Rescue You

by Elysia Whisler

Rhett squatted down next to it, but the black lump didn’t move. For a second, Constance thought it was too late. Her throat tightened up and shrunk, making it hard to breathe. Rhett waved a hand near the lump.

  Slowly, a head raised. Then it sank back down.

  Rhett ran his pencil flashlight over the form. The yellow beam illuminated an ugly sight of dull, black pelt stretched over visible ribs and skin with open sores, ticks and infection.

  “He’s worse,” Constance gasped. “Way worse than when I spied him months ago.” Bile rose up the back of her throat. How did Sunny do this on a regular basis? New respect filled her heart for her baby sister, even though it was simultaneously breaking for the poor creature on the ground.

  Rhett said nothing, his lips pressed tight, the residual light from the flashlight making his angry face look ghostly.

  A cracking sound came in the distance. “Who’s out there?” An older woman’s voice barked out from the vicinity of the house. A screen door slammed shut. The sound of a weapon being cocked followed.

  Rhett put a finger to his lips, killed the light and melted into the dark. A second later, Constance heard a long, slow creak. “Psst!”

  Constance fumbled by the meager light of the stars and moon until she bumped into Rhett’s back. He caught her by the arm and pulled her in front of him, into the barn. Once he’d pulled the door closed he flicked on his flashlight.

  “We can’t leave him out there.” Constance’s whisper was full of panic, her fear for herself overridden by her fear of what the old woman might do to the dog.

  “We won’t. We just need to bide our time. Trust me.”

  The yellow beam of the flashlight revealed the barn in circles of narrow, diffused light, but each dark corner was the same as the next: empty nooks of rotting wood, moldering hay, rusted chains and farm equipment. There was a wheelbarrow with no wheels, an assortment of shovels, picks and scythes, buckets, broken lanterns and even discarded horseshoes.

  “I said—” the woman’s voice was getting closer to the barn “—who’s out here? I’m armed! And trust me, I’m not afraid to use it!”

  “Wait.” Rhett’s light, aimed at the ground, froze. He went back a few inches. “What’s that?”

  Constance watched the light travel upward, until she recognized what she was looking at: a long, frayed, twisted piece of hemp. “A rope.”

  “It leads to a loft.” Rhett looked down at her. “Looks like all your rope-climb training wasn’t in vain.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Let me go first. At the top, I’ll shine the light down. Then I’ll be able to pull you in.” The light clicked off, and only the sounds of Rhett scaling the rope followed. Within twenty seconds the light clicked back on. “Come on,” Rhett said from the ledge inside the loft.

  Constance walked over and tested the integrity of the knot. It felt secure. She remembered back to the first time she’d seen the people at Semper Fit doing rope climbs and the thought that had crossed her mind: When in real life will I ever need to climb a rope? She hissed a laugh, then drew a deep breath and jumped onto the rope.

  “Hook your feet,” Rhett instructed, just like they were at the gym.

  Constance flailed at first, but then grasped the hemp with her feet and stood up. She fumbled in the dark but eventually got herself to the top. There, Rhett’s hand grasped her forearm, then her waist as he pulled her onto the ledge. They spilled on the floor.

  Rhett made a gesture with his fist that Constance took to mean, Be quiet.

  Then he killed the light.

  * * *

  They waited, watching the door of the barn. A bright circular beam ran around the gaps in the slats and between the bottom of the door and ground. The door creaked open.

  Rhett hooked his arm around Stanzi’s head and clamped his hand over her mouth. Her muffled cry came into his palm as a figure edged into the barn, holding a bright light. The lantern was set on the ground, and as the light shone upward Rhett could see the person was an older woman, training a shotgun around the barn.

  His brain immediately assessed and categorized the scene: elderly civilian with what looked like a Sako, which would be lightweight, but accurate. The way she held the weapon told him she knew how to use it. There was only one way in and one way out of this place, and the old lady was blocking it. Options were limited.

  She lowered the weapon and drew something out of her pocket. A flashlight clicked on, which she shined around the barn. Rhett and Stanzi both ducked beneath the ledge and waited as the light passed over top of them. Stanzi’s cool fingers wrapped around his wrist, just beneath his watch, and squeezed.

  Another pass of bright light, before it finally went out. The barn door creaked, then banged shut. Rhett raised his head and peeked over the ledge. There was nothing but blackness, punctuated by moonlight through the many gaps and holes eating through the rotted structure.

  “We’re going to scale down in the dark,” he whispered. “Can’t risk the flashlight. I’ll go first and be on the ground to catch you.”

  Stanzi squeezed his wrist again.

  Rhett felt around in the dark until his fingers lit on the rope. He rappelled down, landed without a sound and waited. A few seconds later, the rope wiggled in his hand. Stanzi gave a series of soft, whispered grunts as she made her way down. Near the bottom, Rhett grabbed her around the waist and eased her to the wooden floor. He took her sweaty hand and led her toward the door, taking his steps slow and silent.

  When he reached the door, he peered through the slats. All he saw was darkness. Just as he was about to push the door open as quietly as he could, he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

  “Is she gone?” Stanzi’s whisper filtered upward.

  Rhett didn’t answer. He put his finger to his lips. Stanzi hushed as he pushed her behind him, just in case. After a couple of minutes, the sounds of a rough foot in the grass, maybe stomping out a cigarette, came through the door. Another minute passed before the old woman cleared her phlegmy throat, followed by footsteps heading away from the barn.

  Rhett closed his eyes, which allowed him to detect, about twenty seconds later, the sound of a door creaking a ways off, about as far off as the house was from the barn. “C’mon.” Rhett shook Stanzi’s shoulder. “Let’s get the dog and go.”

  * * *

  They drove in silence. Rhett had clicked off the radio as soon as the dog was loaded in the back seat, atop an old blanket, and the wheels were rolling. The windows were down, which eased the smell of blood, piss, shit, vomit and dirt that came from the back. Everything that had happened that night rolled through Constance’s mind, along with every possible feeling that could accompany those actions. Delayed fear, adrenaline drain, disbelief, even pride. The only thing she didn’t feel was guilt.

  Except for maybe the reaction she was betting she’d get from Dr. Winters. “Another one, Cici?” she would say. “Where do you expect me to put them all?” Then she’d sigh and say, “Bring him in.”

  “Oh, shit,” Rhett said, his voice a low growl. “What’s going on there?”

  When Constance first saw the red and blue flashing lights, her pulse jacked up so fast she thought she might pass out. “Slow down.”

  The Jeep rolled to a crawl as it neared what had to be three or four police vehicles. Two people in handcuffs were being led toward the backs of the vehicles. One of them was a tall, skinny woman and the other a bearded man in a baseball cap.

  Constance’s heart slowed, the beats rough and hard with adrenaline but losing their steam. She smiled so hard a laugh escaped her lips.

  “What is it?” Rhett peered at her, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

  “That,” Constance said, her voice giddy, “is Janice Matteri. Being arrested.”

  thirty-five

  Daddy’s gravestone was a simple marker on the side of a grassy hill in a quiet cem
etery about twenty miles south of home. It read Patrick H. Morrigan. 1SG US Army. Vietnam Veteran. There was a cross between his birth and death dates, and a United States flag planted in the ground above his marker. He hadn’t wanted to be buried in Arlington Cemetery or anything fancy done at his funeral.

  He’d just wanted to be next to Mom. Her grave marker, adjacent to his, read Nicole S. Morrigan. Beloved Mother. La Vie en Rose. 7 September 1947. 28 May 1993.

  Sunny settled on a bare patch of grass, next to them both, and crossed her legs at the ankles. The morning sun was already warm, promising a humid, sweaty day. Constance sank down next to her, arms at rest on her knees.

  “Hey, Daddy,” Sunny said. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, Mom,” Constance echoed. Hey, Daddy. For that, she used sign language.

  A sudden, cool breeze rustled through, fluttering the leaves in the surrounding trees and giving Sunny a welcome kiss on the face. She watched Constance pluck a flower from the ground, the kind that grew like weeds in dense patches of overgrown grass. Sunny remembered that she used to make necklaces from them as a kid by knotting the stems together, and would come through the back door with sticky sap dried all over her fingers as she proudly presented Mom with her latest creation. Mom would smile, her sunny hair framing her face as she bent down to accept the gift, which she strung around her neck. The necklace hung there, awkward and messy, against one of the colorful blouses she favored. The flower necklaces were one of the few memories Sunny had of Mom.

  She watched Constance start to make one of those wreaths, which she did every year on the anniversary of Mom’s death. It was only in that moment that Sunny remembered it was actually Constance who had taught her how to make the wreaths. “I wish you’d had someone to mother you, too,” Sunny said, breaking the silence.

  Constance added another flower to her chain. She didn’t look up, but smiled.

  “I had you at least. All you had was Daddy. And he wasn’t much on mothering.”

  Constance chuckled, signed something to Daddy’s grave, then said, “I told him you’re still sassy as ever.”

  A little boy, off in the distance, stared in her direction. He stood beneath a giant maple tree, clutching his mother’s hand. Mother and child both wore nice clothes, like they’d come from a church service.

  “I was always jealous of that,” Sunny admitted. “I know you think I was the little sister that got everything easy. But I was always jealous of the things you had that I didn’t. Like more time with Mom.” She nodded at the grave. “And all those special ways you had to talk to Daddy that I didn’t have.”

  Constance played with her flower chain, her bottom lip tucked thoughtfully under the upper one. She signed again to Daddy’s grave. “Daddy indulged you way more than he did me.”

  The little boy pointed at her. He said something to his mother. The mother put her finger to her lips and pulled the little boy away, heading off in another direction.

  “Maybe so, but—” Sunny traced her finger over Daddy’s name on his headstone “—we only had one language. And even that was limited. You and Daddy had so many languages. And then, in the end, you were the only one he let see him suffer,” Sunny said. “That was a language all by itself. I was never welcome to take him for his chemo or radiation. He shooed me away if I saw him weak or sick.”

  “You didn’t want to see him like that,” Constance said. “Trust me.”

  “I believe you.” Sunny rested her chin on her knees. “But I was jealous of all the ways you had to talk to him, none of which had anything to do with words. Because Daddy hated words.”

  Constance sniffed deeply and blew it out in a sigh. “Yeah,” she agreed. “But you were his little girl. The only little girl that he had.” She must’ve seen Sunny’s look of confusion, because she held up a hand. “See, you got to be his daughter.” Constance offered a weak smile. “You got to be a little kid. That bright spot of sunshine who reminded him who he once was, before the war. Before Mom’s death. That’s why he indulged you. You were that missing piece of him. That missing piece of what he wanted his life to be. I couldn’t be his little girl, after Mom died. I had to be something else. He knew he couldn’t raise us alone. So I had to step up. And he hated that. You were so much like Mom—bright and shiny and everything good. I was just a symbol of his weakness.”

  Sunny went silent after that. She watched her sister lay the flower wreath on Mom’s grave. A cool breeze rustled her hair, breaking through the humidity. “Thank you.”

  Constance looked up with a wrinkled brow.

  “For being there,” Sunny said. “For rescuing the dog,” she added. She snorted a laugh. “I still can’t believe you did that.”

  The night Constance and Rhett had shown up at her doorstep, after midnight, with the stolen rottweiler mutt from 13 White Fern Road, Sunny had thought she was hallucinating. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?” she’d said. “Did my straight-nosed sister suddenly go rogue?”

  Constance laughed, too, finally letting go. “I had to rescue Buddy,” Constance said, using sign language at the same time she spoke. If Daddy was in the room, even if he was buried six feet under, Cici would include him. “Not just for him. I had to show you that I was wrong.”

  “Wait. What?” Sunny rubbed her temples. “Did my big sister just say she was wrong?”

  Constance got up and settled herself behind Sunny. A moment later, Sunny felt the familiar pull of her big sister doing her hair in a French braid. She used to do it before every dance class or cheerleading meet. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like you needed to change. You’re perfect the way you are. Every impulsive, fearless, irritating little piece of you.”

  Sunny laughed, which quickly turned into a yelp. “Ouch. Quit pulling so hard.”

  “You need your hair done,” Constance scolded. “You can’t run with your hair loose.”

  Sunny’s stomach squeezed. “I don’t want to run.”

  “You’re running.” Constance jerked her hair a little tighter. “People have been raising money all month for you and Pete and the dogs. Now you have to do the workout.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, everyone. Thanks for coming out this fine Saturday morning for a heavy dose of fitness, community and hopefully some fun.” Rhett paused while people variously whooped or groaned. “But seriously.” Once everyone had quieted, he continued. “Today is a special day. Most of you know why you’re here. But in case you live under a rock and missed the boat, today we are here to support a very important fundraiser. Many of you have worked hard to raise money to help rebuild Pittie Place, a dog rescue near and dear to one of our members’ hearts. I think you all know Red.” Rhett gestured to Stanzi, who waved at the community she’d become such an integral part of. He paused again while everyone cheered, clapped or called out, “Hey, Red!”

  “Turns out, Red’s got a sister,” Rhett continued. “And her name is Sunny.”

  Sunny waved, and everyone whooped and clapped again.

  “She works tirelessly and selflessly to rescue not just abused pit bulls, but any dog she comes across. Many of those dogs are taken in by Pete.” Rhett gestured to the unassuming army vet who stood quietly with his arm around Sunny’s waist. “He takes in many of the dogs Sunny rescues and rehabilitates them into service dogs for wounded veterans.”

  The claps and cheers again took over the gym.

  “Because the cause is so important—” Rhett rubbed his hands together “—we’ve got a workout to match.”

  This is when the groans came, followed by comments, gagging sounds, good-humored threats to leave and heavy sighs.

  “Today, in order to make your workout worthy of your donations, we will execute the following: a one-mile run, into the park and back, followed by fifty pull-ups, fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, fifty air squats, fifty wall balls, fifty lunges, fifty box jumps, fifty double under
s and another one-mile run into the park and back.”

  Once he was finished reading the intro, Rhett surveyed the packed gym. “Most of these are deceptively simple movements. But trust me, you’re going to feel it. Our one-mile route is out the bay door—” Rhett pointed “—across the street and into the park. The half-mile turnaround point is marked with white flags on either side of the path. The quarter-mile turnaround is also marked, for those of you scaling the runs to half miles. Last but not least, all of you know how I feel about whining. Multiply that times a thousand, and that’s how I feel about whining during today’s workout. Just do the work, remember why you’re doing it and be thankful you’re above ground and suffering with your friends.”

  After that, they all warmed up, then started gathering what they needed for the workout. Days like this always brought a special sort of chaos—a lot of bodies filling up the gym, competing for space on the rig, with everyone working together to make sure the job got done with as much flow as possible.

  Stanzi and Sunny met Rhett outside at the starting point, along the wall of the building by the open bay door. Stanzi’s ponytail was the longest it’d been since he’d met her and she looked confident, ready for the workout. She wore a pair of bike shorts and a tank top with a white pony on the front. The pony had a multicolored mane and tail and kicked its little hooves in the air.

  “Everyone loves the new shirt.”

  She planted her hand over it and gave him a shove in response to the big grin he got on his face. “I couldn’t resist when I saw it.”

  “Yeah,” Sunny agreed. “The blue really brings out your eyes.”

  “Shut up.”

  Sunny giggled.

  “I can’t wait for you to die during the one-mile runs.” Stanzi gave her a shove.

  Sunny jumped up and down on her toes. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

  “You’ll do anything for your dogs.”

  “True.”