Route 12

by Marietta Miles

  “Momma.” The girl shrieks, tripping across the landing. “Mom, please.” She calls out. “It’s Mrs. Manson.” She is calling at the top of the stairs. “I don’t know what to do.”

  A boyish smile splits his face. He sits straight up and listens. Throwing the bottle of medicine in the air, he catches it, tucks it under his pillow.

  “Is everything okay?” he yells out to Cheryl and jumps down the stairs.

  ***

  “I can’t do this.” Kathryn is moaning.

  “It’s okay.” Percy lays Mrs. Manson in the backseat of the Riviera and covers her with blankets Cheryl had been holding. The old woman is pale and a thin trail of drool dribbles down her chin. She has not opened her eyes since Cheryl found her. The wind kicks and screams.

  “You get her to the hospital,” he says, and closes the door. “I don’t know the way.” Gently he puts his hand on Kathryn’s elbow. “You can get there faster.” He guides her to the driver’s side, opens the door, and helps her inside.

  “Be careful.” He reaches forward, brushes grit from her hair and peers into her eyes. “Don’t want you to get in an accident.”

  Cheryl rounds the front of the car. “Call me when you get there,” he says.

  “If I can,” Kathryn hollers over the gale.

  Cheryl and Percy stand side by side, watch the car drive away. Temperatures have plunged and the sky has given in to night.

  “I guess it could be a stroke,” he says. “She’ll be okay. She might be different. But, she’ll be okay.”

  Cheryl is silent.

  “We should get you inside.” He sets his hand on her arm and guides her to the house.

  ***

  The Hicks house stands stark against the grey sky, the long white window frames like sad, floating ghosts. Occasionally, waves of ice flakes sprinkle across the glass. Storm clouds stretch and reach like long fingers, grasping for Belle Gap. In the middle of town, St. Mary’s cross and spire dimly shine. Theresa paces back and forth before her view on the second floor, trapped in the narrow, freezing house. She feels as if she is a million, gloomy miles from where she was this morning.

  Laundry had been hurriedly finished, delicates and linen laid out on flat surfaces to dry. Well before the wind turned chilly, Grandma Delia had her cover the sidewalk and porch with salt. Theresa doesn’t dream of leaving, for fear of scarring grandmother’s well-shined floors. Water fills the bathtub as reserve and they had bottled several gallons after lunch in case plumbing froze or burst. Theresa had brought in a medium bundle of firewood, hoarded over the summer, from behind the garden shed, and a fire roars in the first floor hearth. She latched the window shutters on the back of the house, as they were unprotected by nearby structures.

  Telephone lines along Byrd Avenue and Broad Street dangle, broken by high winds. In the Harlan neighborhood, the poorest part of Belle Gap, electricity lines lie across streets and yards. The streets are empty, the town quiet except for the angry wind. Belle Gap looks abandoned.

  She wonders what Cheryl is doing. She looks at the records on her bed. Of course, she couldn’t find a record player. She had crept to the attic before the dark afternoon began. She managed only a few steps in before Delia was at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What are you doing up there?” the old woman had called. “What do you need? I told you not to go up there.”

  The search was over. Theresa slouches back to her room and pushes down a desperate need to set down the stairs, break from her prison. The pale walls feel tight and suffocating.

  I wonder what they’re doing, Cheryl and Percy, she thinks. Is it dark? Are they alone? Are they close? Does he think her muddy, brown eyes are pretty? Does he think she is very brave and very romantic because of her sickly, useless legs? Does he think she is terribly clever?

  Alone, feeling forgotten, she looks out the window and wishes she had taken a ride in his car.

  ***

  The lights flicker once, twice, and endure. Television is impossible—the antenna had blown off the roof twenty minutes before and now rests in the pine trees closest to the house. There was no snow but it was biting and blustery.

  Cheryl curls into the crook of the couch, her arms hugging her knees. Her eyes are red and puffy. She stares at a stain on the rug. Mrs. Manson. Please don’t die, please don’t die.

  Percy turns the light out in the kitchen. He crosses into the living room and holds a tall glass out to her. She looks up, wiping at her cheeks.

  “Oh, no. Mom’ll kill me if I take another one of her sodas.”

  “Then you’re safe.” He holds it closer to her. “These are mine.”

  “Thanks. She actually counts the cans.”

  He sits down on the other end of the couch, resting one arm on the back of the couch and the other to the side. He looks comfortable, at home.

  “You really like that old woman, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” she mutters, shaken by how cold and rude he sounds. “She talks to me. But, she listens, too.”

  “Your mother is lucky you help out so much.” He shakes his head, takes a deep sip and exhales. “I’d imagine you’re flying the coop soon?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you aren’t like other girls around here, are you?”

  She stares at him, stunned.

  “I mean, you seem pretty smart. I bet you’ll be starting at the university soon.”

  “Oh. Well, yeah. That would be nice.” She laughs, unwinds her legs with her arms, and leans over the coffee table, taking another big sip. “I don’t think we can afford that. At best, I’ll be at Shenandoah Secretarial.” She pats her mouth. “This tastes weird.”

  “I didn’t have enough cash. I had to get RC. Sorry if it’s flat.”

  “No. No. It’s fine.”

  “Hey, thanks for helping us tonight,” she says seriously, without a smile.

  “No problem.”

  They sit quietly for a bit, both looking elsewhere. The lights flicker and, this time, remain dark.

  “Well, here we go,” Percy says. “Candles in the kitchen?”

  “Uh huh.” Cheryl hovers on the edge of the couch, suddenly sluggish. “First drawer left of the sink.” Her voice wanes, sounding like she is in a tunnel or deep underwater. Her head rolls back. The dim room looks like a picture taken at the wrong angle. “Let me help,” she mumbles.

  Her mouth is dry. She takes a large gulp, sets the drink down on the table, and stands. Leaning to the right, she stumbles toward the kitchen. Everything seems weighted and heavy. Blurry. Hazy. She knows it is most definitely her kitchen. There’s the table and the coffee maker. Mom’s big electric skillet. The refrigerator hums in the corner. However, there’s a man at the sink, not her mother. His legs are set apart, strong, his head bent. He turns around and reaches for her. Everything is different.

  “Momma?”

  “You all right?” he asks.

  Her tinny voice rings in her head, yet never makes it past her lips. I’m all right, sleepy, very sleepy. He puts his arm around her, holding her straight. She feels his other hand on her cheek, her mouth, her jaw. Abruptly, her stomach is woozy, turning upside down. She needs to lie down. She loses her control, her strength, and slips to the floor. The room grows smaller, into a tight little tunnel until there is nothing but black.

  ***

  Gasping. Panting. Shaking. Percy lays Cheryl on her bed. He can feel his boiling blood barreling through his veins. His rushing excitement breaks out of his pores like a slick of sweat. Shoulders go rigid and legs clench tight. He’s on fire. Roaring.

  She’s dead to the world, out cold. Still in her jeans and sweater, hands curled under her chin. Her mouth drops open and her breath is loud and raspy.

  He yanks open his fly, shoves his hands between his legs and labors to ready himself. Pulling. Tugging. The fragile skin turns red and angry. Still, his fingers find only softness, weakness, shame. He stands over her delicate bed, frantic, crazy, needing release. He
pushes her sweater up and touches her pale, soft stomach. Her skin puckers with goose bumps, the cold lying on her like a blanket.

  Break her. Bouncing on his toes, dancing back and forth from one foot to the other, he’s raging and rushing. Break her to pieces. This thought pleases him, draws warmth down, and leaves him hard like a rock. Break her to pieces against the rock.

  He straddles her, thighs squeezing her hips tight. The bed squeals under the extra weight. Laying his head on her chest, he listens to her steady heartbeat, breathing in her sweet, young smell. His hands wrap around her throat, squeezing slightly and releasing repeatedly, hips thrusting forward. Covering her mouth with his hands he pushes down hard, harder. Bones always break.

  Cheryl’s arms flail weakly, her fingers move to push the hands away. Feeble. She scrapes her fingernails across his skin. Her chest arches upward, relaxes, and her cold mouth gasps for air, sucking against his skin. Hands drop to the bed.

  Through the window, in the distance, he sees headlights bouncing down the dusty, powdery drive.

  ***

  “I have to go back tomorrow.” Kathryn is sitting at the kitchen table. “They want to see what she takes, took. Medicines and pills.” She inhales. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  Percy keeps quiet. There’s a candle between them. Though the storm took an unexpected shift, the wind is still sharp, and the power remains out. He pours her a bourbon and Coke.

  “Is Cheryl okay?” she finally asks.

  “Oh, yeah,” he answers. “She went to sleep right after you left. She must have been really worried, worn out.”

  “She’s always been an anxious girl.” She reaches forward and pats his arm. “I’m glad you were here tonight. There’s no way I could’ve lifted Mrs. Manson.” Her voice breaks. She draws her hand back to her drink. “And I would’ve had to leave Cheryl alone.”

  “No problem. Really.” He shakes his head. “You helped me out. I appreciate that.”

  “Well.” She empties her glass easily. “I’m going to check on her. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I have to tell her.” She balls her hands into fists. “She was really close to Mrs. Manson.” The bourbon warms Kathryn’s stomach and she feels loose, soft. “Mrs. Manson was more patient than I could ever be.”

  “I’m heading up myself.” He puts the glasses in the sink and slides the pint into his back pocket. He follows her upstairs.

  “You know, she’s really tired.” He faces Kathryn with his hand on the door to the attic. “You should just let her be, let her sleep.”

  She opens Cheryl’s bedroom door. The room is shadowy and quiet. Her girl is in a deep sleep, wheezing. She sputters, turns to her side, curling into a fetal position.

  “You don’t have to tell her tonight.”

  “I know. You’re right,” she says, grateful for a good reason to avoid the inevitable. Her eyes tear up, staring at her daughter.

  He starts up the stairs and she walks into the bedroom, kisses Cheryl’s smooth forehead. She closes the door behind her and heads to the basement.

  TWELVE

  BOTH CHERYL AND KATHRYN sleep past noon. They are still slightly wasted. The storm left broken trees, shattered windows, downed lines. Silver trashcans, plastic garden pots, plastic bags, and soda cans gathered in wind-buffeted corners throughout tired neighborhoods. A white dusting of snow had fallen then melted, leaving behind only bleached stains. The sky and earth now melt together in color.

  Percy slips away early. He drives into town, winding along the narrow, coiled streets. Cruising, he passes a little post office, a butcher, and a barbershop. There’s a closed down insurance office and a farmer’s market with empty stalls. The car prowls farther, to the good part of town. The houses are old, well cared for, meticulously boring. He keeps only one finger on the steering wheel, practically daring the car to crash. The car is floating, soaring, flying. Unbreakable.

  The tall white house, with the haunted windows, shows from behind all the others, posing for him. He parks and gives Theresa’s house all of his attention.

  ***

  “Please, please let me go with you.” Cheryl’s cheeks are red and wet, tears covering her face. “I just want to see her again, please Momma.”

  “Okay, okay. But, it’s just going to make you sad, honey.”

  “No, it won’t. I couldn’t be any sadder.” She inhales, her lips slick from tears and spit. “I don’t understand at all. She was fine. She was just fine.”

  “I know, baby. I know. There’s no real reason. No one to be upset with.” Kathryn kneels beside the bed, holding the girl’s face in her hands, kissing her forehead. “She went to sleep, took a nap, and just never woke up, honey. She was old. It wasn’t painful.”

  “God, Mom. I know.” She throws her hands over her face. “The house just feels empty now.” She looks at the floor. “I think I miss her.”

  “We got to leave soon. You should get ready. Do you need anything for your throat?”

  “No. It’s feeling better.” She gulps, wincing.

  Mother sets her hands on her hips.

  “Promise, it’s better.” She swings her legs out of bed, sniffs and wipes her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “See, I’m getting ready.”

  ***

  Theresa steps into the backyard, pulling her robe around her. The temperatures are mild compared to the night before, but it’s still chilly. Her wellies slosh in the mud puddles. The yard is a mess, littered with trash from the neighboring house.

  Stopping to tie her gown and robe so as not to muddy them, she feels the cold air slip over her knees.

  “Well, you’ll need to get yourself prettied up if you want to come with me, sweetheart.”

  She jumps, dropping the metal bucket she was using to clean up.

  “What are you doing here?” She looks behind her toward the house, nervous.

  “I wanted to see you.” Percy stands on the other side of the white wood fence, holding onto the top of the gate. He had walked up the sidewalk and taken the back path. “Come on.”

  Last night, in the dark, she had wanted this and she had wanted him. Last night she would have said yes.

  “Yes,” she mumbles, nodding her head and staring at him.

  “Meet me at the bottom of the hill in a few minutes.”

  “Half an hour,” she answers, looking down at her flannel Sears Roebuck pajamas, shrugging in apology.

  “Could you drive me to Cheryl’s?” she asks as an afterthought. “I’ve got some stuff to give her.” She would drive anywhere with him.

  “I’d be happy to, sweetheart.” His smile is proud but she doesn’t notice. “Yeah, she’s pretty down. The old woman across the hall died last night.”

  “No!” Her strange resentment toward Cheryl breaks away.

  “Afraid so. Died in her sleep, seems. Could be worse ways to go.”

  She thinks it’s a horrible thing to say. “Sure,” she whispers and closes the robe tight around her chest. “See you in a minute.”

  Percy, bold and unworried, watches her walk inside the house.

  ***

  “What you got there?” he asks, smiling.

  Theresa slides across the chilly leather passenger seat. The metal springs sound like little bells. She pulls her feet inside and sets them on the light blue carpet. She thinks how tight the spot would be for Cheryl, how her lame legs would make this so difficult. She feels guilty for the thought and pushes it deep.

  The car smells of cigarettes and spearmint. She hadn’t seen him smoke. Before closing the door, she steals a look in his direction. He watches the sky, disinterested. She pulls the heavy door toward her without thinking. Just before it closes her heart jumps.

  When honey, you know, I’ve never lied to you.

  He turns down the radio. The heater blows stronger as he pulls away from the curb.

  “Records. Cheryl loaned them to me the other night.” She sits far away from him, as close to the door as the seat will allow, looking ou
t the passenger window. “But, I don’t have a record player.”

  “You know I ain’t going to bite? Right?” He sounds a little less appropriate than before. His accent is lazy and his voice teases.

  “I know.” She sounds sullen.

  “Hey. It’s okay. Don’t worry, honey. I like you.” He smiles at her. “I like you a lot.” He turns back to watch the road, one finger on the wheel. “I won’t let nothing happen to you.”

  The car warms up and Theresa settles down.

  ***

  Kathryn speaks to the doctor, giving him all the pills and prescriptions Mrs. Manson left behind. The hospital had already moved her body to the morgue by the time they arrived. Cheryl is desperate. She looks inside the room. The bed is empty, the room plain and white. She didn’t even have flowers.

  They walk down the hall together, leaving for home. A family of three rush past them. They speak to the doctor. By the look of the man’s round nose and slight mouth, she knows he is Mrs. Manson’s son.

  A little redheaded girl, maybe eight years old, stands between the mother and father. She gazes at Cheryl and her braces. When she tries to smile the little girl turns away, frowning.

  Freak. Freak. Freak.

  ***

  Faded billboards for Myrtle Lake, a campground open from spring to fall, dot the damp highway. An RV dealership sits across the way, multi-colored flags flapping in the wind. A little closer to Belle Gap the road curves; there’s a flat, colorless motel and a giant arrow, a smiling bear pointing to the reservation office. Just past the motel sits a barbecue joint, a bib-wearing pig painted over the door.

  Cheryl and Kathryn sit at a wooden picnic table in front of the restaurant, nursing limeades and pulled pork. The hills and mountains are dark against the light gray sky.

  “Baby, I’m sorry about Mrs. Manson.”