by Traci Finlay
“This is insane!” I shout in a whisper. “How is he doing this now? He’s the only person I’ve known my whole life who’s been consistent and trustworthy. I trust him with my life.”
“Don’t say that. You need to leave. Get away from him. He’s not getting better. I mean, he hasn’t exactly improved since … you know what I’m talking about, right?”
I, knowing exactly what she’s talking about, shake my head. “But he had been getting better. That’s why I don’t understand this.”
Dana stares at me, concocting a different approach, like an impatient teacher who can’t explain fractions to a kid who hates math. “Okay, let’s look back at everything that’s happened, and look for any correlations. Connect the dots, okay? Jason, Eddie, Ashley, Melissa … Trevor.”
“Don’t.”
“Charlotte, you know what he did to me. Whether you want to admit it or not.”
I close my eyes, as if hindering my sight would somehow limit my hearing, as well.
“I know this is hard to hear, but you need to face the facts about Ian. I mean, our high school administrator is in jail for a reason, and I think Ian is worse than he is.”
My eyes pop open. “Don’t involve my dad, Dana. Ian is nothing like our father! And he’s nothing like our mother! Ian’s never done anything worthy of prison, regardless of what you think happened between the two of you.” I’m coming up from my seat like a charmed snake emerging from a basket.
Dana puts her hands on my shoulders, trying to sit me down. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. That’s not what I meant!” she whispers.
“Ian had the same upbringing as me, the same tragedies as me, so for you to say Ian’s a murderer because my dad’s a murderer is really messed up! I must be a murderer, too, then.” I shove Dana’s hands off and storm down the stairs, the audience now voicing its disapproval, to which I reply, “Shut up or I’ll kill you, according to Dana.”
I fling myself back out into the setting sun, the remaining rays conjuring steam from my sweat glands. Dana’s a fool. This is all because Ian dumped her and she’s bitter. She always has to be the victim—anyone who breaks up with her must have issues large enough to put them in prison, apparently. I wish they never dated. They made a joke of a couple, anyway.
I storm past Archie’s Diner, the smell of French fries and baked goods awakening my neglected stomach and further infuriating me. This is dumb, this whole thing. I’m going home and making a stupid grilled cheese sandwich, and if Ian wants frosting on his cake, he better just back off and settle the hell down. I also want my phone so I can block Dana even harder. I stomp uphill past the Victorian homes, heading for the eastern outskirts of town.
But as evening devours any last bits of dusk, my sneakers skid to a stop at the end of my driveway. Second thoughts loom in my mind as I stare at the log Cape Cod with its windows shooting warm beams of vanilla onto the moonlit yard. Shaking it off, I shuffle down the driveway and onto the porch, skipping over the broken plank in the second step and ducking under the remainder of my mother’s birdfeeder. Everything is silent. My heart gurgles as I linger on the porch, listening for any movement inside.
I sigh as I grasp the doorknob and shove. The door slams into the wall as I enter the house. “Ian?” My footsteps tap loudly through the stillness as I near Razzle Dazzle. “Ian?” I repeat. Nothing.
I head for the kitchen and have no sooner taken two steps when Ian bursts from the kitchen doorway wielding an axe.
I scream.
I dive behind the couch as Ian plows through Razzle Dazzle and the coffee table, swinging like a lunatic and blowing a lamp off a table, a vase off a shelf, and delivering a nasty chop to a potted plant.
Each duck and every step make the front door less attainable. I slip on a rug, and the axe slams two inches from my left ankle. I scream again and roll out of the way as Ian begins swinging horizontally. I finally make it to the back door and leap through the screen, tearing for the woodlands behind the house. I glance over my shoulder and see Ian standing in the doorway, watching me run while he cradles the axe with both hands.
What. The. Fuck.
I don’t stop. For all I know, this might be another one of his sadistically generous head starts. He might be reciting the third line of the script right this second, only this time with his trusty little sidekick in tow. And just as I’m thinking it, I hear his voice carrying through the atmosphere: Ten…
This is it; this is happening. I’m literally running for my life, and I’ve no idea where to go. I only know that I have to go far. I have to leave Cadillac. Stat. And I’ll be damned if it’s with the clothes on my back and the piss running down my thigh.
Nine.
I can’t cry, I don’t have time. If I address my emotions, they’ll cripple me. Switching to autopilot, I run what I know to be northeast, heading for Lake City—a small town just off 66. For now. Not for long. I ran from Ian for years, and never once did he not find me. True, Burken was strictly limited to the outskirts of Cadillac, but Ian has nasty clairvoyance, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can find me, even outside the confines of our little city. The weight of this solemn truth creeps into me and pumps my adrenaline as I rocket toward Lake City. I’m crying now.
Eight…
We used to be the perfect Catholic family. We never missed a Sunday Mass growing up. I remember the smell of incense hitting my nose upon entering the vestibule, either stuck to Ian’s hip or high on my dad’s forearm. Whether bundled in my pink fluffy snowsuit or wearing matching sundresses with my mother, I was always greeted with a handshake from one of Daddy’s friends and organ music blaring mournfully from the sanctuary.
I’d walk into a bright yellow classroom with Noah’s arks and rainbows hanging from the ceiling, the smell of glue, crayons, and animal crackers alluring. Sister Anne would smile and say with a soft, southern accent, “Well hi there, li’l Charlotte! Good mornin’ sweetheart!”
There was this black felt board that had tiny paper people with adhesive backs. I had to actually sit on my grubby little hands during story time to keep from jumping up and slapping all the itty-bitty robed men on that felt board myself. Sometimes I didn’t even realize I was bouncing until Sister Anne told me to sit still. And how disturbing was it when Little Felt Peter was talking with Little Felt Jesus, but Peter was facing the other way? People should look at Jesus when He talks to them, even if they were made of paper and felt.
The congregation—that to me seemed like the whole world—consisted of roughly one-hundred fifty members, all who were the “village” it took to help raise Ian and me, and I hated it. During Easter potlucks, Ian and I would try to sneak in a game of Burken until a random old woman with a bird on her hat would snatch one or both of us by the arm and trill, “Fanny? Fanny! Look at what your kids are doing!” with a mouthful of potato salad. Then our mother would scold us in front of the rest of the congregation (they all nodded their encouragement—spare the rod, spoil the child, Fanny), and subject us to playing kickball with the other children. So Ian would purposely kick the ball across the street, I’d fall into a fit of laughter, and we’d find ourselves sitting next to our dad, punished for the rest of the potluck after having to confess to Father Dunne with wafers in our mouths. Happy, happy Easter.
Of course, the wafers happened after my First Communion. I was confirmed when I was eight. Chrissy and I had been best friends for two years, and the night before our confirmation, she slept over like she did every Saturday night. She pulled a dandelion-colored dress out of her backpack, and I crinkled my nose. “What’s that?”
Chrissy’s face fell. “Don’t you like it? My mom bought it.”
“It’s pretty, but if you’re wearing a pretty dress, my mom will make me wear this.” I pulled a frilly purple smock from my closet that I absolutely loathed.
“It’s okay, you should look nice when we get confirmed,” she said with shining eyes, and I wondered what was so special about confirmation. The classes were b
oring and Ian said they were pointless, anyway. “The sacraments and Eucharist and all that doesn’t make anyone perfect. It makes some people worse,” he had said.
I didn’t know what that meant, much like I didn’t know what was going on the next morning during the service, despite all the classes. Our names were called, Father Dunne wiped oil across my forehead while I sat on my knees, and people hugged me and gave me rosaries and Bibles afterward.
Chrissy did everything perfectly: she made the sign of the cross on her chest, she said “And also with you” at all the right times, and she didn’t even flinch when the bishop tapped her cheek. I envied her faith.
That night, Fanny cooked my favorite meal: lasagna and macaroni and cheese. I continued going through all the motions, the protocol of the newly-confirmed, even at our dinner table. My parents still carried the artificial air, and I couldn’t wait to drop this act. I knew the exact place to do it…
“Ian?” I knocked softly on his door before tiptoeing in his room.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said, lying on his bed and tossing a basketball toward the ceiling.
“Wanna talk?”
“Sure.” He caught the ball and tucked it under his arm, turning on his side to make room for me. I took two giant steps and propelled myself onto his bed. After a few moments of giggling and bouncing, I snuggled in next to him and he resumed his game of solitary ball-toss.
I waited for him to comment on my confirmation, but after a minute he piped, “So whadoyawanna talk about?”
I flipped onto my belly and looked at him. “Um, well I got confirmed today. Like you did … ‘member when you did that? A long time ago?”
“Mm-hmm.” He inflected his voice to match mine, and I knew patronizing when I heard it.
I cleared my throat. “What are you thinking about?”
He tossed the ball to the floor and sat up, running his hands roughly through his hair. I noticed it was getting darker. Once he turned thirteen, his voice got squeaky and his hair got darker. The squeaky voice I thought was funny, but if his hair was dark blond, then that meant it wasn’t the same color as my light blond, and if our hair wasn’t the same color, then what was this all about?
“I don’t know, Chuck, it just seems … well, I don’t know. Like, all this, this baptism, confirmation, confession, communion, sacraments … why are people still bad? Don’t people do this so they become better people? Why would you do all that if you’re still going to be a bad person?” He leaned against the wall and drew his knees to his chest as I twisted onto my side, giving him a puzzled look.
“You’re good, Ian. You’re good. I don’t think you’re a bad person,” I said.
“No, no, it’s not that,” he said, stretching his legs out and draping them over my bony hip. “Not me. It’s just, well … some people act like they’re so good, but they’re really, really bad people. But the worst part is that they pretend they aren’t really, really bad people, ya know?”
“No. Not even a little bit.” I was beginning to regret ever coming in his room.
He dropped his head back, and I heard the soft thud of his head against the wall. I didn’t understand why he was so frustrated.
“It’s like this,” he began, holding his hands parallel to each other. “Like, when someone’s a good person, they don’t do terrible things. I mean, it’s fine to mess up, but they aren’t bad people, ya know? At least they try to be good. But it’s like, sometimes people go to church, and I think they just go so people won’t know how bad they really are. Like, they use it to cover stuff up, and no one will suspect things about them. That’s like, the worst lie. You’re better off just being a bad person and not wasting the priest’s time.”
“You mean, your friends? Kids in your class?” I blinked. “Me?”
Ian sighed. “I’m sorry, Chuck. I shouldn’t say things you’re too little to understand.” He patted my chin.
My eyebrows dropped, and I pooched out my bottom lip. “I’m not little! I just don’t understand you because you’re being so weird! I don’t think even Einstein would understand you right now.”
He mocked my facial expressions and grinned as I defended myself.
“I hate you,” I spat as I turned away from him and curled up in a ball.
“Hey.” He laughed and poked at my shoulder blades. “Didn’t you learn anything in catechism? Thou shalt not hate?”
Nothing.
“Excuse me, Charles? Sister Chuck?” He started tickling me.
But I whined and kicked at him. “Don’t touch me!”
His eyes darkened. “Fine, you know what? Leave,” he said, plowing me off his bed with his feet. “Get out of my room.”
I caught myself just before hitting the floor and glared at him, stuck my tongue out, and stomped out of his room.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” my dad asked as I sprawled in Razzle Dazzle, staring blankly at the TV.
“Nothing!” I spouted.
“Why the pouty lip?” He chuckled and mushed his finger into my exaggerated lower lip.
“Your son has hurt my feelings. You should ground him,” I informed him, my eyes locked on Uncle Jesse and Joey trying to change Michelle’s diaper.
He guffawed. “Again? I’m pretty sure it’s your brother with the smart mouth. You should do something about that.”
“I don’t have a brother.”
“Oh! Well, in that case…” He turned toward the kitchen. “Fanny! Your son has disgraced my daughter, and you should handle this quickly.” And his laughter belched out in deep, arrhythmic bleats.
Mom huffed from the kitchen, the dishes momentarily clanging more harshly.
Not even his own wife thinks he’s funny. Poor Paps. Then I had to bite my lips to keep from spewing one of the many names Ian and I had made up for our parents.
Papster McPoopsey and Mamaw Mobley were names never directed to our parents, just about them. Once, I answered my father’s infamous Charlotte-did-you-hear-what-I-just-said? with, “Sure did, Paps,” and the following lecture drew so late into the evening, Ian reminded him that Wheel of Fortune was starting, and he’d miss it if he didn’t wrap it up. Two weeks later my mother asked me to fold laundry, to which I replied, “Calm your tits, Mamaw,” thinking Ian would intercede again. He told me later he didn’t because I needed to learn to control my mouth, and he’d only cover for me so much. I wondered how he never made those mistakes.
Dad perched on the arm of Razzle Dazzle, which caused his pant leg to hike halfway up his shin. “Wanna talk about it?”
I inwardly grimaced. I loved my dad, but “talking about it” meant I had to smell his breath and listen to him breathe through his nose, sucking air like a vortex while it whistled and whizzed through his nose hairs and boogers. I’d have to look at his unappealing mustache hovering over his crooked teeth that jabbered below like marionettes. But on the other hand, Ian always got jealous when he wasn’t the center of attention, and I’d do anything to upset him right now…
“Sure,” I said.
He helped me up, and we walked hand in hand to my parents’ bedroom. I grinned smugly at Ian’s closed door as we passed, ignoring the wall art with scripted aphorisms lining the hall—phrases that rankled me until my teeth hurt. Life isn’t about waiting for the storms to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain, and, You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
It took me a few tries, but I was finally able to shimmy onto their giant bed, jumping around before plopping down, crisscross-applesauce. My father followed suit, and I couldn’t help giggling at Papster in his high-waters, jumping on the bed like a mutant frog. He finally settled down across from me, mirroring my exact pose.
“Now tell your father what happened.”
My grin morphed into a frown. “I wanted to talk to Ian about my confirmation, and he started being really weird. Then he got mad at me and sent me out of his room!”
Papster’s look was so sympathetic, I decided to milk it. “My own
brother isn’t even happy for me.”
“Well, you know I am. And so is your mother. We’re very proud of you.” He straightened his legs and hung them over the side of the bed. I was actually surprised to see him hold my pose for that long. Daddies don’t sit crisscross-applesauce.
He scooted to the edge and pulled me next to him. Holding me at arm’s length, he tipped his glasses and looked into my eyes. “Aw, my little girl. Angels are rejoicing as we speak.” Then he pulled me into a hug.
With my face squished into him, I looked around the room, wondering how long I’d have to endure his pitchy inhales and steaming exhales. A frame hanging next to the closet caught my eye. Life isn’t measured by the number of breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away. Forget units of life measurement, how could I get my father’s breath taken away, just for a moment of peace and quiet?
Ian crashed into the room. “Whatcha doing, Chuck?”
Tim relaxed his embrace, and I sat up straight. “Talking with my dad.” I always tossed in that possessive pronoun when I was mad at Ian, like we had different parents.
Then, he did what I knew he would. He grinned—coyly, dramatically—and snuck over to me, leaning down to whisper the chant in my ear, the chant that put everything into motion: “The monster’s gonna getcha if you don’t run NOW!”
And that was his ticket to redemption. I jumped off the bed and made a break for the door, abandoning Tim completely. “Sorry, Mom!” I called as I blew past her, almost knocking the folded towels from her hands, and I burst through the door and disappeared into the woods.
I knew that would work. I had Ian wrapped around my little finger.
I can run ten miles, piece of cake. Twelve punches me in the side, thirteen claws my throat, and fourteen convinces my limbs to go on strike. So I let my respiratory system be my odometer, and judging from the squeezing in my spleen and the ripping in my sublingual glands, I’m approaching that fourteen-mile mark. Lake City is fifteen miles from Cadillac, and under any other circumstance (although I can’t think of why I’d ever run to Lake City), I would’ve slowed around twelve and walked the rest. But considering I’m officially running for my life, I’m running the full fifteen, because I’d rather die of overexertion in Lake City than of decapitation in Cadillac.