Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  I thought back to the night before. Brenna had been home for hours before we went to bed, and I hadn’t heard a car running or leaving the house. No doors opening or closing. But we’d been … occupied. I wouldn’t have noticed if a herd of cattle came racing through last night. Afterward, both of us fell into a deep sleep. “Call her friends?”

  She shrugged. “I guess. I was going to take her shopping after church. Where is she?”

  “Careless,” I said. “Maybe she shouldn’t have the car after all.”

  “I don’t know, Cole. I’m so frustrated with her!”

  “Let’s give it a little while and try her again. I’m sure she’s at a friend’s sleeping in,” I said.

  I sat back to finish my coffee and read the paper, but concentration eluded me.

  What I didn’t know was my daughter was already gone: out of the house, out of town, out of our lives.

  Part One

  Two Years Later

  One

  Cole

  Two years later and a thousand miles away, I sat in an insignificant office, looking out through the one-way mirror. My paperwork was complete, and I’d been stalling for over fifteen minutes. I wasn’t ready to go home yet.

  I rose and double-checked the padlocks on the safe and switched out the light. My office was two feet wide and four feet deep and had sufficient room for one person at a time. I closed the steel door with a crash and padlocked it.

  I glanced around the back room. Prep sinks were clean, everything tidy. Storage room locked. I put a plastic loop through the bolt of the back door and secured it. The staff couldn’t open it without splitting the loop.

  Out front, customers occupied three booths and several seats at the high counter. The restaurant would be slow all night. My eyes scanned the room. For a thirty-year-old restaurant that never closed, the place was clean.

  I never imagined I’d end up doing this for a living, but landing a job as an IT executive with no college degree and a felony conviction can be … a challenge.

  When I’d given up hope, my oldest friend, Jeremiah Walker, hooked me up with Waffle House—a job I’d sneered at when he took it long ago. During the years I’d worked for a flashy technology company, he’d been working his way up. While I ran up hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt, he’d paced himself, paid off his house and student loans, and became wealthy. And then he reached out and rescued me.

  And here I stood, inspecting the dining room with a critical eye. I hated it when the restaurant was dirty.

  Linda Poole, the cook, stood at the grill humming to herself as she prepared an omelet. She had a strong accent from somewhere far up North, and I couldn’t tell if that helped or hurt in her dealings with the folks around here—some customers thought her accent was charming. Others were hostile to anybody originating north of the Confederacy.

  Dakota said, “You getting out of here, boss? It’s late.” At seventeen, she ought to have been in school, but she had a one-year-old daughter to feed.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

  Linda replied, “Is that a threat?”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, Linda. Do me a favor, make sure we’ve got at least five pots of grits for the morning? Going to be busy tomorrow.”

  “Will do.” She flipped the omelet a foot in the air above the pan and caught it neatly. She went to lift two slices of toast out of the toaster with her bare hands, and I raised my eyebrows. “Gloves, Linda. Gloves. Please.”

  She flushed. “Sorry, Cole. Trying to remember. And … Cole? Can I ask you a question?”

  I stopped and raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

  She looked down at the floor, then said, “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier, I’d misplaced my appointment slip. My daughter’s got a doctor’s appointment in the morning. Do you mind if I take off an hour early?”

  I sighed. Linda leaving an hour early meant I had to come back in an hour early, which meant losing an hour of already short sleep.

  Still. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just let me know a little further in advance next time, okay?”

  She brightened. “Thanks, Cole.”

  Mary Anne, the other waitress, yelled in an order and Linda started cooking. I walked out into the customer area, took one last look around, then said, “All right, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

  Outside the restaurant, the sweltering air draped over me. Sticky heat washed up from the asphalt, the smell of tar thick in my nose. I heard traffic and the buzzing of insects. I stooped to pick up cigarette butts from near the front door, then carried them around the side of the building to the dumpster. In back, I sat in my tiny 2003 Hyundai Accent, distinguished only by the fact that it was the cheapest car on the lot after I took in my almost-new BMW 535i and returned it to the dealership. BMW was still chasing me for payments on a car I no longer owned, but Erin’s Mercedes minivan was paid for, so we’d managed to hold on to that. It still hurt to be driving a vehicle that cost less than my laptop.

  I didn’t start the car right away, instead breathing, trying to calm the tightness in my chest. I always felt a tight pinch of anxiety when getting ready to go home. Sam would be doing God knows what, locked in his room on his computer, and Erin ... I had no idea what she would be doing. I never knew anymore.

  No point in sitting here feeling sorry for myself. I started the car, backed out of the parking space, and turned out of the parking lot. I didn’t, however, turn left out of the parking lot to go home. Instead, I turned on the radio and drove north, into Anniston.

  I drove without destination, eyes scanning the traffic, music turned up loud enough to make it difficult to think. My route took me past Fort McClellan; a wide circle that brought me back toward Oxford after thirty minutes. As I approached Oxford, I pulled over.

  I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and pictured my daughter. In my vision, her braided hair hung down over the blue sundress my mother had sewn for her. Her eighth birthday, and the smile on her face as she ran with a mob of little girls was innocent and heartbreaking. Erin had organized a party for her at the neighborhood pool, a full production with games, gift bags for the twenty kids who attended, a clown and other entertainment. She was a popular kid, full of smiles, and always ready with a kind word for other children.

  Why did we have to lose her?

  Time to go home. I had to be back at the restaurant at six in the morning and wasn’t getting any sleep sitting here.

  I put the car back in gear and drove into the dark.

  Sam: Now

  I stood at the bus stop on the first day of school, arms crossed over my chest, looking at the ground. I was trying my best not to shake, not to freak out or do anything to draw attention to myself. Three other teenagers waited for the bus, a boy and two girls, and I stood a bit behind them. They knew each other, obvious because of the easy banter between them, and the fact that we were in rural Alabama and they’d all known each other since first grade. I wore jeans and a too-big sweatshirt, and even though it was close to ninety degrees, I kept the hood of my sweatshirt up.

  For the past few months we’d lived on this small street. Beyond the houses were fields. Cows grazed in the closest field, and throughout the summer, whenever the wind blew in the right direction, I could smell the stink from the field. In the distance, rolling, tree-covered hills towered over the fields like chaperones at an elementary school dance.

  Mom pushed me all summer to get outside. Go meet people. Make friends. Like that was a possibility. I’d never been much in the making friends department, especially after Brenna vanished. But now? Here? Friends? Seriously? The fear was so palpable I wanted to hurl. The bullies and assholes would see right through me and make me their target. Again.

  In the distance, the straining, high-pitched sound of the school bus approached on the road across the fields to the south. The others at the bus stop stirred, and one of the girls looked over her shoulder at me, with a look that carried a mi
x of curiosity and contempt. Our eyes met for the barest of seconds, and I looked away and swallowed.

  It would be nice to have a friend.

  The bus showed up, almost full. I began to shake. I kept my arms crossed over my chest and inched my way toward the bus, following the two girls and the boy onto the bus.

  The other three headed for the first open row, but the bus driver stopped me.

  “Stop. You new?”

  I nodded, trying to get a grip on my shaking.

  “What’s yer name?”

  “Sam,” I whispered.

  “Speak up.”

  “Sam.” A little louder.

  “All right, Sam. You won’t know none-a-this cause you’re new, but you fill in the next open seat as you get on the bus, startin’ from front to back. No fighting, no yelling, no bullying. Ya hear?”

  I nodded.

  “Where’d you learn your manners?”

  I coughed, and said, “Yes.”

  Without turning away from me, he said in a loud, but conversational tone, “Children, how do you respond to your elders?”

  In a loud shout, most of the kids in the first four rows shouted, “Yes, sir!”

  I froze, unable to breathe, my stomach twisting so hard I needed to run for the bathroom, or home, or anywhere but here. I wanted to be invisible. Instead, the bus driver had called me out in front of everyone on the bus. Shaking so hard I could feel the fear all the way to my toes, I said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Go take yer seat, Sam.”

  I nodded, trying to stop myself from hyperventilating. Then, as his face shifted to irritation, I said, “Yes, sir.”

  After I spoke, he looked away and put the bus in gear.

  The yes, sir routine reminded me of Grandpa. Not Mom’s dad, but Dad’s. He was a Marine, a stocky, red-faced man who kept his white hair cropped short and always looked ready to strap on combat gear and wade into battle. Brenna loved Grandpa and used to be really close to him. I loved him too, of course, but we’ve never been close, and I hadn’t even seen Grandpa since the Christmas Dad was in jail.

  I made my way between the rows of seats. The first open seat was about fifteen rows back. I made it past the first three before I heard someone mutter, “Freak.”

  Hair hanging in my face, I watched my feet to make sure no one tried to trip me and slid into the seat next to the boy from the bus stop.

  “Don’t mind Mr. Elliot. He’s kind of a dick.” The statement came from the boy sitting next to me. The two girls from our stop sat across the aisle.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  “I’m Billy,” he said.

  “Sam,” I replied.

  “Y’all just moved on Hubbard Lane, right? Few months ago?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “How come I ain’t never seen you?”

  “I don’t get outside much.”

  “You got any brothers or sisters?”

  The question froze me. Everyone at Fairfax High knew Brenna had disappeared. It had given me a few months of reprieve from bullying, a legacy I’m sure Brenna hadn’t calculated on. Somehow, in the two years she’d been gone, no one had asked me this question. Now, alone in a strange place, I didn’t know how to answer. If I said yes, it would lead to questions. Where was my sister? Was she going to school? If I answered, that would lead to even more questions, more visibility, more everything.

  “No,” I said.

  “How come y’all moved to Oxford?”

  “My, uh, Dad, he’s managing the Waffle House.”

  “Oh yeah? You get any free coupons or anything?”

  “I guess. I never asked.”

  The bus stopped at a crowded corner. As the new kids filed on to get in the seats behind me, one of them said, “Hey Billy, who’s the freak?”

  Two rows up from me, several of the girls, all of them dressed more or less alike, burst into laughter. One, a raven-haired girl who wore a blue halter, caught my eye. She wore too much makeup … the foundation and blush caked on, lashes clumped together. Without the makeup, she’d have been beautiful: the kind of beauty I wanted to touch.

  I tried to look away and couldn’t.

  Then she called out, “What are you looking at, freak? Cody!”

  Next to me, Billy said, “Jesus, Sam, what are you doing?”

  I blinked and looked away from the girl. “Sorry.”

  But I was too late. A hulking kid, six feet tall, stood and moved down the aisle.

  “You bothering my girlfriend? You some kinda perv?”

  “Sorry!”

  Fear twisted in my stomach. Jake Fennel all over again, but twice as big. He stared at me with undisguised disgust, and said, “You ever look at my girlfriend again, you’ll die.”

  I swallowed and squeaked out, “I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t.”

  “Faggot.” He turned around and started to swagger back up the aisle. I breathed a sigh of relief, but I was premature, because the moment I relaxed he spun around again, swinging a fist. I didn’t have time to raise my arms, or react, or do anything before his fist hit my left ear. The hit was sudden, a shock, and set my ear ringing. My eyes watered, and I wanted to curl up and die. He hadn’t hit hard enough to hurt … just to humiliate. He gave a short contemptuous laugh then walked back up the aisle away from me.

  The bus driver didn’t say a word.

  “Helpful hint,” Billy said. “Don’t mess with the populars. They’ll make your life miserable.”

  Like it wasn’t already. “I wish they’d just leave me alone,” I said.

  Billy gave a sound of disgust and shook his head. “That’s Cody Hendricks. And he’ll leave you alone as soon as he finds someone else to mess with.”

  I filed away the name for future reference. Cody Hendricks. Would Cody be my reason to want to die?

  I’ve never been popular. I had two friends in middle school, but as high school started they drifted away, and for the first few weeks of high school, Brenna was the only protection I had. And then she was gone. I was out of school the first couple days after she went missing, but when I went back on Wednesday, a bubble of empathy surrounded me. Her picture had been in the news and everyone at school knew she’d disappeared.

  The bubble disappeared just like she had. By sophomore year I became a target for the bullies again. It didn’t help that by that time, Dad had been in jail and lost his job. Everything in our life had changed. Everything.

  My parents were so numb they didn’t even notice the day I came home bloody and bruised from a run-in with Jake Fennel. I kept a low profile through the rest of sophomore year. We didn’t have the money for me to participate in any clubs or other activities in school, so I kept my head down, rode the bus to and from school, and hoped for the best.

  Then Dad found a job. In Alabama. My parents had long since stopped making mortgage payments, and we got thrown out of the old house, so they rented the dump we’re living in now. All summer long, I’d been dreading the day school started. Terror in the pit of my stomach, nightmares, shaking fits. Because I wasn’t like other kids.

  When the bus arrived at the school, I watched in numb silence as the crowds of teenagers headed toward the entrance. They were all there, masses of them, jocks and cheerleaders and druggies and geeks and no one like me.

  I made it off the bus with no further mishaps and edged my way through the crowd of laughing and yelling. I kept my arms wrapped around me, my backpack on my back, hair in my face. At the entrance I scanned my schedule. Homeroom, then gym.

  A fresh wave of anxiety hit me. I’d managed to get out of taking gym when we lived in Virginia. I didn’t think I’d get away with that here.

  The school was huge, mazelike. I was supposed to go to room 204, but it wasn’t at the end of the 200 hall. “Do you know where 204 is?” I asked a boy who walked by me like I wasn’t there.

  “Get to homeroom, young man,” a teacher called out. Her voice echoed in the now empty hall.

  “204?�
� I asked, waving my schedule. She pointed down the hall. I ran.

  When I walked into homeroom ten minutes late, everyone looked up. Too stupid to make it to class on time.

  I tried to just slink into the class without anyone noticing, but that was impossible. I was halfway to the back when the teacher, a gaunt old woman with skin almost as grey as her hair, called out, “You there. What’s your name?”

  I turned around, and quietly said, “Sam Roberts.”

  “Speak up, I can’t hear you. Come here.”

  I said my name, louder this time, and approached the desk. The woman peered at me over the top of thick bifocal glasses. I would have pegged her age at approaching seventy.

  “I couldn’t hear you back there. Are you sure this is the right homeroom? What was your name again?”

  Someone had written the room number on the whiteboard underneath the name Mrs. Givens. I double-checked it against my schedule and gave her my name for the third time.

  She frowned. “Oh, there you are. Sam Roberts. Well, you don’t look like a junior.”

  Behind me, muffled laughter. Heat rose on my neck, my face. I didn’t want to turn around, to see them looking at me, pointing, wondering who I was and why I was new around here. I didn’t want them noticing the gaping hole where my sister used to be. I didn’t want them to notice the gaping hole where I used to be.

  When Mrs. Givens let me go, I kept my eyes on the floor as I turned and walked to a seat in the back row. I wanted to cry. To be alone. To go home.

  I’d been afraid before. But not like this. The dread that filled my body was worse than anything I’d ever experienced before. My cheeks were numb and my lips were rubber, and I struggled to hold my breath together, to keep from crying.

  Mrs. Givens talked for several minutes in front of the class. Joining clubs. The Bible Club met on Monday, the Conservative Club on Tuesday, the Intelligent Design Club on Wednesday, Sons of Confederate Veterans on Thursday, and Football on Friday. Okay. Maybe I exaggerated. But the Bible Club did meet on Monday. This was a very different world than suburban Washington, DC.