Steve Tem - Onion Songs

“Mommy, who’s that strange woman?” she heard a child ask nearby.

Trish’s lips tasted sweet, then salty, and vaguely of sex. She smiled as the thread of the child’s voice stretched out into a long, dreary wail adrift with the rest of the dangling sky.

“OK, Kids, we’re going to take this vacation off the map!” The Dad, relaxed and expansive behind the steering wheel, threw back his head and horse-laughed. Big Sis hated the laugh and hated the fact that the Dad pretended like this was something special, when he said the exact same thing on every vacation. Hated it almost as much as she hated being called Big Sis, almost as much as she hated her parents’ insistence that their children refer to them as “the Dad” and “the Mom.”

Beside her the twins Boyo and Gal Pal voiced their enthusiasm. “Bravo!” they cried in unison, Boyo waving his French beret and Gal Pal her tiny sombrero. This year Boyo was to be a resident of France and Gal Pal a citizen of Mexico. They’d overstuffed their dilapidated cardboard suitcases with the appropriate native clothing, reading materials, and snacks. After weeks of harassment Big Sis had finally decided on somewhere non-specific in the British Isles. At least they spoke English there, more or less.

The family station wagon cruised the back roads like an out-of-control boat. The Mom chattered to the Dad constantly about this or that seen, or passed recently, or coming up on the right. Big Sis clutched the padded arm rest until her elbow locked, and forced her eyes closed at the worst of it, when the Dad veered too close to tractor trailers, or swung too wide on curves, and the outside wheels spat gravel. “Shit shit shit…” she stuttered.

“ Quelle horreur!” Boyo exclaimed, “Oolala, le potty mouth!”

“Oh, shut up!” She punched him in the shoulder. “That last part isn’t even French—it’s English with an accent!”

“ Sere Bueno!”

“German and Spanish, you halfwit!”

“Pelé.”

“Brazilian soccer player.”

“Oh, Big Sis!” the Mom interrupted from the front seat. “Isn’t it all so much easier when you speak the language?”

Big Sis curled into the corner of the back seat to sulk. Boyo grinned wickedly, chanting bien, bien, bien .

It was always like this on vacation. Their family had no money in the best of times, certainly no money for trips abroad, although the Dad and the Mom had promised a trip to Europe for as long as Big Sis could remember. The very idea made her shudder. The whole world hated Americans. Maybe the Dad didn’t mind being beheaded—he was mostly head anyway, but why should the rest of the family suffer?

What they did instead was just like homework! Boyo and Gal Pal had been studying languages and customs for weeks, not that it had helped much in Boyo’s case.

She’d been lucky the Mom and the Dad had permitted her to choose Britain, which she knew all about, having studied about Queen Elizabeth I in school, and knowing pretty much everything about kings and queens, princes and princesses. There were dukes and earls as well, but she really didn’t understand that much about them, except there was a song, “Duke of Earl,” that the Dad had liked to sing to them when they were little.

They had been in the car for a very long time. On previous vacations her parents traded house-sitting chores for a place to stay, some out-of-the-way location where they could run their crazy vacation experiments without interference. They thought these deals were some big secret from the Kids, but Big Sis knew—the Mom and the Dad weren’t exactly secret agents. “Look at this empty house we’ve found!” the Dad would exclaim. “How could anyone forget they lived in such a wonderful home?” the Mom would ask, a stupid expression on her face.

But this summer they didn’t seem to know at all where they were going. Every few miles the Dad would pull off onto a side road, travel down it awhile, then stop near a house. The Kids had to stay in the car with the Mom while he got out, walked around the structure, looked in the windows, knocked on the door. Each time he would come back shaking his head at the Mom and they would drive around some more.

By dusk Big Sis was getting worried. She’d had nothing but biscuits (which tasted suspiciously like cookies) all day, with nothing to wash them down but unrefrigerated orange juice. Her throat was raw and scratchy, and when once again the Dad stopped the car, just after sunset, the sky an almost painful red, she wanted to yell at them both. Just what did they think they were doing? Both the twins had passed out from the heat in the car, and if they didn’t find the house soon she herself was going to be homicidal.

But this time the Dad came back smiling, shook the twins awake, and told them all it was time to unload.

“France is upstairs in the back, Mexico down here by the front door. England,” irritatingly, he bowed, “you have the large bedroom upstairs.” He paused, waving his bright flashlight around like a light saber. “Surprised?”

“Shocked.”

“You’re more than old enough now, I’d say.” And for the first time in months she smiled.

But something was missing. She looked around. Of course—there was no furniture. She stared at the Dad’s flashlight. She walked over to a light switch, flipped it on. Nothing. “There’s no power!”

“We’re fifty years into the future. Worldwide power outage. The direct result of a foolish use of our natural resources. I have an extra flashlight for you, by the way. It gets pretty dark in Britain after nightfall.”

She could have punched him, but she took the flashlight instead.

The next morning was full of the clamor of the French and Mexican wars. The Dad came thundering out of his bedroom wrapped in a bright red silk robe covered with sun-yellow flowers. He saw her staring at him. “Japanese Occupation,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

The Mom had packed her British kit for her, obviously not trusting her to do it properly. Beside the fairytale books, a costume jewelry tiara, and the Beatles CD Big Sis had thought to bring herself (but forgetting the CD player completely), the Mom had placed a woolen tartan scarf (great for summer!), a Fodor travel guide to the United Kingdom, and a shiny green teapot.

She had already checked the sinks—no running water. Gal Pal, usually quiet even during her hyper times, had said, “Maybe they don’t take baths in Yourup!” Big Sis called her stupid, which sent her running to the Mom.

The Mom and the Dad weren’t going to be much help, obviously. “You’re a British citizen now,” the Dad said. “What would any good subject of the Crown do in your situation? A good vacation stretches the mind—it teaches you how the rest of the world lives. You travel far enough out of your comfort zone, you journey far enough from home, and you just might find yourself.”

The Mom, grinning like an idiot, apparently agreed.

So Big Sis slapped on her tiara, picked up her teapot, and went looking for water.

The countryside around the house was mostly flat, covered in shiny, bronze-colored grass. She imagined the grass made a jangly sound against her tennis shoes, but knew it had to be a sound from somewhere else, maybe wind chimes, their sound carried by the wind.

She saw no signs of water, but the wavy ground reminded her of the ocean, so she kept looking for pools somewhere in the low ridges, hiding away clean and pure. Now and then she even thought she heard a fog horn, and once saw a distant bridge stretching between two square towers, but she thought it way too far to travel without help.