No Story to Tell

by K J Steele

  An older model Dodge truck spun around the corner and screamed up the street toward them. They watched it with disguised interest as it pulled toward the big open door of the shop.

  “Now, who the hell might that be?” JJ asked into his next drink.

  “Miller’s truck, looks like,” offered Peter helpfully.

  “Obviously it’s Miller’s truck, you moron. But that sure as piss ain’t Miller driving it.”

  “Looks like that kid that works for him.”

  “Hmpff. Wonder what that little pecker wants,” added Bobby as they watched Mark swing free of the truck and saunter toward them.

  “Hey!” he tossed by way of greeting. “You old men give me a hand with this here tranny, or will it aggravate your hemorrhoids?”

  “Only hemorrhoids get aggravated around here’ll be the one hanging where your face should be, ya smart ass. Thought Miller said he couldn’t get me one of these till next week.”

  Mark shrugged. “Don’t ask me. He just said to bring it over, so I’m bringing it over. Can ya give me a hand?”

  “Sammy,” JJ ordered. “Give the candy ass a hand with it, will ya?”

  Setting his carving aside, Sam walked over to the truck, gathered the transmission up in his arms and set it easily on top of the workbench.

  Mark’s face sprung a cocky expression.

  “What’s this piece of shit?” he chided, thumping at the ’cuda’s front tire with his foot.

  “Hey! Watch your mouth, punk. This here car’s about the finest piece of mother you’ll ever see cruising atop four wheels.”

  “Ain’t look like it’ll be doing much cruising for some while yet.”

  “You think not, hey? Well, that just goes to show how much an ignorant pup like you ain’t know. Ain’t that right, Bobby? Got plans for this bitch, I do.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?” asked Mark, losing the edge off his chippyness.

  Everyone had heard how much JJ had got for the last car they’d fixed up. How some hot-shot rich kid from the city had dropped a fistful of money on it so he could be king of the drag-racing strip. Rumor was Mark and some of his buddies had plans to begin fixing up a car of their own.

  “Like what? Like what, he says.” JJ rolled his eyes at Bobby. Pulling a new case of beer out of the backseat, he snapped one open and thrust it at Mark. “Here, sit down and have a barley sandwich while I tell you, like what.”

  “Can’t. I’m ‘sposed to be working.”

  “Oh, shee-it!” hollered JJ. “I think I hear my freakin’ granny calling. Hey, Bobby! You hear that? Someone sure as hell sounding a lot like my freakin’ granny ‘round here.”

  “Aw, shit,” Mark mumbled, grabbing the beer JJ was waving around in front of his face. “Give me the damn thing then. But I gotta hurry. ‘Sposed to get the truck right back so’s Miller can make a delivery.”

  “Miller’s delivery can wait. You got the important one of the day done right here. By the time we boys get done with this here car, the bitch’ll be so hot punks like you’ll bow down on yer knees and worship her every time she passes by.”

  “Not friggin’ likely! Only bitch I bow down on my knees to worship is the one I’m about to lay,” Mark shot back, provoking laughs and a cheer.

  “We’re taking the ‘ruf off too,” piped in Peter.

  “The what?” asked Mark, looking down at Peter as if he’d only just now noticed him.

  “The ‘ruf. Whole thing.”

  “Ruf?” Mark’s eyes bypassed Peter altogether by the six inches of clearance he had over his head and directed the query to Bobby. “What the hell’s a ruf?”

  “Roof! He can’t never bloody say it right. Friggin’ ’aphrodite.”

  Mark’s face twisted up as he tried to make sense of this, then let it go. “Ya gonna cut the roof off?”

  “Ya. You know, like a convertible. Broads dig that.”

  “Broads? Ain’t you guys forgetting yer married?”

  “Might be married pus-head,” John Jr. retorted stuffing a beer into Mark’s other hand. “But we ain’t friggin’ dead.”

  Mark took the beer, drained his first one then pried the cap off with his teeth and flicked it out the window and into the sandbox. “What color ya painting it? Red?”

  Three answers collided together. JJ silenced the other two with a dirty look then started again. “I’m thinking orange. You know, real bright tomato orange. With big bloody yellow flames licking up the sides—”

  “Sounds like shit,” Mark spat, laughing at the insulted fury that bristled across JJ’s face.

  “No . . . not orange, JJ. You said I could paint it purple. You promised,” whined Peter, using his sleeve to catch a dribble of snot hanging off his nose.

  “You promised . . . you promised,” JJ taunted back gleefully. “Well, I’m changing my promise piss-ass ’cause I don’t bloody like purple no more.”

  “Hey!” interjected Mark. “Got an idea.” He strode over to a shelf full of mismatched cans of spray paint and started rooting through them. “Here, why don’t you each take a section and give it your best shot then we can decide what looks best.”

  JJ pushed in beside him and grabbed his colors first, promptly scoring off the hood and the car’s best side while Peter and Bobby scrambled over one another to carve up what was left.

  “Wait! Wait, you guys! No fair!” Peter squealed as he struggled to snap off the top only to find that the purple the can’s lid had promised was really more of a cotton candy pink.

  Mark found a derelict chair where he deposited himself so he could watch and jeer in comfort. Soon tiring of this, he hoisted himself back up and proceeded around the car slowly, his swagger starting to stagger as he got down to work on another beer.

  A piercing scream snapped their attention over to the woodpile where Peter was scrambling to zip his pants up, his eyes locked to the ceiling.

  “Ooh! Look you guys! Look! Up on the ‘ruf. Friggin bat! Scared the frickin’ piss outta me!” He shuffled back quickly as the others crowded around to see. A tiny, furry brown mound hung motionless from a rafter above them.

  “Maybe it’s dead,” Peter offered hopefully.

  “Ain’t dead, ya idiot.”

  “How’s you know? Looks dead to me.”

  “’Cause it’d fall on the friggin ground if it was dead, ya moron. It’s just pretending.”

  “How come?” Peter asked, scrunching up his nose in disgust.

  “Just trying to trick us,” answered JJ.

  “Chuck something at it.”

  “You chuck something at it, piss-ass.”

  “Here. Look out,” a voice ordered from behind them, Mark stepping forward with a wrench and winging it at the rafter, bouncing it off the little creature’s gauzy wing. Instantly the bat snapped to life, mouth wide in a silent warning to its invisible tormentors. Hanging limply, its injured wing quivered lightly.

  “Eek!” screeched Peter, tripping backward over Bobby and rolling across the floor. “Gross! It hissed at us. The friggin’ thing hissed at us. Knock it down, JJ! Knock it down!”

  JJ looked around him for a weapon, seized upon a rusted shovel leaning against the wall, lifted it high and gave the bat a quick poke. Again the bat’s mouth sprang open as it tried to ward off an attack. The boys cringed in spite of themselves. Sam watched his friends curiously. There was something about this audacious creature’s response toward them that provoked them to fury. How dare it, barely a hand big or a pound heavy, open its mouth to hiss and try to drive them away. Any of them could kill it with one blow. And yet it held sway over them, held the power of aversion. Mark grabbed the shovel from JJ’s limp hand and swept the bat onto the floor, all of them stepping back quickly to give it wide berth even though they knew the creature was essentially harmless and totally helpless with its damaged wing. Hitting the ground hard, the bat scrambled upright and turned again to face them, its mouth now permanently splayed wide open. Bobby picked up a long stick, crept forward and poked it in the
mouth.

  “Eek!” Peter screamed again, this time receiving a hard clout on the back of his head for yelling in JJ’s ear.

  “Hey you guys,” Sam’s thick voice tumbled up from behind them. “Leave it alone, hey. It ain’t hurting nothing.”

  If any of them heard, they paid no attention and Peter slithered through the crush of bodies, leaned as close to the bat as he dared and doused it with a spray of purple paint. Anxious, boisterous laughter broke out above him as the bat recoiled, gagging. Encouraged, he let it have it again.

  “Come on, you guys,” Sam spoke a little louder. “Just leave it alone, okay?”

  Bobby grabbed a can of silver spray paint off the shelf and joined Peter on the front lines. The bat lay crumpled on the floor unmoving, its soft fur layered with a sickening purple. Feeling brave, Bobby eased forward and prodded it once again. The mouth flared open in an automatic response and excitedly he quickly filled it with toxic silver. A heavy hand knocked the can rolling from his grip, and he looked up to see Samson standing over him, shovel in hand. Raising it slowly overhead, Sam hesitated as he caught Bobby’s eye then brought it down hard, crushing the bat dead.

  ~ Chapter 13 ~

  The refrigerator was offering her nothing, and she flung the door shut on its frosty interior just as the telephone jangled behind her. Whirling around, she lunged at it even though she was the only one home in the trailer. She’d grown skilled at beating Bobby to it, often snatching it right out from under his hand just before he closed down on it. Word about the studio had spread quickly, and although she finally had to cap the class at 16, she still received a few calls each week from mothers who’d initially scoffed at the idea but were now anxious to have their daughters put on the waiting list. Bobby, feeling vilified by the studio’s apparent success, viewed each call as a personal affront and answered the phone accordingly, offending people with his sarcasm and neglecting to give Victoria her messages. And, besides trying to intercept Bobby’s abuse of her possible future customers, Victoria could also never be sure when static would suddenly fill the line. The growing indiscretion of her words had left her feeling as anxious and guilty as if she’d actively welcomed a lover into their marriage bed and found him irresistible. Half expecting the call to be from Rose, she answered it with a distracted “hi,” then brightened visibly as static greeted her.

  “I was thinking of you.”

  “Of me? Really?” She felt flattered and flustered, off-center. “And what’s so special about me that you were thinking of me?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything?” She laughed gently, encouragingly.

  “Your eyes.”

  “My eyes aren’t—”

  “Your lips.”

  She dropped her lashes and skimmed her tongue over her lips.

  “I—” she started then stopped, paralyzed into silence by a sudden crushing ache of emotion. Squeezing her eyes tighter, she wrestled internally, forbidding herself from bleeding her desperation into the line. Biting her lip hard she sealed away how much she had missed him, how insane she had been for him to call again. Hot tears singed her face as she pressed the receiver to her cheek, taking strength from it as if it were a lover’s hand. They sat silent like this for measureless moments as she soaked in the comfort of his presence and felt it slowly dissipate the cold isolation within her. It occurred to her suddenly that his calls were nothing less than a gift. A kindness that needed to be repaid.

  “Do you remember what you said?” Her voice, encumbered by emotion had choked itself to a throaty whisper. “A while ago. About me being . . . lonely?” Flickering her eyes open, she spotted a warm sliver of sunlight on the living room floor and settled herself into it. “It’s true, you know. I am. Except when I’m at the studio. With the children. I feel happier there. Happier, but still a bit lonely, I guess. It’s like it comes from the inside. Like it’s a part of me. I think it’s always been there. Even as a child I always felt out of place. Like a stranger in my own home. Do you think . . . do you think it’s possible to be born into the wrong life?” She punctuated this last thought with a self-effacing laugh in case he found it as ridiculous as it sounded.

  The caller did not return her laughter or an answer to her question, but as they sat joined in mutual silence she began to sense that he could understand how she felt. He was a good listener, sympathetic, compassionate. The kind of person that heard beyond the boundaries that words set in the way. Encouraged by his patient silence she continued on.

  “I think of you too, you know. All the time.”

  She closed her eyes again, tighter, and felt the almost instant response of her body as she entered the freedom of her dark cocoon. It was as if here, with the outside world blocked away, she could finally be alone with him. As if she’d stepped into a moral no-man’s-land where thoughts and feelings and even rabid desire could linger in safety, no longer under the constant threat of reprisal or consequence. Pulling her legs up toward her chest, she let them fall away from each other then pulsed them gently with the slow, rhythmic beat of giant butterfly wings as she searched the line for the caller’s breathing. Impatience began to work its way toward her as she willed him to speak to her again, hungry to feel the delicate stroke of his word’s feathery touch.

  “You’re so beautiful,” the words finally rushed through to her, erupting inside her head like an emotional orgasm. She clung to the receiver. Wanted to crawl right into it. To touch him. Feel him. Kiss the salty pleasure from his back as they swam into horizonless sex. She moaned a mix of physical and mental anguish into his ear as she felt the jagged impossibility of their desire cut through her.

  The swoosh of the porch door startled her upright with a gasp, and she turned to face Bobby as he kicked free of his boots and stepped into the kitchen. She stood, receiver in hand, the long black cord leading past Bobby’s legs to where the telephone sat on the table.

  “Who you talking to?” he gestured to the phone with his chin.

  “No one.”

  His eyes narrowed as he raised a dark eyebrow.

  “No one?”

  Blood rushed hot to her face. She pressed the handset hard against her leg.

  “Well, no. Not anymore. It . . . it was just one of the mothers.”

  He eyed her sharply for a moment, turned and walked down the hall into the bathroom. Waiting for the click of the door, she took a quick listen. Thankfully, the line was dead. She could only hope it had been that way for some time and that her and Bobby’s conversation had not been overheard. Hurrying to place the telephone back on the cradle, she began to straighten up the trailer although not one thing appeared to be out of place.

  ~ Chapter 14 ~

  Christmas was coming to Hinckly. A few attempts at decorations had been made by the local businesses, only to be vandalized by kids who enjoyed the spoils of naughty over nice. Mrs. Barlow’s Santa had lost his head, and Mr. Graves’s Rudolph had been strung up by his horns with a silver garland and shot full of arrows. Pearl and Bud’s lights had been enlisted for target practice, but fortunately the young hooligans proved to be terrible shots: only a few lights were smashed and a couple were even jolted back into service.

  Victoria pushed her way through the resistant hotel door and hurried through the lobby. She felt half-prepared and disorganized. Her plan had been to arrive early at the studio so she could make out some bills before the parents arrived with their kids. But by the time she had realized the kitchen clock was way behind accurate, she’d had to drive as fast as she dared all the way into town just to avoid being late.

  The excited chipmunk chatter of small voices greeted her as she made her way toward the ballroom where the children waited outside the locked doors. Enjoying their enthusiasm and perhaps feeling overly optimistic, she had planned and choreographed a Christmas recital. Now, with performance night looming, she was feeling somewhat anxious about her decision and contemplating postponing it until spring. Shrieks and squeaks filled the air when the
children saw her, a cloud of tutued little girls clamoring around her like frilly, miniature marshmallows.

  “Hello, hello, hello,” she said, laughing at their spright-liness as they twirled and whirled around, each one eager to show off to their beloved teacher.

  Scanning across their antics, her eye caught on a small, dejected form hunched down in the back corner of the lobby. Walking over, she tried to read the troubled face partially hidden beneath ribbons of brown curls.

  “Hey, Lily. What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  “I’m sad.”

  “Sad? How come you’re sad?”

  “Rufus said prayee-princesses can’t fly.”

  “Who’s Rufus?”

  “My bow-ther’s friend.”

  “Your brother’s friend?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s nine.”

  “And so why does your brother’s friend think fairy princesses can’t fly?”

  “`Cause they’re girls.”

  “Girls can’t fly?”

  “Nope. Just Superman.”

  “Really?” Victoria felt herself bristle protectively. “But who do you think taught Superman to fly?”

  Lily looked up brightly. “His dance teacher?”

  “You bet. Now, come on, put on your shoes. We have lots to do.”

  Imbued with a new sense of resolve, Victoria gathered the children into the studio and coaxed them through one of their more successful practices. Watching them, she began to feel it might just be possible to pull off the Christmas recital after all. Teasing and laughing with the children after the lesson, she waited patiently for parents to retrieve their respective charges. As usual, a few chronically late ones arrived well after the class had ended. Hastily waving them goodbye, Victoria quickly locked the ballroom doors from the inside, eyes dashing anxiously back toward the simple, unobtrusive side door that led into the deserted alleyway. Her stomach had twisted itself into a tight knot. She wasn’t sure whether she was more nervous that Elliot would show up or that he wouldn’t.