Etched in Sand by Regina Calcaterra Read Free Book Online

Camille that, lately, I can see him growing more loyal to me and more willing to help out. “Norm and I are actually close now,” I tell her.
    “That’s good,” she says. “We need one another too much to fight like other brothers and sisters.”
    Rosie, of course, is my solace. She’s what keeps me moving ahead when I get exhausted from the library walks, our scant food supply, and living in perpetual, utter fear of Cookie and the cops. Sometimes I grow suddenly overwhelmed to consider what her life would be like without me. What if I were to just walk out, leaving Norman in charge? Books are the only escape I have from our struggles. I know one day Rosie will need that escape, too, so I always sign out library books to read to her. My favorites to share are from the Landmark Books series, about our country’s founders. Before bed, Rosie snuggles in as I read to her about Betsy Ross, Dolley Madison, and Pocahontas.
    I rise to turn on the TV. Camille says the car wash exhausted her, so she’s going to sleep on the couch. This gives me an opportunity to run something by her. “Hey, Camille,” I say, “I need new pants for school. Will you and Doug be my getaway car at Billy Blake’s tomorrow?”
    She sighs with inconvenienced hesitation.
    “Please? You’ve left me here alone all summer. I haven’t had the chance to get what I need for school.”
    She concedes. “Sure,” she says. “I’ll call Doug in the morning.”
    Normally I’d walk, but it’s been so hot and I’ve been feeling so weak that even just thinking about making the trip by foot makes me tired. I’d already been there twice in July. It’s a long walk, several towns away, down Middle Country Road, which is part of Route 25 and always full of traffic, past used-car lots and gas stations and the dramatic complex that’s Smith Haven Mall, past furniture shops and carpet stores and Carvel ice cream—miles and miles of exhaust fumes, honking horns, and things I daydream about possibly owning one day.
    Later, after I’ve locked up for the night, even with a house with four bedrooms and lots of beds, Camille and I fall asleep on one of the couches together while the kids sleep opposite us on the other couch.
    We spend the next morning watching reruns of Land of the Lost , The Monkees , and The Price Is Right , laughing and guessing the prices of the detergent and furniture that Bob Barker’s assistants showcase. In the afternoon, Camille and I teach Norm and Rosie how to play Mother May I (three words we don’t often use). Then we feed them chicken salad, using the meat we had pulled off the bones, before Doug pulls up in his father’s tan Chevy sedan. After some discussion, Doug and Camille decide to see The Amityville Horror , a movie about a haunted house that happens to be a few towns over. As they debate about whether the story is true, I ponder what brand of designer jeans I’m going to choose.
    Doug leaves his car at the far end of the parking lot so he and Camille can search for a newspaper that lists the theater show times. I wander into Billy Blake’s and head straight back to the juniors’ department, where I examine a rack of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. I find a bright orange pair that I love, imagining how the kids at school will admire my designer duds. I slip them under a larger pair and clip them both to the hanger. On the way to the fitting room I pick up a few shirts; and when the attendant checks the quantity of items I carried in, she hands me a plastic card with the number 4. I smile and close the fitting-room stall door. I take off my pants, step into the Gloria Vanderbilts, and pull my pants back over them. My oversize T-shirt falls past my waist, successfully hiding the double waistband. I pause to make sure the orange hem isn’t visible above my shoes. Then I wait a little longer to make it seem as though I’m deliberating, deciding what to buy of all the clothes I’d carried in. When I exit the room, I hand an