Stacy Barton

That Exit

We pulled off the interstate, just past the Carolina state line, and parked facing an enormous billboard that had a splash of bird shit the size of a dinner plate, right over the Burger King crown.

“Georgia, get your little brother out of the back and to the bathroom. I’m gonna see if I can
get us some provisions.”

Mamma slammed the door to our old blue Buick and swivel-hipped her way to the quick store. I watched her glide across the blacktop. She was long and lean and graceful, and completely broke, but I adored her; she was my Mamma. I turned back to the car and reached around the duct-taped window for Brady in the back seat. I will never have a blue car. Blue cars mean running away from beatings and sleeping on the side of the road.

“Come on Brady,” I said, taking his little hand as he climbed over the dangling seatbelt. “Let’s go potty.”

The bell on the door jangled as we came in, but I didn’t see Mamma, so we went straight back past the pork rinds and Slim Jims, past the beer cases and the popsicles, back to the far corner where they always stick the toilets. I pushed open the heavy door and dragged Brady inside. Our eyes blinked, adjusting to the dim light.

The speckled linoleum was cracked and yellow and the sink – that stuck out from the wall on a pipe – was so small it looked like a mismatched church hat on a fat lady.

Brady started to whimper. “It smells funny in here,” he said.

“I know honey, just make your pee-pee quick. I bet Mamma will get us a candy bar.”

True enough, when we came out of the bathroom, Mamma was working the cash register man, leaning over so her cleavage would show. He stood round and bald and soft behind his little wooden window, a bank of lottery tickets and cigarette cartons behind him. The more Mamma flirted, the rounder he got.

When we came up he said, “Why don’t you kids pick out your very own piece of candy, anything you like. It’s on me.”

Brady squealed and began to search the aisle for just the right piece; he never seemed to catch onto Mamma’s game. I just stood without chocolate and watched the man behind the counter turn his mousey look on Mamma. As he rambled on, I could tell he was the type who wanted to make sure she was impressed with his generosity. I don’t know if she was or not, but she played it well; he moved in closer.

Jerry – he’d been generous with his name by then, too – hollered for one of the kids tending the fast food counter to come watch the register while he and Mamma went someplace else to do things I didn’t want to think about. Across the store, a towheaded boy slipped off his apron and sauntered over. He noticed me with his bright green eyes before he took his place behind the
register.

If you would like to read rest of this short story, please order your print copy of the Potomac Review issue #43 now.

 

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