Free Anywhere But Here by Mona Simpson Page B

we’d given him. My grandmother took our dogs and kept whatever names they had.
    “Why sure. Does a wanna ride, Handy? Sure, sure a does.” Handy began thumping his tail against my grandmother’s ankle.
    I put on one of the heavy men’s wool jackets still left from when my grandfather wore them out to the mink. We took gloves and scarves and loose, baggy clothes. Neither of us would have dressed like this if we were staying in Bay City. My grandmother wore big cotton housedresses or overalls and flannel shirts the days she stayed home, but she owned nice, tasteful suits, knits, with matching purses and jewelry for the days when she had to drive into town, even for ten minutes, to buy something from the department store or to pick up a roast from the butcher.
    The dog whimpered and beat his tail against the vinyl of the backseat, and I sat in front with the map spread out on my legs. In a town we didn’t know the name of, we stopped in a Swedishtea shop. “Well, should we call your ma from here? They must be up by now.”
    I found a cuckoo clock by the cash register. Birds and nests on eaves were carved into the blond wood. It said half past eleven.
    “Not for sure,” I said, although it was about now that they usually got up on Saturdays. My mother would open the back door and sneak out to the garage with a bag of garbage, wearing only a T-shirt. After she pranced in, she’d stand for a minute at the back door, looking out to the dazzling sunlight on the yard. In summer, the sprinklers would already be going on the lawn next door, making thin rainbows over the grass. But it was raining and they were probably sleeping late. At our house, when we got up on a weekend and there was rain, my mother sighed and we all went back to sleep for a few hours.
    We decided not to call my mother until we were farther north, in Michigan. It seemed safer in another state. Walking to the cash register, we passed two men in outdoor clothes with a radio going on their table. “Storm’s still up,” one said to the other.
    My grandmother was a shy person, but she made an effort.
    “You’re not going to the lake, are you?”
    “Yes, ma’am. Up to Superior. Gonna get the washups.”
    “Why, us too. You must be the real rock hounds.”
    We followed their truck. We drove and drove, through towns with Indian names, down main streets one block long. We passed a road sign advertising the butter factory that used to rent our old barn; it showed a picture of a Michigan summer: blueberry patches, a bear, high clouds over a lake and dark green pines—the paper peeling off the sign, flapping in the wind. We were halfway to Canada.
    We each sat on one of the twin beds, taking turns talking to my mother.
    She shrieked so loud my grandmother held the receiver out a foot away. At that distance, my mother’s voice sounded hilarious, like a tiny recorded puppet’s voice.
    “Lake Superior. My God, Ted, they’re at Lake Superior, those two. Well, when are you coming home?”
    My grandmother kept the phone away from her.
    “Put her on,” my mother said, “put on my little wee-bear-cub. I miss my Little Bit.”
    The corners of my grandmother’s mouth lowered. I took the phone. My grandmother and I were both laughing then, and I tried to stifle the sound.
    “Pooh-bear, are you there? Are you all right?”
    “Yes, Mother, I’m fine.”
    “Do you have enough to eat, Bear-cub? And what are you wearing? Do you have warm clothes?”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “Well, you be careful out there on the beach. Don’t you dare go at night when it’s dark. And be careful of the other rock hounds and watch out for those undertows, because, believe me, Twussy, they can be atrocious, they just pull you right out, I’m telling you—”
    “We’ll be fine, Mom, we’re not swimming, we’re just walking on the beach. And we’re going down to dinner now, so I have to go.”
    “Okay, well, have a good time and take care, you two. And hurry home because I