Iphigenia Murphy

by Sara Hosey

  I stood, frozen. Angel looked at me, looked at the car, and let out a low growl. I didn’t know what to do. Take off, run into the woods? Would they chase me? Would that just make things worse?

  I didn’t have time to even decide. They were out of the car, their belts all loaded down and jingling and squeaking as they sauntered, the male cop walking around the side, the female getting out and crouching down, her hand out to Angel.

  “I love a pit,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “What’cha doing?” the male cop said, resting his hands on his heavy belt, on which hung a walkie-talkie. Static and voices burst out.

  I looked at him.

  “You speak English?”

  I nodded. The radio in their squad car crackled, a woman’s voice called out numbers. I looked past them, seeing the people driving by turning their heads, watching us on the sidewalk. People in cars think you can’t see them back, I realized. I had always almost-known that, but it was so obvious suddenly. They think they can just watch you and not be seen. A blond woman in red shades gaped out the passenger window of a Jeep. I scowled back at her and she looked away.

  “I asked you what you were doing,” the male cop said again, this time a little more severely. Angel had tentatively approached the other cop and sniffed her fingers.

  The female cop was almost a girl cop, she looked so young. She was dark-skinned and lean and probably just a few years out of high school, if I had to guess. I wondered if her partner felt lucky to be paired with her. He was almost-cute too: a kind-of-stocky, pale-skinned dude. It made me feel like I was on a hidden camera show or something.

  “We’re not trying to jam you up.” She said it like she was talking to Angel, not to me. “Just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

  I looked at her, then at the guy. He was frowning.

  “I was just, you know, trying to get some cash,” I spit out. I was working real hard not to cry for some reason. My throat was tight and my face hot. I needed to hold it together.

  My mind was racing. I was scared and cornered and I just wanted to get out of there, but they also seemed not completely unkind. But then again, on the other hand, it was like, are you kidding me, you can’t trust the cops even if they aren’t gonna mess with you—you know what their first call will be? Social services, social services, social services. And what about Angel? The kill shelter for sure. And big black pit mixes do great at the pound. Probably about as good as small fifteen-year-old girls in group homes.

  “You homeless?” the male cop cut to the chase.

  “No,” I said quickly. “I was just looking to get some cash. Go to McDonald’s or something.”

  “That is neither safe nor legal. You on drugs?”

  “No, sir—”

  “You working for someone?” he followed up, interrupting me.

  “No, sir,” I said, looking him in the eye so he would know I was telling the truth.

  “If you’re hungry,” the woman said, now scratching Angel’s ears, still talking to the dog’s face, “we can help you out, you know, get you somewhere safe.” I wondered if she expected Angel to answer her.

  “No, I’m fine. We’re fine. I’m just gonna go home now. Thanks. Or sorry. Or whatever. Can I go now?”

  The cops looked at each other; the woman stood. Angel put her paw on the cop’s foot. The woman smiled at her.

  “You can go,” the man said. He turned away and spoke into the walkie-talkie before turning back and saying, “You can go, but I don’t want to see you hanging out over there again. Or else we’ll pick you up. Find out who you are.” He looked right at me, and I dropped my eyes and looked at the ground.

  It was like he had punched me in the stomach. “Okay,” I said into the ground. “Okay.” And I started to back away, pulling Angel along with me. She wanted to stay, get some more scratches behind her floppy ears. “Come on,” I said softly to her.

  I turned to go and I heard the guy cop say under his breath something and then “garbage” and then the lady cop made a sound like “awww,” but also almost laughing too, like when a boy makes a mean joke or a racist joke and the girls around him want him to know they think it’s funny but that they’re too nice to make jokes like that themselves.

  Awww, she’d said.

  My heart was racing.

  Garbage, he’d said.

  I went along the perimeter of the park before, suddenly, without warning Angel, I turned and dove into the trees. The cops weren’t still watching me, I didn’t think, but even if they were, I didn’t care. What did they even stop me for anyway? Just to put on a show for the people driving by?

  I recognized my own ambivalence, my own desire to escape notice and be left alone at the same time that I was perpetually awed by the fact that no one, no one at all, seemed to care that I was technically a child, living alone, in a city park. Was I lucky or unlucky? I wasn’t even sure.

  I jogged a little way, Angel behind me, before I slowed to walking. We walked and walked through the woods. I needed to get my head clear.

  Near one of the big trails I saw a mound of clothes. I knew it was a person and I thought of the cop’s word, “garbage.” It did look like garbage. Is that how I looked too?

  I started to cut left, to give a wide berth, but the mound sat up. “Hey, mami,” it called.

  I was about to start running, but when I looked over I realized it was Danny, the guy who’d been hanging around with that creep with the knife.

  I stayed where I was, not running away, but not coming closer either.

  Danny pulled himself up and wiped a dirty hand over his face. “Just sleeping,” he explained. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them. “You find your lady yet?”

  I took a step closer, Angel at my side still.

  “No.”

  Danny smiled, suddenly remembering something. “I heard you had a run-in with Ian,” he said. “Don’t worry, I ain’t like him. You can come over here.”

  He reached out and picked up a bottle from under a towel near his feet and took a swig. I took a moment to survey his squalid camp, clothes and towels like a dirty little nest. Scattered around were beer bottles and green plastic soda bottles, cigarette butts, a broken umbrella perched like a shelter. I was repulsed and afraid. Garbage, I thought again.

  I took one more step closer. I didn’t trust Danny, but I wasn’t afraid of him either. In the shady daylight I realized he looked a lot worse than when I’d first met him a few weeks before. Now he looked pale and sick. He didn’t look like he’d be strong enough to try and grab me, to chase me.

  “Ian. Is that that pervert you hang out with?”

  “He’s not that bad,” Danny chuckled. Then, “Well, actually, he is. Good for you. He totally deserved it.”

  “He still in the park?”

  “Nah. He got picked up for smoking dope and I don’t think he’ll be back soon. He said there was some warrant out for him in Pennsylvania, so you’re safe for now. From him, at least.” He took another drink from the bottle. “You don’t have no cigarettes, do you?”

  I shook my head, no.

  “You don’t learn, do you? Listen, I was thinking. You know, give me that photo. I’ll show it to the people I know. And next time you see me, you better have a pack of cigarettes for me. I prefer Newports, menthols, but whatever, I’ll take anything.”

  I considered him for a minute. I hated to part with one of my only pictures. But it seemed possible that this person might actually be able to help me, might actually be true to his word.

  “Why are you helping me?” I asked, trying to sound tough.

  Danny smiled. “’Cause you’re sexy.”

  I guess my face must have turned ashen. I was about to walk away when he said, more gently, “Hey, girl, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just kidding aro
und.”

  His face looked earnest, apologetic.

  He held out his hand. “Gimme the photo. Don’t sweat it. I’m just a nice guy is all.”

  I deliberated a moment and then took the picture out of my back pocket and approached him. “You sick?” I asked, as I put the photo in his hand.

  He answered with a phlegmy cough and spat on the ground. “Believe me, I been worse.”

  I couldn’t help but look at the yellow mucus in the dirt. My stomach churned and I thought I might throw up.

  I turned to go. “Thanks,” I choked out.

  “Don’t forget the Newports,” he called after me.

  I’d wanted to bring up Dougie, the guy the pimp had told me about, but I couldn’t look at Danny for a moment longer.

  Back at my campsite, I got out some baby wipes and started scrubbing my hands. It was because I just didn’t want to get sick, I assured myself, as I almost frantically rubbed. Getting sick, that could be game over.

  Chapter 12

  I had been only vaguely aware of the date. But that night people all over the park were setting off fireworks like crazy—more than the sporadic fireworks that happened on the nights leading up to it—so it must have been the Fourth of July. Independence Day.

  At Victory Field, a big track near Woodhaven Boulevard, I sat on a bench—with Angel cowering underneath—and watched. When I was little, I loved fireworks. Now, I felt more like Angel. They had me skittish, uneasy.

  But we stayed up late anyway, waiting until some of the noise died down and the people had left. Then, like the most bold squirrels, we crept toward the overflowing trash cans and picked out what, for us, was the least offensive: a full bag of potato chips, a hot dog for Angel, and a turkey sandwich, still wrapped up but with one bite taken out of it, for me.

  Then we walked back to my site, set up the tent, and climbed in. My stomach felt sick and I regretted the turkey sandwich. After a while I felt okay enough to lie down on my side on the mat in my sleeping bag, one arm out and wrapped around Angel, who was also on her side. It was warm and nice, actually. But whenever I started to drift off, a pop or screech or rat-tat-tat would explode too close, and both Angel and I would sit up. When I put my hand on her chest, I could feel her heart racing. Mine was too.

  I guess they must have stopped at some point, because I dreamed that my mother found me, came into my tent, and lay down beside me. When I reached out to her, the walls of the tent receded and she was terrifyingly, urgently, painfully, beyond my reach. I woke up with my heart still pounding and tears in my eyes.

  I heard the crickets and felt Angel. Even though it wasn’t a good dream, I wanted to get back to it and I kept chasing it in my mind.

  I was aware of myself, of my loneliness.

  But it wasn’t so bad, I thought. It wasn’t as bad as being at home.

  Sure, most of the time I was hungry, and I was itchy and I was scared. But that wasn’t so different from the way things were back when I lived in the apartment, except for the itchy part. Most of the time in the park I felt okay, and for real, that was a change from how I used to be. In the park, I went to sleep at night, Angel against my back or curled up in the curve of my bent legs, and I wasn’t afraid anymore—I wasn’t afraid of snakes or raccoons or even knife-wielding psychos. Angel wouldn’t let anybody get too close to me.

  And I didn’t have to dread going to school and having someone make fun of me, sticking their half-eaten hamburger in my backpack when I wasn’t looking as a joke about charity or how trashy I looked or whatever it was they were trying to prove. Or snickering when I came in late to class, or when I wore the same old ratty T-shirt day after day, or when I got called on and it was as though someone had dumped cold water on my head, ’cause I never knew the answer and most of the time I was unsure of the question. And, in the park, I wasn’t afraid of my stepmother getting pissed and kicking my ass ’cause I made too much noise coming in after school and woke her up or I left some of my hair in the shower drain. Or of being hungry ’cause I ran out of money and the only food in the kitchen belonged to her and she didn’t want anybody else eating it. And, for once in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of the front door opening, the light from the hallway falling on my face, and then my stepbrother sitting on edge of the couch. “Wake up. Come here, I need to talk to you in my room.”

  So, there were bad things in the park, but I didn’t have to be afraid of any of those other things anymore.

  And I was proud, too, about what I had accomplished. I had made it work, and I was getting better at it every day.

  I wasn’t garbage. I was just in the park temporarily … until I found my mother.

  I knew, from television, from health class, from just not being a complete moron, that it would probably have been a good idea for me to talk to someone. To tell someone about the things that had happened to me, what my stepbrother had done. But who? I didn’t know how to begin. I didn’t have the words. Or I did have the words, but I didn’t know how to use them.

  And who would I tell anyway? I was alone, for real. Just me and Angel. I was a little worried that I might be getting weirder and weirder. Too much like myself, too little like other people—to the point that I’d never be able to, like, rejoin society again.

  But that wasn’t even the biggest thing. The biggest thing was that I knew it couldn’t last forever. That there was a clock, maybe more than one clock, and those clocks were ticking. If it took too long to find her, I would run out of time. Fourth of July. Independence Day. Had I really been in the park for over a month? There was something nibbling at the corner of my mind, but I couldn’t look at it straight on yet.

  And what if my stepbrother showed up after all? I kept telling myself I hadn’t left a trail, that he wouldn’t even think of Forest Park. But for a stupid guy, he could be pretty smart, pretty resourceful. I didn’t doubt that if he wanted to, he’d hunt me down. I had to just hope that Oscar had taken care of him or that the police had, that he was either too messed up or too incarcerated to come after me. I just had to hope.

  If I could stay alive, stay away from the rapists and weirdos and assholes for just a little bit longer, maybe it would all be okay.

  But just when I’d reassure myself, there was that worry again, the worry I was trying not to acknowledge, like when you’re on the train and some pervert is staring at you and you keep your eyes down and figure if you just ignore him maybe he’ll go away, but then he takes a seat even closer, and you know he’s there and in your periphery; you can see him staring at you. You know not looking doesn’t make him go away, maybe even makes it worse. You know this, but still.

  Maybe if I found my mother she could help. I just had to focus on finding her and then I could worry about the other stuff.

  The next day, early, me and Angel were sitting in a little clearing, listening to classic rock on a handheld transistor radio I’d found and bought new batteries for. The trees around us were lush and green, the park alive with birds singing and the breeze in the leaves and the insects humming.

  I didn’t know the song that was playing and I’d thought to myself that I had to remember to pay attention, to hear who it was, when there was a break between songs. I’m always meaning to do that and I always miss it, my attention wanders, and I never find out who was singing.

  So, the singer was singing and I was waiting. I slapped a mosquito on my forearm; I mused whether the smeared blood was my own or its last victim’s. Then all of a sudden, this guy came up to us, through the woods. It wasn’t so strange to see a person—we were hanging near one of the hiking trails and people walked or jogged by occasionally—but this guy was walking directly toward us. It was almost like he knew us or was looking for us. But we didn’t know him.

  I picked up the radio, called Angel to my side.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling.

  I stood up and sort of smiled back, for s
ome stupid reason. I hadn’t gotten politeness out of my system yet, I guess.

  “What kind of dog is that?” he asked. He was a white guy, blondish hair. He was wearing a wifebeater and his arms were muscular and covered with ugly, smeared tats.

  “Mutt,” I said to the ground.

  “Cool.” He took another step closer. “Stupid tail, though.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Cut that tail off,” he said, to no one in particular.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, gimme your dog,” he said, now holding out his hand, like I was gonna give him the leash or something.

  “What?”

  “I said I want that dog.” I looked away, but he didn’t. He took another step toward us.

  “Leave us alone.” I started to back away. I could feel my pulse pounding in my head, the way it did when I bashed the beans at that guy’s head. Angel was standing next to me, kinda crouched. She knew something was wrong too; she let out a low growl.

  “Come here, doggie,” he said.

  “My dog will bite you if you touch her,” I warned.

  “I’ll have to beat that out of her,” he said, taking long, fast strides toward us, reaching one hand toward Angel’s neck.

  She didn’t bite him, but instead feinted slightly and then dodged. He made to kick her and she dodged again, just avoiding his foot, and he lost his balance. It was almost comical, the way he swiveled and fell right down on his backside.

  “Angel!” I shouted and took off running, only looking behind me to make sure she was coming too. She was. She was doing laps around me. We just ran and ran, blindly, ’til we got to a big, populated trail. I knew it was a risk to be on the main path, that we might run into the guy again, but I figured he might not try anything with other people around.