The Precious Dreadful

by Steven Parlato

  “Mud Day is as good a place as any,” I say it with my typical offhand attitude, but the crack in my voice gives me away.

  She says, “You’re sure?”

  Eyes pooling, I tell her what I remember. “After Corey and I ran from the pond that day, I came home and found you crying.”

  Looking impatient, she says, “We’ve already covered that.”

  “I’m just setting the scene.”

  “What’s next?”

  “That’s the problem. My next actual memory is of running, but it’s patchy. I’m not clear where—or what I’m running from. Just this feeling, like my heart’s about to rip through my chest. And the mud.”

  “Yes.”

  I leave the table. Moving toward the center of the kitchen, I drop to all fours, trying to extract memory from the physical. “I stooped to wipe the floor, and my hands were bleeding. They didn’t hurt, but they were bleeding.”

  “No, Teddi. They weren’t.”

  “Brenda, it’s practically the one thing I’m sure of. My hands were bleeding.”

  “NO!” I think she surprises herself as much as she shocks Binks and me. “Your hands were bloody, not bleeding. Bloody.”

  “But whose—”

  “It was terrifying. You busting in the door like you’d just run some horrible race, caked with mud, leaves in your hair. And then when I saw the blood on you. My God.”

  She’s seeing it as vividly as I have been.

  “You thought I was angry with you, Teddi, but really I was scared. Terrified. I thought my baby was hurt. You have no idea what that’s like. I thought someone had . . .” Voice breaking, she takes a quick mouthful of beer and gargles at the back of her throat before continuing. “I thought you were going to die. And even though it was a challenge raising you on my own—and sometimes, God forgive me, I wished—”

  I finish the thought for her. “You’d never had me?”

  She looks ashamed, but she nods.

  “Wow.”

  “Teddi, I—”

  “No, it’s all good. I asked for honesty.”

  “Let me finish. When I thought I might lose you, I knew my world would end. Cliché, I admit, but true.”

  “Thanks.”

  Taking another swallow from the bottle, she continues.

  “There was so much blood, like you’d rolled in it, I was sure you were really hurt. But when I checked you over, you were okay. Just a few pricker scratches, some scuffs from where you must’ve fallen.”

  “So whose blood was it?” It was Fawn. Her face blooms in my head. You heard her scream.

  “I didn’t have time to bother about that. I raced you to the bathroom. Got you right in the tub.”

  “Did I say anything? About Fawn. Or Eli, maybe?”

  She shakes her head. “Baby, you didn’t say a thing besides ‘Mama.’ And that’s all you said. For weeks.”

  “Weeks.”

  “Weeks and weeks. You were in some kind of shock. I couldn’t imagine what you must have gone through.”

  “What did the doctors say?”

  She doesn’t answer. Getting up, she grabs another beer. Even from behind, I can see she’s crying again by the way her shoulders shake as she grips the sink edge.

  “Brenda? Please tell me you took me to the hospital.”

  Lurching forward, she vomits. Blasting water, she rinses and spits. Spinning on me, fumbling the beer, she sends it flying, shrieking, “You need to understand! I couldn’t!”

  She tries to dash for the bottle, but I block her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was afraid I’d lose you. I couldn’t let that happen!”

  “Lose me how?”

  “God, Teddi. You’re a smart girl. Think for a minute. Alcoholic single mother, known drug user. With my reputation, pregnant at sixteen, I wasn’t exactly up for Mother of the Year. Would it really surprise you to learn we were in the system?”

  “What system?”

  “Child Protective Services. Want a laugh? It was your grandparents who first reported me. They were determined to see me fail, those two. Well, I nearly lost you once; I wasn’t going to let it happen again. Not when I’d given up everything to keep you.”

  “What are you talking about ‘nearly lost me once’? When did you nearly lose me?”

  She leads me to the couch, sits by me. Afraid to miss out on what he interprets as affection, Binks jumps up, sandwiching between us. I try to push him down, but Brenda says, “No. Let him be.”

  Then, crushing him to her chest like a plush toy, she says. “Losing you had always been the plan, you know. When I got pregnant, my parents made arrangements for me to give you away. They got me to sign the paperwork and everything. But when you were born, when I saw your feet . . . Your ears were perfect little seashells. Well. I knew I couldn’t go through with the adoption.”

  Realization slides onto the couch between us. Sensing its heavy presence, Binks hops down to make room.

  I put my arms around Brenda and say, “What did you mean you gave up everything to keep me?”

  “Never mind that.”

  “No, you owe me this. If you’re trying to be noble, to protect me by burying the truth, I just want to say, that’s a bullshit attitude.”

  “Fine, though I don’t understand how it could possibly help you to hear this. When I decided to keep you, my parents cut me off, refused to pay for college. And my boyfriend, yeah, your dear father, he found out pretty quick . . .”

  “What?”

  “He couldn’t handle the whole baby thing, I’m afraid. Specifically, the fact that I ‘seemed to care more about the baby than about him.’ Which was true incidentally.” She laughs.

  I feel like I’m meeting her for the first time, and I can’t help saying, “You know something? I think you are.”

  “What, a loser? A drunk who fucked up two lives monumentally?”

  “Noble. I think you’re noble.”

  She manages the sorriest smile and says, “Well, I doubt Child Services would’ve shared that opinion, so I—” Sobs wrack her thin frame. “I did the best I could. After the bath. I held you, rocked you. I spoon-fed you again, like when you were a baby. And when the cops came around asking questions about Corey—”

  “You lied.”

  “Teddi, don’t hate me. There was nothing else for me to do.”

  “But we might have helped find him! Maybe we could have helped Fawn, too. And the blood, whose blood was I wearing?”

  “None of that mattered to me. All I knew was if I told them you’d been out roaming the neighborhood, came home covered in blood, they’d have taken you away from me. And I couldn’t let that happen. So I took care of you, and when it came time for school, I braided your hair, sent you off, and hoped for the best.”

  “I remember Mrs. Goulet’s class. How surprised she was when I talked.”

  “Well, it had been a rough few weeks. No one knew quite what to do with you. But Mrs. Goulet was such a nice lady. She was my teacher, too, you know. She understood how hard it must have been for you, your best friend missing and all.”

  “Mom, I know he’s alive. I really do. His brother doesn’t believe it’s possible, but I have to believe it. Please say you believe it, too.”

  Smoothing my hair, she smiles, but it falls short, not quite reaching her eyes. Then she says, “Anything’s possible, Teddi. You just have to want it hard enough.”

  26

  The moon is a dirty fingernail; it rips a hole in the black fabric sky. Binks and I hug the tree line. He snuffles the grass methodically. I yawn. Another sweaty, postmidnight stroll.

  Brenda texted earlier tonight, to tell me she won’t be home until tomorrow afternoon. She claimed she’s pulling a double at the college, helping set up for some event. Not sure I buy it. I suspect it’s her way of avoiding further recollection.

  Truthfully, I’m relieved at the thought of some alone time. Now that I’ve had almost twenty-four hours to stew over our talk, I’m even
more conflicted. Part of me wants to stick with noble, focus my energy on seeing her that way. She did make all these sacrifices.

  But on the other hand, what kind of person sabotages the search for a missing child to protect herself and her kid? She could’ve made an anonymous tip. And she conveniently left out the part where she was drunk at the table, and gave me a mug full of who-knows-what.

  And I’m not entirely sure I buy her claim that she and Eli were a one-shot deal, especially since she mentioned how he always had drugs for her.

  Eli.

  Just thinking of him causes this cinder block of unease to lodge in my stomach.

  Roaming the park in a semi-trance, my mind ricochets Brenda to Corey to Eli to Fawn. It’s maddening. Even with all I’ve found out, I don’t feel much closer to answering the big questions. What happened to Corey? To Fawn? I’m holding on to that thin sliver of hope—that Corey’s safe—that I’ll somehow find him.

  Like I mentioned to Brenda, I need to believe. And I need enough hope to balance out Micah’s total lack.

  Binks has dragged me farther than I intended, way down past the pool. Tugging his leash, I call, “Come on, Binkster. Time to head back!”

  He pauses. But when he spots the cat, there’s no stopping him. It’s the big gray tiger I call Pirate for the black patch around his eye, the crooked grin.

  Binks hollers; hurtling forward, he speeds to the end of his lead, nearly popping my shoulder out of joint. If not for the padded handle, my fingers might’ve been severed. As it is, I may be looking at a wrist sprain.

  “Shit, Binks!”

  I’m barely able to keep my balance, nearly tumble down the grassy hill. As for Binks, he’s a fluffy missile, twenty-seven pounds of cockapoo fury. His collar snaps free of the leash, and the idiot literally somersaults as the taut lead releases. Grasping that he’s loose, he slows for just a second, looking back guiltily, before streaking toward the woods after his target.

  Then, as I begin to pray there are no skunks lurking, the cat hairpins. I feel a punch of nausea as they take off down the slope toward Parkview.

  This time of night, traffic on our street is thin, but there’s never any regard for speed limit—or the children-at-play sign. Vehicles seem to materialize with no warning, ripping around the curve beyond the bus stop.

  Like the minivan bearing down now.

  “BINKS!”

  He shows no sign of having heard me, laser-focused on the cat as it flees toward the road. The driver doesn’t bother braking, rockets by.

  The fear ball in my stomach melting rapidly into annoyance, I holler “Binks!” again.

  This time he stops just long enough to glance in my direction. Then he bolts catward. I pray Pirate will do the sensible feline thing and head straight up one of the roadside oaks, but instead, he summons some deep reserve of macho kitty hormone and decides to stand his ground. Binks is caught off guard by Pirate’s hiss. He stops short, allowing me to get close enough to make a grab for his collar.

  In a comic standoff, the three of us regard one another like cautious gunslingers. Then, just as I go for Binks, Pirate—in one fluid motion—swipes him across the snout and snakes toward the road, Binks in crazed pursuit.

  I barely have time to register the Forester, or to process the muffled whump as front tire impacts fur.

  When I make it to the curb, I’m winded, shaking.

  The SUV is eerily silent as it speeds into the distance. Taillights winking out, it rounds the bend toward Aurora.

  I avoid looking at the small figure wrecked in the gutter, until the sudden movement and metallic clacking draw my gaze.

  A low mewling wraps me in dread. I realize it’s coming from me. Taking a single step toward the writhing creature, my knees lock, and I drop, crumpled on the curb edge.

  Striving for a clinical, bio-lab attitude, I study the spear of bone pushing through matted fur, the slick pink of some exposed organ. I refuse to acknowledge the growing puddle of red.

  When I lean forward to assess the damage, his hind end spasms, reeling like a gruesome mechanical toy. Kinking, wormlike, his tail flicks skyward. Again, I hesitate, caught between grief and revulsion. I’m inching closer to the broken form when his rear legs kick again, then fall still. Final firings of stray neurons, a death dance. The last spark fades from his eyes.

  Through sobs, I feel a nudge against my hip. Binks whimpers, earnest cocker eyes shifting from me to the dying Pirate, as the cat shudders out one last rasp.

  Wrapping Binks in my arms, I teeter backward, my butt striking sidewalk. Burying my face against his thudding ribs, I avoid the spreading blood pool.

  “Corey.”

  I shiver as his name escapes my tongue. I’ve tried to think him safe since the phone call from his brother. But now it’s all spinning in on me. I spit into the gutter, throat burning. I can’t unsee them: Corey’s brown eyes filmed with blood, their light dying out like Pirate’s.

  “No. Not Corey.”

  How can I be picturing my friend in this moment?

  You know exactly how, Teddi. Know what it is to watch the life seep from a friend’s skull like yolk. Remember it. You are ready.

  I spin to see who’s there, but the voice is in my head. Not my own, Tia Adaluz. Trying to block her, I whip my head side to side, stand, and stumble from the curb.

  Binks nuzzles, kibble breath warm on my neck. I squeeze him beyond his tolerance level, but he doesn’t nip or growl the way he normally does when he’s fed up with affection.

  As I plod through the park toward home, he watches over my shoulder, as if expecting Pirate to follow. Then, he whines quietly, his eyes seeming to brim with remorse.

  “It’s okay, Binks. It wasn’t your fault. He was too far gone. You couldn’t have saved him.”

  Again, I picture Corey’s face, the skin gone ashy, his plump lips caked in blood.

  27

  Binks finally relaxes after a marathon soothing session and two caps full of homeopathic Pup-Eazzz. Snoring at the foot of my bed, he intermittently snivels in his sleep. I hope he’s not dreaming of poor Pirate.

  After dosing my traumatized pup and securing him in the house, I dragged back to the curb, armed with a shovel and pasta pot of scalding water. It was a gruesome, heave-inducing task, but I couldn’t leave Pirate in the road to be pulverized by a succession of passing cars. I kept envisioning little kids showing up tomorrow to swim, only to be greeted by a heap of gore outside the pool entrance.

  Managing to scrape the majority of cat pelt from the gutter, I carried him to the dumpster behind the community house, his stiff body shovel-balanced. Fighting a moan, I hoisted him in. Then I tried to scour the blood away with a few splashes of hot water. It was only marginally effective. Still, a smeary stain’s preferable to an authentic, road-plastered corpse.

  Tears cresting again, I do my best to tamp them down. I’ve been trying with limited success to erase the dual images of Pirate and Corey from my head for the past hour.

  Binks grunts. He looks serene, curled in a donut shape between my feet. I, however, have been powerless to conjure even a semblance of sleep. Immune to a double dose of nighttime pain reliever, I lie here, fixated on the alarm clock.

  Every time I close my eyes, I backslide toward the pond. My head is a choir of discord, this jumble of voices, pictures. Some terrify; others carry an enormous weight of sorrow. Corey’s voice is toughest. It starts out rasp-joyous, half laughter, but dissolves to choke and gurgle.

  Clearest is Tia Adaluz. Her words weave through the rest. They blot out pond sound, Eli’s beast howl. She’s poised, adamant. But somehow, I find her voice most frightening of all, because she keeps repeating the same command.

  Remember it, Teddi. You must remember.

  I want my mother, but it’s useless. She might as well still be miles away. Trying once more to spawn sleep, I scrunch my eyes. Burying head beneath pillow, I cry, sing, pray. In the midst of sucking my thumb for comfort, I admit it’s no use.


  Throwing off covers, I pace the room, stalling at my window, to study the moon. A thin scrim of cloud intersects its rusted sliver, transforming it into a menacing, gap-toothed smile.

  Shuddering, I grab my phone and dial Aidan. Reconsidering, I hit end call before it can ring, and scroll my contacts list. Willa’s number goes direct to voice mail. But I can’t begin to formulate words, let alone a full message. The SUMMERTEENS folks are out, though I am tempted to ring Eleanor. Or Ed.

  Just thinking of them brings the journal to mind. It’s there, in the satchel, resting in the center of my bean chair.

  Waiting for me.

  But the book already holds its fill of awful. And I can’t possibly write down what I’ve begun remembering. It’s too shattered, indistinct, each vague chunk a horror.

  Again, clear as if she were standing in the room with me, I hear Tia’s voice. Remember it, Teddi. For him, for your friend. And for yourself. Remember.

  “Shut up!”

  On my knees, I mash my lip to my teeth, trying to use pain to summon peace, crazy as that sounds.

  It’s not working.

  Instead, I pummel my thighs with livid fists. Watching bruises form, I analyze the shapes, grateful not to find a single frog. Finally, exhausted, I pull the spare blanket from my bottom drawer and curl into myself on the floor.

  As I begin to drift, I hear the word REMEMBER, loud as if someone’s screamed it in my ear.

  This time the voice is Corey’s. He’s angry. Frightened.

  Grinding knuckles into my eyelids does nothing to purge the image of his face. His cheeks are speckled with black-eyed Susan pollen, same as my earlier vision. But then the flecks deepen, spread together into a sticky mask.

  I choke back a scream.

  Weeping, I crawl to the beanbag, rip open my satchel, pull out the leather book and pencil. My body draped across the vinyl mound, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Then I open the journal to a fresh page. Steeling for what’s to come, I whisper, “Remember, Teddi. For Corey.”

  And then I write.

  We’re back at the pond. Can’t believe Fawn and Corey want to risk it, spying on her brother again, after what happened last time. When I tried to argue them out of coming, Fawn chanted, “Chicken Baby, Chicken Baby!” I couldn’t care what she thinks of me, but I started sniffling when Corey joined her.