Read Online Onward Toward What We're Going Toward by Ryan Bartelmay - Free Book Online Page B

Green was shirtless, sitting under the shade of a deck umbrella, a blob of white sunscreen on his nose. He wore the sporty sunglasses.
    â€œYeah OK. Let’s move to Peoria.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œWhere’s it at? Indiana?”
    â€œIllinois.”
    â€œOh, Chicago.”

    â€œSouth of there. Middle of the state.”
    â€œFine,” she said. She mouthed the word, “Peoria.” It sounded exotic.
    A week later, they hitched a U-Haul trailer to the minivan and drove out of Las Vegas, through the Rocky Mountains, across Kansas and the high plains, through Missouri, and over the Mississippi into Illinois. At six in the evening, they cruised into Peoria and found Holt Street, in a part of town called the Greek Isle. When they pulled up to the house Green had rented, Mary’s mouth dropped open. The place was nothing more than a brick bungalow, even smaller than the Airstream. One of the front windows was busted out, a piece of plywood the temporary (or permanent?) fix. The bushes up by the house were overgrown, and the walk leading to the front door was cracked, with weeds sprouting through the uneven concrete. There wasn’t a porch, just a few concrete steps leading to the front door. There wasn’t a storm door, just a smudged white door with a mail slot. Mary looked over at Green, who had this big, just-won-the-lottery grin on his face. “My gosh, isn’t it great to be getting a fresh start?”
    The place came “lightly furnished,” which meant there was a well-worn couch in the living room. One side of the couch had obviously been a scratching post for a previous owner’s cat. In fact, the smell of cat urine hung like an invisible fog throughout the house. There was an ancient double bed in the bedroom with a depression in the middle of the mattress that looked like it could hold water. Probably the most makeshift aspect of the house was the plastic patio furniture, a round white table and two white deck chairs, in the eat-in kitchen. When Mary saw that, she nearly burst into tears. Green said maybe they could put a vase with fresh-cut flowers on the table to spruce things up. Then Mary opened the fridge. Inside, there was a bottle of Heinz with crusted ketchup caked around the cap, ajar of pickles with two spears left, and a box of baking soda. Green smiled at her. “It’s only temporary,” he said. “Just a place for us to get started.”

    The plan was for Mary to make a little money while Green established himself as the man to see in Peoria if someone wanted to place a sports bet. Reluctantly, she filled out an application at the Pair-a-Dice, a riverboat casino docked on the East Peoria side of the Illinois River. Because of her Las Vegas experience, she was hired on the spot. The Pair-a-Dice was modeled after an Old West saloon. There were three mahogany bars, and the bartenders behind them dressed up in arm garters and suspenders. Different sections of the game floor had been given Old West names like the OK Corral, Dodge City, and Ghost Town. The place was stuffed to the gills with elderly people from nursing homes in neighboring central Illinois farm towns. Mary had never seen so many men in flannel shirts. The women had that bye-bye-Betty jiggle under their arms, and each time one reached up to pull the slot handle, the bye-bye-Betty jiggle-jaggled and made Mary feel sick right down to the bottom of her stomach. She was only ten years younger than these women—and Green was only a handful of years younger than the men.
    She felt ridiculous in the waitress uniform she had to wear, a low-cut, madam-of-the-night costume complete with fishnet stockings which made her feel as if she’d fallen off a New Orleans parade float. She spent most of her shifts by an ATM in the corner pulling the skirt down to cover her butt and wobbling on stilettos that trembled under her weight of 225 pounds. If it’ll play in Peoria . She hoped