by Julie Frayn
The bathroom smelled like her father had just read the Sunday paper in it. The toilet looked okay from her doorway vantage point, but leaning in for closer inspection proved it was just an illusion. The autumn gold of the plastic seat was camouflage for the gold of the dried urine that lived there. Disgusting. She could survive without peeing for a while.
She brushed her teeth and eyed the sink, crusty with filth and stinking of rust. She decided to skip her nightly washing ritual. She wasn’t getting her face anywhere near that crud.
She sat on the edge of the bed and took off her jacket, rolled it into a lumpy cushion and shoved the thin pillow aside. She lay down on top of the aged bedding and rested her head on the jacket. It was a lousy replacement for the softness of her down pillow at home. The clock radio on the nightstand blinked twelve o’clock, twelve o’clock, twelve o’clock at her. She pressed buttons to set the right time, but it just kept blinking.
“Shit.” She stared at the plaster ceiling full of spider-web cracks and dark brown stains like so many puddles of chewing tobacco Grandpa used to spit on the pavement. This wasn’t at all what she’d imagined a hotel would be like, nothing like in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Then again, their farm wasn’t exactly like the one on the tape her mother bought of that dumb old show, Green Acres either. She’d figured she would get to the city and start living the glamorous life, figured the movie was a real depiction of what she would find. God, she was an idiot.
She closed her eyes and pretended to be curled up in her own bed, her mother rocking her and singing her to sleep in that off-key but comforting way. That habit had ended a few years ago around the same time she discovered boys didn’t all have cooties and it was more fun to hang out with friends than play dollies with April or stare at the stars with her parents. Tears escaped the corners of her eyes and her lower lip trembled.
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” she whispered. She hadn’t spoken that out loud since she was ten. She told her parents she was too grown up for it, but what they didn’t know was that she just said it in her head instead.
A loud demonic wail interrupted her prayer. She sat up with a start then kneeled on the bed and peered out the small window. In the alley fifteen feet below, two cats clawed at each other, screeching and howling. She glanced as far in each direction as she could through the tiny porthole. To the left was the same homeless man that had slept in the hotel entrance earlier. He was asleep again, under newspaper and next to a Dumpster, oblivious to the caterwauling just five feet away. To the right, the alley beat a dirty path to the sidewalk, glowing yellow under tall streetlamps. With her forehead pushed up against the screen she could barely glimpse the people out for the evening. They looked more like otherworldly shadows than actual human beings.
She lay back on the bed and hummed to drown out the sound of the cats, then pulled her jacket over her head, searching her memory for something comforting. A mental video of the first time June discovered the pigs played behind her closed eyelids.
Just over a year old, June had crawled through the fence of the pigpen. Her mother was trying to wean her sister from breastfeeding at the time, thanks in large part to Grandma’s objections to the whole matter. Grandma didn’t think it appropriate for Caraleen to nurse a child that age, even though it hadn’t done August or April any harm. June teetered through the muck on new walking legs, plopped down next to the sow that was feeding a newborn litter and shoved a dirty teat in her mouth. The sow just looked up and grunted, then went back to sleep. Dad had run for the camera and taken pictures before August’s mother, failing to subdue an amused smile, fetched June from the pen.
August drifted into exhausted sleep with a small grin on her face.
Angry yelling shattered the silence, shocking her to consciousness. It was so loud and close, in the initial fog of waking, she thought someone was in the room with her. She peered out the window again and down into the alley below. Two men flailed at each other with their fists. One of them kicked the other between the legs, dropping him to his knees. August slumped down onto the mattress. If she turned out the light, no one would know she was there – but then the roaches would come out to play.
A deafening pop-pop-pop cracked the night. It sounded like her old cap gun but sharper and louder. Oh, Jesus – those men were shooting at each other. Right outside her window. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
A scream split the air and running feet pounded against the pavement. Then nothing – just silence. Even the cats shut up.
She lay there for what seemed like hours, unable to close her eyes. The eerie calm was even more disconcerting than the noise. This couldn’t be what every night was like here, could it? No way, this had to be just her bad luck. Tomorrow she would find a nicer place to stay, a better neighborhood. Better people.
There was a sharp snap and pop as the hotel shifted on its foundation, settling in for the night. It sounded just like home – familiar and comforting. There, in the dead quiet of a country night, the house would crackle and creak for hours. She would imagine she was floating in some huge bowl of puffed rice cereal. It helped her drift to sleep at home, and it worked now.
Chapter 5
Caraleen returned the receiver to its cradle. Another dead end.
“Damn, damn, damn!” She slammed it down three times fast, her curses punctuating each crack of black plastic on chipped chrome. The old phone yelped little rings in protest with every impact. She’d called all the families on the school’s emergency phone tree. No one had seen August since the bus emptied before classes that morning.
“Don!” she yelled from where she stood. She stretched out her leg and hooked the toes of one foot under a kitchen chair, pulled it closer, then dropped onto the cracked vinyl seat.
Dirty dishes littered the counter, dollops of peanut butter and grape jelly dotting it where April and June had fended for themselves for their evening meal. The sandwich her daughters had made for her, cut into sloppy quarters and crusts trimmed off, sat untouched.
“Any luck?” Her husband stood in the doorway bearing the telltale signs of bath time with June – soaked to the elbows, an abstract of wet spots all over his shirt and jeans, and bubbles in his thick brown hair.
“Nothing. How can a teenage girl just disappear without someone seeing her?” She put her head in her hands and began to sob.
Don gave her one of his reassuring over-the-shoulder hugs. “We’ll find her.” He breathed a deep sigh. “We have to.”
“Let’s drive into town. If the police won’t look for her, can’t we?”
“Honey, it’s late. Everything is closed and the girls are finally settled. I’m trying not to panic them any more than they already are.” He rubbed her shoulders then ran his hands through her cropped blond hair like he did for their daughters when they needed consoling. “We’ll go to the sheriff first thing in the morning. It’ll be almost twenty-four hours by then. They’ll have to listen.” He bent back her head, leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Come on up to bed. You need some rest.”
“I’ll be up in a while.”
“All right then. Don’t be long.” Don moved toward the stairs, his gait silent but self-assured. His hands were large and callused, forearms tanned and sinewy from a lifetime of hard work. His wiry frame was clad in denim from head to toe, cleaved in the middle by a weathered brown leather belt his father had worn.
She’d had many arguments with Don these past years. Almost all of them were about raising August. All the big decisions got tested on the first born like some Parenting-For-Dummies guinea pig. But she was still head over heels for that gentle man. He could do anything – everything – with ease and grace. He’d have his hand shoved elbow deep into a cow’s uterus in the morning, then be reading story books to June and April come nightfall. They squealed with laughter when he did the voices – deep-throated ogres, British-accented charming princes, even high-pitched fairies. He was unabashedly silly if he thought it would make his daughters laugh. He was her knight in fad
ed dungarees.
Caraleen took the mug of herbal tea Don had made her hours ago and dragged her feet into the living room. She dislodged a dusty photo album from a shelf buried in videos and books and curled up on the end of the overstuffed sofa. The night air sent a chill through her. She drew a loose-knit afghan over her shoulders, the one her mother had crocheted years earlier, and sipped the cold tea.
With each worn photo, each reminder of the past, she questioned the decisions she made as a mother. She was so strict with August, so protective. To be sure her daughter avoided the errors of her own past there had to be rules. No dating. No parties. No bad movies. Caraleen sighed. No fun.
Don had other ideas. He allowed his oldest daughter, the apple of his eye, some indiscretions. This presented the biggest rift between husband and wife – makeup. As soon as August started wearing it, she changed. Her daughter matured, grew up. Or so August said. But to Caraleen, August was still just a little girl. Mascara didn’t make one worldly, didn’t make one an adult. Only living did that. But did she allow that girl to live a full life? Or just a toned down, caged in version of one? And what did it matter now? She just wanted to know where she was, wanted her to be home.
August’s beautiful, innocent face shone from the last picture in the album. It was a posed shot they had taken in town more than a decade ago. She sat on a stool, Don standing behind with one hand on Caraleen’s shoulder and one on August’s. Just four years old, August sat in Caraleen’s lap smiling to beat the band.
Her chin trembled and her chest tightened. She closed the album and hugged it to her breasts, sobbing. She sank down into the softness of the sofa and clenched her eyes shut.
She was awakened by a kiss on the cheek and opened one eye, squinting into the rising sun that sliced through the curtain.
April looked down at her, her brow knit.
“I couldn’t find you. I thought you went away. Like August.”
She pulled April into her arms and hugged her. “I’m not going anywhere. And August will be back. I promise.”
Chapter 6
The familiar purr of hunger woke August. She checked her watch, just past seven-thirty. The light bulb in the entry had burned out in the night, but the bathroom light survived.
The sliver of morning sun that shone through the little window was kind to the dingy space. What was dreary and frightening the night before had turned into just a dirty little room. Even the terror of the alley gunfight faded.
Butterflies danced in August’s stomach, and she bounced out of bed with glee, anxious to start her new and exciting life in the city, absolved of chore duty and free of her mother’s tether.
The pressure in her bladder was unbearable and had to be relieved or she wouldn’t make it down to the lobby without peeing her pants. She stacked three layers of tissue all around the seat for protection from whatever might be growing there and squatted, doing her best not to touch her bare ass to the tissued plastic. Surviving that, she eyed the bathtub with suspicion. Nope, not prepared to get naked and step in. She sniffed her armpits and nodded. Good enough. She brushed her teeth, wiped mascara flecks from under her eyes, and then combed the tangles from her hair before cramming her cap down over it. The chair creaked in relief when she lifted her backpack, then she headed to the lobby.
The same man was behind the counter, looking as if he’d slept at the desk. His comb-over from last night was now a mop of thinning curls sitting on each side of his head. He looked like August’s mother had taken two balls of spun fiberglass she used for Christmas crafts, spray painted them dirty and glued them over his ears.
August slid the room key under the bars and cleared her throat. “I’m leaving, sir.”
He looked up, grunted, and waved his hand, shooing her away. “You want a receipt?”
“Do I need one?”
“Well now, how the hell would I know?”
“No, I guess not.” She looked down at her sneakers. “’Bye then.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
She stepped into the herd of morning pedestrians, joining the flow of bodies headed away from the hotel and the bus station and anywhere else she’d already been.
How does one go about starting a new life in the city? Her stomach answered her with an angry growl – start with breakfast.
A few blocks later, the wave of humanity led her to Starbucks. Back home, Starbucks was like Sasquatch. Folks had heard of it, thanks mostly to Sara who got to go places and do things and then brag about them to her poor friends, but almost no one except the Tugmans had ever actually seen one.
Inside were more business suits than she’d seen in her lifetime. They were ten deep in line waiting for their daily fix of too much caffeine. Her mother ‘just wasn’t herself’ until she’d had her morning coffee. Always seemed the same to August, coffee or not.
She stood behind an older lady dripping in pearls. The woman’s strong, soapy perfume made August’s eyes water. She stifled a sneeze while eyeing every muffin, biscuit, and piece of cake in the baking display. Her stomach renewed its hungry protest, the growl so loud the old lady turned and looked down a bulbous nose at her.
When it was August’s turn to order she asked for the only fancy drink she’d ever heard of, cappuccino.
“Sure, what size?”
“Uh, small I guess.”
The clerk grinned at her. “You mean tall?”
“Oh.” She bit her bottom lip. “Tall,” she said with conviction, then leaned forward and whispered, “Is that small?”
“Yes, honey, it’s small. Is this your first time?”
She blushed. “Yeah. There’s no place like this in my hometown.” She hated herself the second “hometown” came out of her mouth. She must reek of country bumpkin.
“Then I’d suggest a vanilla latte. You up for that?”
“Okay, I like vanilla.” Her mouth watered. “And a blueberry muffin?”
“You got it, honey. That’s six seventy-four.”
August took her breakfast outside and sat at a table on a makeshift patio, part of the sidewalk cordoned off with a portable iron-barred fence. A steady stream of people passed by, like a long line of ants off to spend another day working themselves to their death.
She peeled the plastic lid from the paper cup and took a first tentative sip. The milk and barely-there vanilla flavor did little to mask the bitter coffee taste. She bit off a chunk of muffin, the sweet cake cleansing her tongue. She grabbed several sugar packs from a counter by the door and stirred them all into the cup before trying another sip. Better, but still nasty. Why did people pay for this stuff? She gobbled the rest of the muffin and dropped the almost full coffee cup into the trash bin, then joined the crowd filing past the patio.
Rounding a corner, she found herself at one end of a charming stretch of shops, all red brick and sandstone. She sauntered along and looked in the windows, eyed the clothes on display in one store. The loud patterned tops and low-slung pants were in sharp contrast to her farm-friendly plaid snap-front blouse and faded boot-cut, hand-me-down jeans. Too bad she didn’t have more money, she could de-hick herself.
She ambled to the next shop window and found herself face to face with Buzz Lightyear. She must have watched Toy Story a hundred times. The video store window was busy with so many movie posters, some in frames with little marquis-like lights flashing for attention. And on the door, a help wanted sign. Her stomach fluttered. She pulled out her remaining cash and did a quick count – less than fifteen bucks, not even enough for one night in that crappy hotel. She swallowed a rush of panic that rose up in her throat. It was time to be the big girl she kept insisting she was, damn it. Time to get a real job.
Bells chimed her presence as she slipped into the store. She glanced at the guy behind the counter.
He jerked his head up and grinned at her. “Hey! How’s it going?”
She smiled without answering and walked down an aisle filled with family-friendly movies to compose herself. The guy looke
d decent, clean-cut and dressed well enough, but a large ring through his nose and the lower half of a skull tattoo peeking out from under his short shirtsleeve made her hesitate. That, and she’d never had a job before – not a paying one – and didn’t know how to ask for it.
The movies made her think of her sisters and she touched the special ones with one finger. The Lion King, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast. Even Dumbo, April’s favorite. August would hide under her blanket through most of it – the crows, the fire, pink elephants on parade, the clowns – it all scared the shit out of her. Her little sister, six years younger and afraid of nothing, tugged the blanket off and called her a scaredy cat.
The next aisle was full of porn, right there, across from the cartoons. What kind of place was this? At least in Hubble Falls the sex was behind closed doors. She picked up one of the DVDs, read the cover, looked at the pictures and then put it back, a familiar guilt creeping in. It took her back to one two summers ago when she was helping her mother with the laundry. She’d opened her father’s night table where his socks should be and found a dirty magazine. She shoved in all the socks, covering the near naked women on the cover, shocked her father even owned such a thing. When her parents were at Sara’s house playing bridge with Mr. and Mrs. Tugman that night, she sat on their bed and flipped through it. As she turned pages, her belly tightened and her underwear got wet. She crammed the magazine back under the socks. She had run to her bedroom, grabbed a huge stuffed bear and lay on her bed, hugging him tight. She just left her father’s socks on the bed after that.
She peered over the video shelf then glanced side to side, her cheeks burning and her heart beating fast. She breathed a sigh of relief. No one had seen her looking at the movie. Hell, no one was in the store at all.