Jeraline's Alley

by Becca C. Smith

  “Why didn’t you call for help?” I asked Hank as we both managed to free his second arm.

  “I did. No one heard me. I thought I was going to die here.” Hank’s breath was ragged and fast.

  My worry, concern, and guilt motivated me further as I leaned down and placed Hank’s arm over my shoulder. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’m the sixty-year-old idiot who climbed in here.” Hank positioned his arm so that I could pull him up.

  “You’re not an idiot. You were hungry.” Because I forgot to give you food. My fault. My fault. Sandwiching my feet solidly on the garbage, I squatted into position. “We’re going to try and get you to stand on three . . . One, two, three.”

  We moved a few feet up, then my foot shifted from the unstable garbage, and we both fell back down. This time I was also lying on the bed of filth.

  “Maybe we should wait for the paramedics.” I began to see the intelligence in Rachel’s idea.

  Hank shifted his arm so he sat up a bit more, then stared down at me, serious. “If the boss lady told them I was a bum, they’re not coming, or they’re not coming for a while anyway. They have more important people to save.”

  No.

  My hands shook with rage and determination. “You are just as important. We’re doing this.” Pushing myself up, I stabilized my feet once more on the precarious garbage flow.

  One last glance up at Rachel’s window to ask for help, but it was closed. She’d given up on us, expecting the paramedics to do their job.

  “It’s just you and me, Hank. We got this.” Our eyes met, and we both understood each other. I would get him out of this dumpster or die trying.

  A touch on my arm, and it wasn’t Hank.

  Rachel stood there, her shaking hand now bracing my arm, eyes pried open from terror. “I’m here. I’m helping.” Her voice quavered, and her breathing was hard despite the wretched smell.

  Placing my hand on hers, I forced her to make eye contact with me. “We’ll get you back inside as soon as we help Hank, okay?”

  Rachel’s breath was fast and panicked, but she nodded in agreement. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I’d take it.

  She threw her leg over the side of the dumpster, and I helped her the rest of the way inside. Her hands continued to shake, and I was sure we were finally going to add some puke to the mix, but not yet anyway.

  We positioned ourselves on either side of Hank while he placed one arm on each of our shoulders.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  They nodded.

  “Now.”

  With a large, unified grunt, we lifted Hank to his feet. As soon as his feet had pressure on them, he groaned in pain. “Yup, it’s twisted, maybe broken.”

  “We gotta get you out of here so we can get a better look.” I honestly wasn’t sure what kind of assessment I’d be able to make, as I knew absolutely nothing about injuries, but I did know we all needed out of this rot pit.

  Shifting an inch at a time, we finally faced the long edge of the dumpster.

  It was so high.

  “How do we get him over that with a bum ankle?” Rachel asked what we were all thinking.

  “I’ll catch him from the other side.” I had no idea if this would work, but what else could we do? Quickly hopping out of the dumpster, I grabbed both Hank’s forearms. “You’re going to have to roll out and use me as support. Which ankle is it? I’ll make sure you don’t land on it.”

  Hank nodded in agreement. “It’s the left one.”

  As I pulled Hank’s front half over the lip of the dumpster, Rachel lifted Hank’s legs carefully, and he used his stomach to roll over the edge. His weight shifted as he leaned toward my side, so I moved and grabbed his middle, allowing Hank to put his right leg down first.

  And he was out.

  Rachel climbed out almost instantaneously and paused, unsure if she should do more, so I let her off the hook. “You can go back inside. I’ll wait with Hank for the ambulance.”

  Rachel’s fear took over, and she hurried to the open door, but instead of closing it, she stayed in the doorway, safe inside but still part of the action.

  Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive—one for the good guys. Hank shifted on his good foot uncomfortably at the sight of the two paramedics hurrying over.

  The closest paramedic’s nostrils flared at our smell, but then his face turned all business. “I’m Jim, and this is Lucy.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Jeraline. This is Hank, the patient, and that’s Rachel. She owns this place,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Then I explained, “Sorry about the smell. He got stuck in the dumpster. His ankle might be broken.”

  Lucy didn’t seem fazed by the stink, and at seeing Hank’s condition, Jim lost his concern for the stench as he examined Hank’s ankle. When Hank moaned in pain at Jim’s touch, Jim assessed, “It doesn’t feel broken, but he’ll need an X-ray to be sure.”

  Hank stuttered, “I . . . don’t have any money.”

  Lucy pulled out a portable gurney from the ambulance and wheeled it over. “That’s the hospital’s problem. We’re going to get you in and make sure they get you an X-ray.” Lucy clenched her jaw with determination, and I’d bet Hank wasn’t the first homeless person she’d fought for.

  I liked her.

  And so did Hank, as he managed a smile through pain-gritted teeth.

  Jim and Lucy helped Hank lie down on the gurney, while I held his hand.

  “You going to be okay?” I asked, both of us covered in filth.

  Hank squeezed my hand. “I am now. Thank you, Jeraline. I owe you.”

  “Where are you going to stay the night?” My mind raced, imagining the hospital kicking him out after the X-ray.

  “Don’t worry about me. The shelter I stay at sometimes is close to the hospital,” Hank assured me.

  Lucy’s eyes solidly met mine. “I know the place. We’ll make sure he gets there.”

  Before Hank let go of my hand, he nodded toward the dumpster. “You probably couldn’t see it in the dark, but I finished your painting. It’s leaning up against the side of the dumpster.”

  “Hank.” My chest tightened. He’d come for food and to give me my painting, and I hadn’t been here.

  But he didn’t act upset at all. He squeezed my hand one more time. “I’ll see you soon, Jeraline.”

  “Bye, Hank.” I let go of his hand as Lucy and Jim situated Hank into the ambulance and sped off toward the hospital.

  Flashlight beaming on my phone again, I walked over to the side of the dumpster, and next to my abandoned lunch bags was the most stunning painting I’d ever seen.

  Even with the poor lighting of the flashlight, it took my breath away.

  Swirling colors of paint swam together in a beautiful dance to create a perfect snapshot of the Milky Way. Though the canvas was small, the imagery was so much larger. The more I stared, the more it felt as if I were swimming in the very universe itself.

  Hank was a true artist.

  Tears filled my eyes and fell down my cheeks.

  “What is that?” Rachel’s voice cut through the silence.

  “It’s a painting that Hank made for me.” I tried to hide the choke in my voice.

  Rachel’s face softened, then she said, “Well, bring it and yourself inside, and let’s get cleaned up.”

  I stared down at my stained and wet-with-garbage clothes with disgust.

  Good plan.

  I sat on Rachel’s couch, trying to relax after taking a scrub-down-oh-my-god-will-this-garbage-smell-ever-go-away shower, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants from Rachel’s wardrobe. I was trying to figure out what was more surreal, being stuck in a dumpster or being stuck in Rachel’s apartment. Though, to be fair, Rachel had been nothing but kind to me since the whole debacle. I wondered what was going on in her brain since I figured it had been a while since she’d stepped outside. And, shocker, I was the one who made
it a miserable experience. Her seething hate for me would come back at any moment, I just knew it. But for now, clean clothes and hot showers.

  The sound of water pounding on the bathtub floor was the only noise that permeated the apartment. Rachel had been in the shower for a while now, like I had. She had let me go first, which again, was . . . nice. And she had even given me permission to stay in as long as I wanted since she had a tankless water heater installed a few months ago. It was almost as if the universe knew the two of us would be taking endless showers in the future.

  Hank’s painting lay in my lap, and I stared into its depths. Now that it was properly lit, I noticed so many more details. Layer upon layer of paint created a cacophony of stars, planets, debris, and infinite beauty. Staring into the center of the painting, it seemed endless, capturing eternity on a canvas.

  My mind throbbed at the idea that all of Hank’s other paintings had been discarded and destroyed.

  So much lost.

  Breathing in deep, I tried to calm myself. I set the painting down to rest against the arm of the couch.

  Breathe.

  With the painting out of sight, I decided to have a gander at Rachel’s apartment. I mean, I had always wondered what this place looked like, and now here I was sitting in Rachel’s living room, and I didn’t know if I’d ever have another opportunity.

  The floor space was as large as the store beneath us, which made it quite big for an apartment. Most of the square footage made up the living room/dining room/kitchen, but there were four doors scattered throughout, and I was only sure of two of them, one being the bathroom since I had taken the shower, and the other being Rachel’s bedroom, from where she had brought out the clothes for me to wear. Walls were tastefully decorated with prints of famous paintings like A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, which was the inspiration for the mural outside on the building of the bookstore. No wonder she was annoyed with me when I mentioned the Sondheim play. The painting had a place of honor above the couch I was currently sitting on. Tastefully decorated with neutral colors of tans, whites, and browns, I wasn’t sure if this was how I imagined Rachel’s place would look.

  But the mantel was what caught my eye the most. Pictures. All of Rachel’s son Kent. I recognized him from the photo I had found under the stacks. There must have been over thirty on her mantelpiece below the mounted flat-screen TV across from the couch. And now, seeing more photographs of Kent, it really was eerie how much he looked like Josh.

  I was pulled out of my reverie when Rachel walked out of the bathroom, dressed in pajamas and pat-drying her hair with a towel.

  “I’m sorry about tonight. Thank you so much for . . . everything,” I stuttered.

  Rachel sat on a chair next to me, placing the damp towel on the coffee table between us. “That was the first time in ten years I’ve left this building.”

  Whoa.

  “Whoa.” Apparently, I couldn’t keep it in. I knew it was bad, but I hadn’t been sure it was that bad.

  “I kept thinking every day that I’d get out, for a walk, or the store, or anything, but I never did. Suddenly it’s been a decade. It’s terrifying, Jeraline, but the thought of leaving is even more terrifying.” Rachel’s eyes were round and frantic talking about it. Then she took a deep, calming breath and slightly chuckled. “Ten years of isolation, and I’m jumping in a dumpster helping some homeless guy.”

  “Hank. His name is Hank.” I didn’t know what compelled me to correct her, but hearing Hank being written off as simply “a homeless guy” hurt me. Our eyes both rested on Hank’s painting.

  “Yes, Hank.” Motioning to the painting, Rachel asked, “May I?” Upon my nod of approval, she picked it up, examining its details. “Remarkable. I’m going to have to commission something from him when he’s . . . healed up.” After another moment of being lost in Hank’s work, Rachel placed the painting back down next to me. “I’m sorry I’ve been so horrible to you.”

  “It’s okay.” It wasn’t okay, but I couldn’t seem to stop the people-pleaser in me.

  “No, it really isn’t. I just see you so scared of everything all the time, and I guess you remind me of me. And I don’t like me very much,” Rachel admitted.

  And I knew. I knew that already. That was why I was able to stay for three years, because I knew there was no real hatred or malice behind her behavior. It was all about her, not about me. “You weren’t wrong. I am scared of everything.”

  “But I am wrong. Look at what you did with the fashion show? You put yourself out there. That’s a bigger win than you know right now at your age.” She sighed, motioning to herself as if on display. “Trust me. I’m an agoraphobic forty-eight-year-old that pretends one of her employees is her dead son.” She gestured to the slew of photos on the mantel.

  Dead.

  Oh.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He died in a car accident, and I haven’t left this place since. Crazy, right?” Rachel’s eyes searched mine, looking for something, some kind of response, but I wasn’t sure what she wanted out of me.

  I leaned back on the couch, thinking. “No. Not crazy at all. I’ve pretty much only been here and my apartment since my parents were killed a few years ago.”

  “Your parents were killed? I had no idea.” Rachel reached over to the bottle of scotch on the coffee table and poured herself a drink. “Now I feel even worse.” She motioned to the scotch. “You want one?”

  I shook my head. Alcohol and I didn’t mix so well.

  Rachel took a sip of her drink, then leapt to her feet. “I know how I can make it up to you.”

  “Make it up to me? Uh, no, Rachel, I . . .”

  But Rachel hurried into her bedroom, only to return a few seconds later with a book in her hands. Very purposefully, Rachel handed me the book.

  A hardcover copy with the original sleeve of The Gateway to Winterbrook.

  Um.

  “Is this . . . ? How did you know . . . ? I can’t . . .”

  “It is. I overheard you and Josh. And you absolutely can.” Rachel answered all of my questions.

  The book. My Holy Grail. In my hands. I quickly opened it to the elusive golden page, and it was as beautiful as I’d imagined. Gold inlay of an intricately carved door was shiny and metallic despite being published over a hundred years ago. The door to Winterbrook. And given to me by . . . Rachel?

  Rachel’s face softened, and her eyes sparkled with genuine affection. “I used to read it to Kent when he was little. And hearing you say to Josh that your mom read it to you, and now I know she’s gone . . .” Her eyes watered from emotion. “I sometimes imagine that Kent isn’t really dead, that the rumors were true and that he escaped to Winterbrook through that page.”

  Tracing the golden pattern of the door with my finger, I found that I wished the same thing for my parents. That somehow the three of them had found each other and were living adventures in Winterbrook.

  Breaking the momentary silence, Rachel said solemnly, “The book is yours. You were right. It was here in the bookstore the whole time, waiting for you.”

  Instantly my eyes welled up with tears as well.

  “No tears. We’ll both start sobbing, and as of two days ago I thought I didn’t like you.”

  “Same,” I answered before I thought about it.

  We both cracked up at that.

  “So you did name your store after the bookstore in Winterbrook?” I recalled how angry Rachel had been when I’d asked three years ago.

  Slowly, she nodded.

  I stared at the book in my hands and shook my head in awe. “Thank you. So much. This is . . . amazing.”

  “I can’t argue with destiny.” Rachel smiled, content.

  Glancing at the time on my phone, I had a mini heart attack. “It’s five a.m. I need to get home.”

  “You can crash on the couch. You shouldn’t walk home this late. It’s too dangerous.”

  I flinched from the sound of a gunshot.

 
My attacker hovered outside the second-story window, staring at me.

  He disappeared.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. I just need to get home. I’ll be fine.” I had to leave. I had to get out.

  Rachel didn’t push the argument. Our relationship was still fragile after all. “I’ll walk you down.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I got it. Things had changed. Rachel was different.

  We were friends.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  I held both the painting and the book like the precious treasures they were, and we headed toward the door. It didn’t take us long to walk down the stairs that led to the closed store. It was strange moving through the stacks in the dark with only Rachel. I’d done it many times before after closing, but it was different somehow.

  Arriving at the front door, Rachel unlocked it for me and opened it.

  I stepped outside and turned to Rachel.

  It was time.

  This time gently.

  Carrying the painting and book in one hand, I reached out with my other hand, offering it to Rachel.

  Terrified, Rachel shakily gave me her hand.

  “You got this,” I encouraged her.

  Tears of fear rolled from Rachel’s eyes, but she nodded, and slowly, inch by inch, she stepped out of the store. After a moment of truly being outside of her own free will, Rachel breathed in deep, forcing herself to calm down.

  “You did it. You’re here,” I said quietly, worried I’d spook her.

  Rachel tightened her grip on my hand. “Don’t turn into me, Jeraline. Living in a constant state of fear isn’t living.” Her eyes searched mine for acknowledgment. “Promise me.”

  Her face morphed into my attacker’s face, then quickly back again.

  “I promise,” I uttered, though it terrified me to do so.

  Rachel patted my hand as if this was enough for her, then let me go.

  “You going back in?” I asked her.

  Peering up at the sky, Rachel stared as if it were for the first time. She shook her head with a small smile. “I think I’m going to stay out here for a while.”