Paper, Scissors, Death

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  I tensed and relaxed the muscles in my right arm, testing them.

  Bill’s eyes grew dreamy. “Oh, I’m thinking—”

  I slammed my right elbow into his Adam’s apple.

  “Gulch.” He sputtered. His hands flew to his throat.

  I poked his left eye hard as I could. My fingers sank deeply into a warm gelatinous substance.

  I yanked my handle, automatically unlocking the doors. I thanked God and George for this old Beemer and all its quirks. The car veered wildly. Trees whipped by. We were on a collision course. I hurled myself out of the moving car, my shoulder hitting the asphalt hard. I slid along the pavement on my shoulder and side. The skin peeled from my body, burning and stinging. The impact jarred my teeth and knocked the wind out of me. I rolled and rolled, gasping for breath. The car—with Bill in it—kept going, heading toward the trees lining the road. I coughed and managed to get air into my lungs. My feet were moving as I scrambled along the blacktop. I scuttled away from the road, struggling to stand upright.

  Every bit of me hurt. I didn’t care. I ran.

  The grounds sloped down sharply from the pavement. The woods were below me. I half-ran, half-crawled. I fell and rolled downhill. I struggled to my knees, to my feet. My calves burned at the sharp angle, the slant of the ground as I plummeted toward the dense forest. I didn’t care how badly I hurt. I was running for my life.

  I was nearly touching the trees now. The cool air of the shade beckoned me to come deep into the darkness, to hide, to disappear from my predator. I could smell decaying leaves. My arms stretched toward the dim shadows, reaching, almost touching, nearly there—

  A bullet hit me.

  I never heard it. I smelled burning flesh and saw smoke rise from my right shoulder. My nostrils flared, and my leg muscles quivered. A blast of adrenaline fueled me like a rocket and I jumped into the air, moving forward, moving into the trees. I landed, half falling as my toes caught on a root. I hit the ground again, rolling and rolling down the hill. Head over heels. Each time my weight shifted onto my shoulder, a pain like when a curling iron touches your skin shot up my torso. The world flashed by me, green, blue, brown, green, blue, brown.

  Bill yelled from somewhere above me, “You’re dead! Hear me? You’re dead!”

  I scrambled into a clump of low bushes, parting rough undergrowth with my hands. Branches clawed at my skin. A shot zinged past me like a mosquito on speed. I dropped to my knees and grabbed tufts of grass to pull myself along. My shoulder pulsated with red licks of agony. I had to keep moving. “This is for Anya,” I whispered. I pushed deeper and deeper into the grasses and vines. Snot streamed down my face. I didn’t stop to wipe it. I didn’t dare look back. I heard Bill behind me, calling my name and cursing. The birds went quiet. Suddenly he quit yelling. His footfalls crunched somewhere in the distance but I couldn’t calculate how far away.

  “Give up! Give up or I’ll … I’ll make it take longer! I’ll hurt your kid! You hear me?” Bill’s voice rasped like a file on wood. He was obviously in pain and out of breath.

  I thought about Anya and my hopes for our future. I wanted to see my little girl grow up. I wanted to help her get dressed for the prom. I wanted to meet the man she’d marry. I thought about my sisters. I vowed to make peace with Amanda and Catherine. I’d ask Mom to forgive me. I’d never forget her birthday again. I thought about Dodie and Mert. And Gracie, dear sweet Gracie—who would look after her? I pulled myself through the brush. I crawled on my belly. Three-leafed plants engulfed me. I was scooting through poison oak. I didn’t care. My right shoulder was getting numb, but my arm still worked. I grabbed and pulled, scooting deeper and deeper.

  Beyond me was a clearing. Should I run? Or stay hidden? Crunching noises told me Bill was close. Blood was trickling down my shoulder, streaking my arm, covering my hand and fingers. Even with the rush of fear, I was starting to feel weak. I didn’t think I could outrun him.

  “You’re gonna pay! You hear me? You’ll pay for this!”

  I dug around in the bushes. My fingers discovered a couple of branches. They seemed sturdy, not too rotted, but bound tightly by vines.

  Wiping blood on my pants so my hand would be dry, I began to pray. God, I mouthed the words, give me strength. That’s what I learned from George. Jews don’t pray to be delivered; they pray for strength. I had to stay tough. I tugged on a branch. It wouldn’t move. I took a deep breath and pulled as I exhaled. The branch popped free, making surprisingly little noise. I ran my hand along it, feeling the knuckles of broken twigs, testing the heft and weight.

  Leaves and small sticks crackled under Bill’s shoes. I rested and listened. Thank heavens I’d poked his eye so hard. The undamaged eye would be watering in sympathy, making it difficult for him to see. Between the shade and the blurred vision, I could afford to let him get close. Picking out his form as he groped along, I watched him pausing to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. I pulled my legs under me and coiled into a balanced squat. I waited. I knew I could do this. Maybe I would die, but I wouldn’t just lie down and die. I’d make him pay dearly for the privilege.

  I judged him to be twenty feet … fifteen feet … ten feet … three feet.

  I popped up.

  Smack! I swung the branch with all the fury I could muster, feeling my abdomen ripple with the twisting, juddering motion. I hit hard and low. I aimed for his gut. I missed my mark a little, and thought I heard a crack of his ribs. But I got him.

  Folding like a road map, Bill sank to his knees.

  The back of his head wavered before me. His hands were splayed on the ground, which kept him from falling face down, and he still gripped his gun. I couldn’t chance him rising and shooting me. I lifted the branch once more, fearful it would crack. I ignored the pain shooting through my arm. In my mind, I was a batter at Busch Stadium. My stick hit the back of his head and bounced out of my control. Bill wobbled like a child’s toy. Then he made a face-first dive into the detritus of the forest. I ran to him. Kicking his fingers, I sent the gun flying. I ran, dug through the leaves, and grabbed it, amazed at how hot and heavy it felt. I held it in front of me by my fingertips as if I were holding that two-headed snake. I watched the gun as though it were a living, venomous creature.

  I stood there panting. My breath came in deep gulps. Bill didn’t move. I held the gun in both hands, trained the sight on him, lined up the notches, and considered what to do next. The form on the ground didn’t move. I cautiously stepped closer, pointed the gun at his back where I couldn’t miss. My finger caressed the trigger.

  I’d pretty much had it. I growled in anger and frustration, a grunting animal sound that tore at my throat. I was sick of complications in my life. Sick of people tossing me about like litter. I wanted to kill him. I really, really did. I wanted to know he’d never bother me or my child again.

  The thought shamed me. He could do me no more harm, but, oh, how I wanted to finish him off.

  My feet didn’t cooperate as I staggered toward the road. I was moving uphill, fighting gravity, and ignoring the pain, retracing the ground that earlier I’d covered so quickly. It seemed to take forever until the light changed, indicating the crest of the asphalt road.

  I shoved the gun into my pants pocket, and hoped it wouldn’t go off. I knew nothing about weapons. What if my fingerprints on the barrel got me in trouble? What if Bill came after me again? At least he couldn’t shoot me. My shoulder and arm weighed as much as two concrete blocks and were just as agile. My legs felt weak, and each step was unsure. I was moving an inch at a time, my feet catching every root and branch.

  I fell to my knees. Whimpering and crying, I crawled on one arm. Every other move forward, I’d slide backward. My shoulder hurt like it was on fire. Blood soaked my sleeve and trailed along my pants. My wound alternately ached and stung. Leaves and grass got in my mouth. I spit as I shuffled along on three good limbs.

  In the distance sirens wailed, their tremulous notes changing back and forth, back and forth, louder
and louder.

  Detweiler is coming, I told myself. Detweiler is coming, and I’ll be okay.

  ___

  I woke up staring into a bank of fluorescent lights. The smell and noises told me I was in a hospital room. Mert was holding my hand. The eye makeup she applied with a trowel was smeared. Her mascara had melted into raccoon-like rings around her eyes. She looked awful. Her face was stricken, and her lips trembled. She patted my good arm, her hands roughened by work but gentled by affection. “The kid wanted to be here … but there’s that DSS thing. Let me call her and tell her you’re awake. She’s tearing up Sheila’s house pacing and worrying. You had us skeered as cats in a dog pound.”

  She leaned over, planted an awkward smooch on my cheek, and squeezed my hand. “By the way, you get an A-plus for the final exam, kid. You rose to the top of the class.” Her voice was jaunty, but it was a false note.

  Detweiler followed on her heels. “You okay?” His blue oxford shirt was decorated with small pieces of leaves along the buttons. A smear of blood across his chest brought back a memory. He was carrying me, holding me close, and my body was limp in his arms. It hadn’t been a dream. His normally combed back-hair hung over his eyes, which were tense with concern.

  I nodded. “Okay. I’m—”

  “Shh. Your doc’s on the way. After you were stable, he gave you a shot for the pain. You were lucky. The bullet nicked you. Ballard’s a rotten shot.”

  “You get the gun?”

  “Yep. Took it off of you. It wasn’t registered.”

  “He killed Roxanne,” I croaked.

  Detweiler took a paper cup from the table beside my bed, held it to my mouth, and guided it to my lips with great concentration. Gosh, the water tasted good.

  “Yeah, he used a nine-millimeter Glock on her. That’s what we found on you. The crime scene crew is searching for casings.” Detweiler set the cup down and tried to dab my mouth where I’d dribbled.

  Watching him try so hard to be gentle and noting his awkwardness made me want to smile. He likes me, I thought to myself, he really likes me.

  “Good grief, Kiki. What were you thinking? You took on a killer by yourself.”

  “Didn’t have a choice,” I whispered. My throat was surprisingly dry. “He said Anya had broken her arm at a skating party. I drove to St. Luke’s—where am I?”

  “St. Luke’s.”

  “Back where I started.” I sniveled. I was all out of brave. “He held a gun on me and hopped in my car.” My voice cracked. Somehow it sounded worse to say it out loud than just to remember what happened.

  Tears rolled down my cheeks. I began a series of hiccupping sounds as I moved from crying to blubbering.

  Detweiler patted my forearm with an open palm, a motion like tamping down something. His eyes looked wet, and he sniffed. “Yeah. But you’re okay now, you hear? You’re safe. You left your cell phone open. I heard it all. Enough to hang him. Or it would be … except …”

  “Except?”

  “He got away.”

  “What?”

  “Looks like he got up and ran while we were helping you. Maybe had an accomplice. He’s hiding somewhere. We’re trying to track him.” Detweiler’s mouth was thin and pulled tight. And he cursed, saying stuff I’d never say. Almost never.

  “I should have shot him when I had the chance.” My lips turned down and trembled.

  Detweiler leaned close. He took my hand and opened it. He planted a kiss in the palm and folded it closed. A warm glow flooded me. I tried to smile, but every inch of me hurt.

  “No, honey,” he said. His voice was surprisingly gruff. “You shouldn’t have. You don’t need that on your conscience. Trust me.”

  A doctor hustled Detweiler away. A nurse stepped forward with a pill in a cup. I gulped water and swallowed it. The doc and nurse conferred at the foot of my bed. Slowly, the world went soft and blurry. I quit hurting. And I slept.

  ___

  “Mrs. Lowenstein, are you well enough for us to proceed?” Judge Parmenter adjusted her bifocals on the tip of her nose. All the better to stare at me.

  A bright blue sling with cheery white piping secured my bandaged shoulder. My system’s reaction to the poison oak began late Sunday. Straight railroad lines of bubbling blisters ran up and down every inch of my body. My face was a gingham pattern of hatch-marks where plants had scratched and torn at my skin. The doctor at St. Luke had pumped me full of cortisone, which made me edgy. Absent-mindedly, I dug at my blisters, making them ooze plasma and scab over.

  All in all, I did not look like a worthy candidate for parental custody.

  “Yes, ma’am. My injuries are superficial. What’s important is my daughter.”

  “Hmm.” The dark-complected woman had a smooth forehead from which sprung a frizzle of hair. She peered at me over the top of her reading glasses. “And I’m to understand you had a near miss with a killer last week. Is that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is that related to this hearing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. The judge cocked her head slightly in contemplation. I thought she must be a grandmother, because she had that look about her. I could imagine her both chastising and cuddling her offspring. Seemed she was in the perfect job. But would she empathize more with Sheila than with me?

  Detweiler stepped forward and gave a brief explanation of Bill Ballard’s behavior and attempt to kill me, while putting particular emphasis on my bravery. “Mrs. Kiki Lowenstein has been falsely accused and manipulated by those who will stop at nothing to cover up their crimes,” he added.

  The woman behind the bench stroked her chin. Her skin was the color of a Kaldi’s latte, and her hair was white as whipped cream topping. She regarded me solemnly. Slowly, like a cartoon owl, she rotated her head to stare at Sheila.

  “Mrs. Lowenstein, I want to be sure I understand. You predicated your call to Department of Social Services on the fact your daughter-in-law was incarcerated. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, and she lives in a bad neighborhood, and she—” Sheila sputtered. In her crisp navy suit, she was the picture of a solid citizen.

  Judge Parmenter waved her hand, “Thank you,” and shut Sheila up before looking over her notes again. “How long were you in jail, Mrs. Lowenstein?”

  “One night.” I was afraid to say more. I got the impression Judge Parmenter didn’t like people taking the bit and running.

  “And that was because?”

  “A woman named Linda Kovaleski perjured herself and testified she’d seen Mrs. Kiki Lowenstein leave the scene of Roxanne Baker’s murder,” Detweiler said. He was wearing a navy blazer, a white shirt, striped tie, and neatly pressed khaki pants. I looked like Indigent of the Year, Bawanna the Jungle Babe, but he exuded a crisp professionalism.

  He added, “I’d like to submit a sworn statement from Mrs. Linda Kovaleski. She’s presently out on bond, your honor.”

  Judge Parmenter took the proffered paper and read it slowly. The room was silent as we waited. “And you knew this, Mrs. Lowenstein? You knew this was a temporary situation?” The magistrate glowered at Sheila.

  “Yes … but that’s not my only reason for contacting the authorities. My grandchild is forced to live in a bad neighborhood. Their house has been broken into—”

  “Your honor,” interrupted Detweiler, “That’s also in the statement. Mrs. Kovaleski paid people to break into Mrs. Kiki Lowenstein’s home on two separate occasions.”

  “Like I said,” continued Sheila, “that’s a bad part of town, and it exposes my grandchild to unnecessary risks.”

  “Judge Parmenter, if the issue here is neighborhood safety, let me point out the city of St. Louis ranks in the top ten in the nation in crime. Does that mean we should remove every child in the city? I think not,” Bonnie Gossage said. Fresh from feeding Felix, she was on a roll.

  Judge Parmenter put up a creased palm as a stop sign. “That’s enough, counselor.” She shuffled pieces of paper from one pile to a
nother. “I’d like to hear from—”

  “May I talk?” Anya stepped forward. She was wearing a simple white blouse tucked into a knee-length black skirt. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a black-and-white polka dot ribbon. As sweet as she looked, her voice sounded strangely adult and serious. “I don’t know the rules. I don’t want to be rude, but I have something to say.” She trained big blue eyes on the woman in the black robe, as she stood with her hands clasped, her fingers wrapped tightly together.

  Poor baby, she had to be scared to death. If only we could have talked beforehand! I could have assured her everything would be all right.

  Judge Parmenter smiled, crinkling her crow’s feet at the edges of twin brown buttons. “I was just about to ask you to talk to us, young lady. My information says you are eleven. Is that right?”

  “I’ll be twelve next month. I know you might not think I’m old enough to know what’s good for me. But I think you need to know … I mean what I want to say is …” Anya turned to Sheila and slipped one hand inside her grandmother’s. “I love you, Gran, and I like staying with you.”

  My heart sank. Sheila could provide more creature comforts for Anya. Life at Sheila’s was more stable, and Sheila didn’t work. Sheila’s neighborhood was safer, and her house would be a lovely place to bring friends. I bit my lip. Whatever happened, I would continue to love my daughter whether she lived with Sheila or with me. She would always be my baby.

  Anya continued, “But the real reason you want custody of me is because you miss my daddy. I miss him, too. I hear you crying at night. Mom cries about him, too. But you had your time together while he was growing up. This is our time, Mom’s and mine. You might not like her, Gran, but she’s really pretty neat. Daddy told you that, and you wouldn’t listen. I love you, but I want to live with Mom. I want all of us to be a family. Can’t we try?”

  ___

  A half an hour later, we were celebrating.

  Sheila had taken the proceedings pretty well, all things considered. Judge Parmenter spoke kindly to her, remonstrated her for using the courtroom to solve family problems that we “clearly were qualified to solve” ourselves. The judge implied Sheila had acted on a misplaced concern for Anya’s welfare. Her thoughtful assessment let Sheila save face, even while awarding me custody of my daughter. In summary, the judge said, “I see a host of people who love this child. As she grows, she will need all of you. For her sake, try to work together.”