
She cleaned the litter box and carted it out to the van, placing it on the passenger-side floor.
Then she made her final trip—for Phyllis.
She scooped up the ancient cat, hugging the warm, purring body tightly to her chest, then placed her in a box she’d prepared, with holes for air. Phyllis likely wouldn’t be in it long. Just to go from trailer to van. But still, living things need air.
Phyllis—who had never been outside once in her life, and had not lived anywhere but the trailer in the eighteen years since Bea had adopted her as a kitten—yowled. It was a deep, threatened, and threatening sound, emanating from a place low in the cat’s throat. It was loud. It carried.
And of course Bea wanted no attention drawn to her nighttime retreat. So she ran like a thief, tossing the key to the trailer over her shoulder and onto the carpet, and leaving the door unlocked.
It was likely for the best, and probably saved Bea from another moment of abject panic. She was too busy racing out of her home of nineteen years to fully absorb what it meant to do so.