My Abandonment(7)

Outside again we pass the flea market where Father bought his frame pack, then Burgerville and Dad's Restaurant which Father won't take me to even as a joke. A pointed blue sign says WELCOME TO HISTORIC ST. JOHNS ESTABLISHED IN 1847. St. Johns is a neighborhood, not a city. It's in the city of Portland, in the state of Oregon, in the country of the United States of America. It's summer. The year is 1999. Up Lombard at the theater the sign says BLAIR WITCH PROJECT.

"Is that about witches?" I say.

"We'll never know," Father says. He's whistling. He has his elbows bent and his hands hooked inside the black straps of his pack.

As we go we put some of our garbage in a trash can when no one is looking and put some in another as we walk further down the street. It is a lot happening at once when we go to the city. Signs blink. A bus leans when turning a corner. I hurry past a black dog tied to a parking meter. We pass a homeless man with a shopping cart full of things. I push the crosswalk button and the man in the sign blinks and we cross the street. Two girls younger than me coast by on bicycles. One is pink, the other yellow. I do not know how to ride a bicycle since we have no place to keep one and since Father says I'd get too far away. He is the tallest person in the city. He looks in the window at the Salvation Army where we sometimes get our clothes and we keep on, past Urban Soul Tattoo.

"Are there really witches?" I say.

"I've never met one," Father says.

We don't go into the Tulip Bakery. Sometimes there are children in the playground across the street but not today since we're earlier than usual or it's a different day. Already I can see the red brick library with its white pillars. We cross again, close to the school, then go up the steps.

Inside there's a shiny desk. The children's books are to the right and all the tables and chairs on that side are smaller.

"Hello," says the librarian. "My best customers."

"So much to read," Father says.

"Hello," I say. "It's me, Caroline."

"Enough," Father says, since I'm not supposed to tell strangers my name. He leads me deeper into all the books.

Once I've gotten through the encyclopedias all these books will be easy and make sense for me. All the books of the library, filling all the shelves and shelves. The hinges of books are called spines and are all different colors. I see the spines of the encyclopedias, all the letters I don't have but that we'll get when I need them. My library card is in the front pocket of my city pants. Usually I don't check anything out. Father usually renews books he already has.

The librarian is typing with her back toward us, her dark hair is braided like my hair is braided and her cardigan sweater is bright blue. She is a quiet lady. She smiles when she sees us, so she is no stranger. She loves everyone who reads books. Every time she looks at me I can feel it and it's not like sometimes with some people. With her she's thinking the best thoughts and liking me. While I am looking at the spines of all the books she passes close behind me and touches my back up high with the flat of her hand. She has probably read every book in the library.

"Caroline," Father says. "Let's go."

"Goodbye," the librarian says. "See you soon, I hope."

At the Safeway, Father takes the check out of his pocket and writes on the back of it and then puts it in another envelope and feeds it into the wall of the ATM. Next the money comes out and he folds it and puts it in his pocket.

The lights hum, inside Safeway, up by the voices that call out of speakers. They are an unhealthy kind of light to be under and so we hurry. Father's in the bathroom by the bakery department, shaving, and I'm buying what we need by the time he's done.

Outside, the sun has shifted around so it can be in our faces both ways, coming and going. On the way home it's pulling me back. A car passes us and I pretend I'm inside it and I close my eyes and take ten steps. I can hardly see how far the car has gone, slipping away. I'd be all the way ahead, but slow is not always bad. Father says a car is an anchor. He says machines cause as many problems as they solve.

The St. Johns Bridge has two tall green towers with two black points on top of each one with red lights at the very tips. For planes to see or maybe for lightning. It's always windy here, even on still days. Only some of the bridge is over the river and down below the remains of old piers stick like whiskers through the dark water. Father shaves in the summer and grows a beard in the winter. Bright red cuts on his neck from the razor, he walks on the side facing the traffic and I am along the rail, looking down at the rusty railroad bridge that can lift for boats and further to all the other bridges of the city to my left. The tall buildings look so small from here, five miles away.