Free The Last Days of California: A Novel by Mary Miller Page A

tattooed guy. While taking aim, the guy met my eyes and I crossed my arms in front of my chest. I’d forgotten to put my bra back on. He took his shot, balls knocking into the pockets.
    Though everyone else had noticed us, the bartender pretended not to. He was doing something below the bar I couldn’t see, washing glasses or drying them. When he finally acknowledged my mother, they spoke a few words and then she walked back over and stood next to me.
    “She was in here, but she’s gone,” she said.
    “Where’d she go?”
    “She left with someone. He doesn’t know him.”
    “I bet he knows him,” I said. “I bet they all know each other.”
    “Maybe he’s just passing through.”
    We went outside and looked up and down the street. I felt sorry for my mother. She probably wished she was still Catholic, that she didn’t have to kneel on prayer rugs or talk about the end of the world all the time.
    I sat on the curb and stretched out my legs. I hadn’t shaved since we’d left Montgomery, and my legs were hairy, especially around the knees and ankles, spots I always missed.
    “The barstools were toilets,” she said.
    “Toilets?”
    “Raised up on a little platform.”
    “I didn’t notice,” I said.
    The door opened and we were joined by the couple that had been playing pool. I was conscious of my breasts again. I had large breasts for my frame, which I found humiliating because the boys in my class had decided large breasts weren’t attractive, that more than a mouthful’s a waste. The man lit two cigarettes and handed one to the woman. She had terrible skin, her hair in a sad ponytail.
    “We’re looking for my daughter,” my mother said, stepping toward them.
    “Good-lookin’ girl?” the man said, but then he seemed embarrassed.
    “About five-foot-seven, I think her hair was in a ponytail. Was it in a ponytail?” my mother asked me.
    “She had it down. She was wearing a tank top with candy canes on it,” I said, thinking about how pretty she looked in her tiny shorts and tiny shirt, her long arms and legs.
    “She was here,” he said.
    “Do you know where she went?” my mother asked.
    “She left with Jimmy,” the woman said.
    “Who’s Jimmy?” I asked.
    There was a pause and she said, “What do you want to know about him?”
    “They should be back any minute,” the man said. I looked at his arms, which were littered with tattoos—small, individual drawings like someone had doodled them in the margins of a notebook. I wanted to sit with him, have him go through them one by one. I was sure each of them meant something. Trashy people had tattoos that meant things.
    “The bartender wouldn’t serve her,” the woman said.
    “Why didn’t they get beer there?” I asked, pointing to the gas station. The woman shrugged. I fake yawned, hoping she’d catch it, but she didn’t. It worked best if you yawned just as you were passing someone, if the person hardly noticed you at all. I liked the idea that I could pass it to someone and they would pass it to someone else and my yawn could travel, cross state lines.
    My mother started breathing heavily, like she was going to hyperventilate, and I thought I should go get my father, that he’d know what to do, but he hadn’t known what to do. He’d just gotten in bed and opted out of the whole thing. She kept getting more and more upset, and the man tried to comfort her, calling her “ma’am,” reassuring her that Elise would be back any minute. He told her he knew Jimmy and Jimmy was a fine guy, a good guy.
    “Sit down, Mom,” I said, taking her hand and pulling her down. She sat next to me, so close her legs and arms touched mine. She was unhappy with us and I wanted to do everything I could to make her stay, to keep her. There was a part of me that had always been afraid she would leave. If I behaved badly, if I wasn’t good enough, she might decide we weren’t worth the trouble. I felt like I had to compensate for my father and