Free Shout Down the Moon by Lisa Tucker

who lived next door and had called her to complain.
    Until I told Rick this story, I was sure what I’d done wrong would be obvious to anyone as soon as they heard what had happened. I felt this way about all my fights with Mama, actually. This is why I never told anybody about them. There had to be something I was doing, or why else did this keep happening?
    To say Rick saw it differently is putting it mildly. He’d had his own experience living with an alcoholic; it was something we had in common. His mother was alone, too—his dad had disappeared when his youngest brother was a baby—and she’d been a drinker as long as he could remember. He was the oldest of five, and he had plenty of practice protecting his brothers and sisters from his mom’s rages. He wanted to protect me, too, but it was tough because I kept going back to Mama. I kept thinking I could fix things with her if only I tried a little harder.
    Of course it’s all different now. Now she’s sober, and even though she and I have our problems from time to time, she’s always good to Willie. Sometimes I’m still surprised by how kind she is to my baby. It feels like a gift or even a miracle.
    Willie and Irene are back from the pool; I’m helping him spoon out his slushy, when I glance back over at the couple on the blanket. They’re still so engrossed in each other that they don’t even look up when the lifeguard blows his whistle to empty out the pool for a safety check. They’re not going at it as heavily now, but somehow it’s even sexier, the way he’s tenderly touching her cheek, staring into her eyes, straightening out the strap of her purple bikini.
    Rick bought me my first bikini. It was blue, my favorite color. The first time he saw me in it, he whistled until I blushed.
    About a half hour later, when Irene suggests we leave so we have time to hit the store and still make it home before the guys, I say fine. She’s impatient to see Harry and find out how the concert went. I’m not eager to see any of them, but at least the stress in the trailer will distract me from my own mind.
    I don’t miss Rick, but I miss being loved. This is what I’ve been telling myself at the pool each time I think about him. And this is what I always tell myself to explain why, after three years, I still dream about him.
    None of the dreams are close to X-rated. Sometimes they’re headed in that direction—we’re kissing, taking our clothes off, touching each other—but something always happens to interrupt, as if my dreaming mind is determined to protect me from making a mistake and being with him.
    I guess it’s not surprising that Willie is almost never in those dreams I have about Rick. Usually he doesn’t exist, but even when he does he’s off somewhere, and safe; I don’t have to think about him. The only time I dreamed about both of them was right after Rick came to Kentucky. It was a stupid dream—the three of us were in the Lewisville mall, shopping for training pants for Willie—but I still woke up in tears.
    Foolish tears, I reminded myself. True, I grew up without a father and so did Rick, and true, it’s sad that Willie is growing up the same way. But there’s no alternative that I can see. Only a fool cries over what can’t be changed.

five
     
    T he store is crowded, and Irene needs all kinds of odd spices and fresh mushrooms, onions, tomatoes—she’s planning to make her special spaghetti for Harry and for the rest of us, too, she jokes, if we’re nice. When we make it to the trailer, the van isn’t there, but the Camaro is in the driveway, and parked in the street, a brand-new-looking truck. Probably a woman for Carl, I suggest, but Irene says no, the truck’s too expensive; it has to be a dealer. For the last few days, Carl and Dennis have been complaining that they need a hookup, they’re nearly out of weed.
    Willie and Irene are still at the trunk of the Honda; he insisted on helping carry in the groceries. When I walk