Sweet Water(6)

“What do you want your name to be?” he asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we can’t sign in under our real names; they might try to contact us. So how about I’ll be Arthur and you be Janie? Those sound like rich-person names,” he decided, laughing at himself.

“Um . . . okay,” I said, but I was always taught not to lie, and I didn’t know if I could go through with it.

“You have to answer me when I call your name.” Dad made his voice deeper. “Janie.” He laughed again, and so did I.

“My name is Janie.” It sounded weird coming off my lips. I pretended I was rehearsing for my first play. “My name is Janie,” I said again, more confidently.

Dad cackled so hard, he started coughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, getting a little wet as they did.

We turned on Camp Meeting Road. It had a natural stone wall up one side that reminded me of one of my favorite movies set in Ireland. When I saw the arrow for the Realtor sign to turn on Blackburn Road, I could barely hold in my squeal.

“Oh boy!” Dad said.

“You don’t think it’s for sale, do you?” I asked, squeezing my eyes closed.

“Janie, now, you have to put on your game face. It might be our lucky day.”

Dad sped down the road, half-gravel, half-paved, because it was way, way back in the woods.

“Okay, Arthur,” I joked.

“No, no!” he hollered, but even his yell had a smile hidden in it. “Now, why in the world would you ever call your father by his first name?” he asked.

I put my chewing gum in between my top and bottom lip and bit down hard. “Oh, darn it. I’m no good at this! I’m going to mess it up.”

Dad eyed me sternly. “No, you won’t! Just call me ‘Dad,’ nod, and smile at the nice salesman. Let me do the rest.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, because my father was a good talker. He’d talked hotels into giving us a free night’s stay because he was a single father, and while he’d never swindle anyone out of something they’d earned, he wasn’t afraid to take it if they hadn’t. When we saw the sign pointing straight down the long driveway for Stonehenge, potted plants lining the way, I crossed my legs and screamed.

“What’s wrong?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know if I can do it, and I have to pee.” My weak bladder always showed up at the most inopportune times.

Scary movies.

Softball games, right before my turn up at bat.

The minute after I jumped into a swimming pool.

“Well, I’m sure they have a few bathrooms in there.” He pointed at the house, pecking at the air with his finger, as if he was finding all the bathrooms with each stab. “You can’t chicken out, Sarah Bear. We’ll never get a chance to look inside again.” His stone-blue eyes were glittery in the afternoon sunlight.

“I can’t pee on Stonehenge.” I placed my hand over my face, hiding my eyes, which were the same shade as his. It seemed disrespectful somehow, like peeing on someone’s gravestone. Stonehenge had a magnificent rose trellis over the pergola that could clearly be seen from the road, like an archway to Heaven. Mother loved roses, and I know that’s why Dad thought this house was special too.

“Sure, you can. Hell, drop number two if you have to. Do your thing on that throne, baby girl; we’re paying customers!”

“Dad!” I screamed. The heat in my face spread like hot pokers. My father’s crass humor was something I’d always secretly found entertaining.

My dad chuckled as he dismounted from his truck. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a flannel shirt with a Rolling Stones T-shirt underneath. The open buttons of his shirt exposed the long, iconic tongue symbol of the band, and I wanted to tell him to button up, but I was too focused on not peeing my pants.

I waddled behind him.

“You’re walking like you’ve got a stick up there, Janie. Come on.”

“Dad,” I whispered. Not only did it feel like the pee might trickle down my leg at any moment, but I was so nervous, my knees were starting to shake.

My heart thumped as we strode up the limestone walk. A fashionably dressed woman in a black suit and red ascot opened the front door before we’d even knocked. It made me nervous that she’d been watching us, imposters that we were. Her gold hoop earrings were large and shiny, and I could barely make out her face in the September sunlight.

I could hear my father speak, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything but the reflection from the earrings on the blonde lady’s face and my bladder, ready to explode. There were introductions made, but I remained silent.

“So nice to meet you, Vanessa; we’re the Bowmans. This is Janie, and I’m Arthur Bowman of Bowman Construction.” He exhaled one of his infectious laughs that always came out flirtatious in front of women. Vanessa giggled in response.

And we were in like Flynn. One of Dad’s favorite sayings.

Dad’s pretend occupation explained our truck and clothing. A man in the construction business could be rough on the outside and drive utility vehicles but still have bucketloads in the bank. I was starting to feel okay, but I had to pee so badly, the pain had formed a hardened bowling ball in my abdomen.

“Please come in,” Vanessa said, waving her hand out in front of us. She might as well have been the queen of England escorting me into Buckingham Palace.