The Air We Breathe

by Christa Parrish

  “Ready?” her father asked.

  Hanna nodded and he held open the heavy door for her. She slipped outside, into the heat, and complained, “It’s like a million degrees.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Dad,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “There’s a vending machine outside of the bank. Let’s hurry there, and I’ll get you a Brisk.”

  “How about a Sprite?”

  “If you drink a soda now, you’re not having one with lunch.”

  “I’ll take the iced tea, then.”

  The gorgeous day had brought crowds downtown. People pushed strollers or dragged leashed dogs, couples walked hand in hand, children pressed their faces to the store windows, asking for something displayed inside. College students sat on benches playing their guitars, cases opened and displaying a smattering of change, or they congregated at corners, smoking and kicking hacky sacks to one another. Hanna and her father wove through it all, finally arriving at FSR Bank, in an area of downtown where there were only offices and professional businesses, and on Saturdays the street was nearly empty. He bought her a water, the tiny lighted message declaring Sold Out when she pressed the Lipton Brisk button, and they went inside.

  There was a line. Henry stood at the end of it. Hanna fell into a red vinyl chair next to a table with pens and deposit slips stored in the appropriate cubbies. She picked up a stack and flipped the edge with her thumb, like shuffling a deck of cards. Fffft. She did it again, and again, until her father cast a sideways glance at her and she stuffed the papers back into their proper spot.

  By the time her father arrived at the teller window, there was only one woman waiting for service, and two men with ball caps and sunglasses sitting in chairs outside one of the banker cubicles. Their glasses were wire-rimmed with brownish-gold lenses, like pilots wore—at least in a couple of movies she’d seen. Her mother would have approved.

  Hanna ducked under the red velvet rope and stood next to Henry.

  “Hey, Hanna Banana,” the teller said. It was Marie, the nice one with the birthmark on her chin and neck. The odd pink skin caught the corner of her lip, too, causing it to swell so it looked as if half her mouth pouted all on its own, even when she smiled. Marie wore a thick, etched wedding band—it covered nearly to her knuckle—and above that another ring of tiny clustered stones Hanna guessed were diamonds, even though they were more gray than clear. She wondered if there was something wrong with Marie’s husband, too. Did he have a similar stain across his face? A limp? Three fingers on his left hand? She couldn’t imagine some normal person marrying Marie, no matter how nice. Hanna’s mother wouldn’t have married her father if he’d been imperfect. At least, she didn’t think Susan would have.

  The gray-haired security guard put his key in the inside lock just as another sunglassed man yanked open the door and, panting, squeezed his obese body through.

  “Just made it,” the guard said with a laugh and turned the key. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you out.”

  The guy wiped his face on his ribbed shirt cuff, his hair covered in a navy blue bandana. “Thanks.”

  Henry chatted with Marie as Hanna watched the last woman customer leave—apparently so had the two guys in the aviator glasses, so it was only her and her father and the fat, sweaty man in the bandana who stood next to the Please Wait Here for the Next Available Teller sign. He shifted around on his big black Nikes, kept snuffling and clearing his throat. Finally, he said, “Excuse me, sir. I’m in a hurry.”

  “Oh, sorry, sorry,” Henry said, tucking his deposit slip into his back pocket. “I’m here going on and you’re waiting. Marie, lovely as ever. See you next week. Sir, she’s all yours.”

  With his hand in that place between her shoulder blades, Henry moved Hanna toward the door, and she watched as Bandana Man stepped up to the teller. His hands shook. He slid an envelope under the glass window. As she opened it, Marie’s smile trembled, melted. Her eyes flicked toward the old security guard, who was chatting with Henry about his gout. Hanna didn’t know what gout was, but she knew something was wrong.

  “Dad, let’s go.”

  “Just a minute, hon.”

  “Mom’s waiting.”

  “Hanna.”

  “No, no, don’t let me keep you,” the guard said. “I’m old. I can blather about my ailments until Christmas, there’s so many of them.” He fumbled with the key ring at his side, heavy with at least a dozen metal keys, and unhooked it from the clip on his belt. “You folks have a good day now.”

  “You too,” Henry said.

  The guard, about to stick one of the fat gold keys in the lock, suddenly looked up and noticed Marie. His hand slowly, silently, tucked the ring into his pocket and floated over to rest on the handle of his gun. “Marie, you all right there?”

  At that moment the two sunglassed men burst from the restroom, each holding a pistol. The fat one at the teller also pulled out his gun from the waistband of his gray running pants.

  “Okay, listen now,” one of the men said. He was tall, bone thin, wore a Boston Red Sox baseball hat, brim rounded into an upside-down U. His voice was thin, too, with a bit of a southern drawl. He pointed his gun at the guard with a steady, unwavering arm. “We don’t want anyone hurt, do we? So you, sir, are going to take your hand off your firearm and put them up where I can see them. All slow like. That’s right.”

  The guard did as he said, and the thin man continued, “Now, Marie, how’s that money coming? You have those bags filled?”

  Marie didn’t move, and the fat guy at her window shook and sweated, plump drops of perspiration blistering over his face like burns. Dark, wet circles spread from beneath his armpits. His navy bandana was almost black. “Man, this isn’t right. She’s buzzed the cops—I know it. We gotta go.”

  “No, Marie didn’t do that, did you? Because you saw what was in that envelope my nervous companion slid across to you just moments ago. Photos of your little girl. Phoebe, isn’t it? Photos of her at her school, in front of your home, at Grandma’s house. So, no, Marie didn’t do anything at all.”

  Tears bubbled out of her eyes, catching the corner of her bloated lip, pooling there for several seconds, then spilling over, like spit, down her chin and onto her shiny pink blouse. Her head trembled side to side. “No,” she whispered.

  “See. I told you. Marie wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Marie is going to finish filling those bags. Aren’t you, now?”

  “Yes.” A hoarse, helpless whisper.

  “Well, aren’t we making some mighty fine progress,” the thin man said, chuckling in a way that scared Hanna more than any shouting or gunfire. She cowered against her father, who had his arm tightly around her.

  “Now, next order of business. You two fine gentlemen there are going to send that sweet little girl over my way.”

  The other man in the aviator glasses—short, compactly built, and wearing a cap from a team Hanna didn’t recognize—whipped his head toward the thin man, so quickly she expected it to twist off and roll across the floor. If the thin man noticed, he didn’t let on. Not even a twitch.

  “No,” Henry said, his voice plain and firm.

  The thin man chuckled again. “Well, I thought you might say that. No daddy wants to turn his baby over to some . . . miscreant. But, I tell you, there’s much less chance of you deciding to play hero if she’s tucked away right by my side. It won’t be for too long. Just until our lovely Marie completes her assigned task.”

  “No,” Henry repeated.

  “Now, okay, no need to be snippy. We’ve all been right friendly to you, and I’d hope for the same courtesy back. I promise nothing will happen to this dear angel if you instruct her to march right over to me. However,” the thin man said, “if she’s not here in thirty seconds, someone is going to get hurt.”

  “That wasn’t in the plan,” the fat guy said, his gun aimed toward the floor, arm jiggling. “You said no one gets hurt. You said—”

  “Enough,” the thin ma
n snapped. “No one will get hurt if ”—he raised an eyebrow—“people start listening.”

  The short one looked at his watch. “We need to get out of here.”

  Hanna had to pee; she felt the familiar warm tingle, the needling pressure. All her fear had settled in her pelvis. She concentrated on willing the urine back up into her bladder, but the more she thought about it, the worse it felt. She hadn’t wet herself since first grade, and the idea she might humiliate herself in front of these men horrified her. She clamped her fist between her legs.

  “Please,” she managed to squeak out.

  Her voice must have stirred something in the security guard. As quick as his old arm was able, he moved it from the raised position to his waist, tugging his weapon from the holster.

  Boom.

  The guard fell, his body jostling Hanna on its trip to the floor. A fine curl of smoke floated from the barrel of the thin man’s gun. The fat guy swore. “You killed him.”

  Hanna felt her father’s body tense behind her. She imagined a panther, ready to pounce, knowing he was about to use the moment of distraction to try to . . . What? Save her? Save them both? She wanted to beg him not to; the gun fired again and Henry crumpled on Hanna’s feet. She couldn’t see his blood, but something warm dripped through the holes in her beach clogs and between her toes.

  Fat Guy wretched. “You stupid—”

  “Shut your mouth or you’re next,” Thin Man told him. “Get the money, now.” He jerked his head toward Hanna and said to Short One, “Get the girl.”

  “This isn’t—”

  “Get her,” Thin Man barked.

  Without another word, Short One picked up Hanna, her front against his, her chin on his shoulder. She watched her father’s unmoving body as she was carried away, each step bouncing her field of vision, and felt a warm wetness spread between her and her captor’s body that rapidly turned cold as he shoved her in the back seat of the waiting car.

  4

  MOLLY

  FEBRUARY 2009

  It rained so heavily the air looked jellied, denting around Tobias as he ran across the street, collar of his jacket pulled over his head and one hand holding it there, the other cradling two bottles of soda. Water erupted from the asphalt, flooded it, and then bubbled downhill and over the scraggy slope at island’s end to be reclaimed by the sea. Molly watched—always watching, only watching—as the bottles squirted out of his arm, little torpedoes skidding across the pavement. He bent to grab them as he went, a smooth, perfect motion, and tucked them both into the waistband of his jeans before hopping up the steps.

  “Hey, you open?” he called, knocking on the glass.

  Molly unlocked the door, held it open for him. After he came through, she twisted the dead bolt again. Tobias shook off in the lobby, rain splashing everywhere. “No witch today?”

  “I didn’t turn the speaker on. And now I have to clean this mess. Mom will be so ticked if she sees it.”

  “At the water or me?” He grinned, the acne craters at the corners of his mouth deepening.

  “Your choice.”

  Molly grabbed the dingy string mop from the corner storage closet and swished it over the puddle. “You’re not working today?”

  “I am. But, you know, it’s still early for deliveries. But we just got these flavored seltzers in Friday, and I know how much you like them, so I figured I’d come bother you and bring the drink along. Since I know how much you like them.”

  “And I know how much you don’t.”

  “Nasty stuff,” he said, taking them from his pants, and in a suave move flipped them from caps pointed down to bottoms, a soft-drink slinger, and placed them on the front counter. “I wouldn’t open them yet, though.”

  Molly laughed. “I won’t. Believe me.”

  “Weird weather, huh?” he said. “For February.”

  “I’m glad I don’t have to be out in it.”

  On Sundays, like today, he came after church. His family made their way to mass early, so they could open for lunch, but he stayed back and, minutes before ten, sprinted down the street to the little Baptist chapel. She watched him go week after week, him leaving about the same time she settled in to watch a local service broadcasted on the public television channel.

  During the off-season it didn’t matter if she left the door locked until the televised service ended, but even in the busiest summer months Louise gave Molly that hour for worship. They didn’t talk about religion, though, not anymore. Her mother wasn’t able to peer inside and see what the Lord had done for Molly, the healing hands caressing her bruises, the gentle whispers to her soul. The peace that came over her when she cried out for it. The inexplicable hope, even though she stared at the same walls every day, the corners creeping with dark mold from the leaky roof. She could only regurgitate a handful of verses and the sermon notes she heard on the TV, and Louise came back with the same argument each time, the only one she needed.

  “Where was God when your father died? Where was He when you—?”

  She stopped there, always. Maybe she thought those words were enough, but Molly knew it was more than that; her mother had never gotten through to the realities lurking on the other side of that unfinished sentence.

  “I think we can open these now,” Tobias said, twisting the cap off his root beer. He opened the seltzer, and the foam oozed over his fingers with a hiss, carbonated water spraying both of them. “Sorry.”

  “You do that even when you don’t drop it,” Molly said. “Good thing there’s no sugar in it.”

  He gave her the bottle. “I can go back and snag us a couple of slices.”

  “No, don’t do that. You’re already soaked.” The bubbles danced around her drink, kissing one another, clinging to the walls, swimming to the surface and disappearing before more took their place, much more lively than in Tobias’s drink. Her stomach felt like that around him, all gassy and over-carbonated. He stared at her, and she wondered if his almost-black eyes saw something she didn’t. She sipped her water; it fizzed up into her nose. “How was church?”

  “Great. You should come with me sometime.”

  “I watch Pastor Gary.”

  “Not the same.”

  “I don’t know if I could get away.”

  “On a Sunday? Come on, Moll, no one comes when it’s cold and rainy like today.”

  “Uncle Mick wants the place open every day.”

  “Which is why you had the door locked.”

  “I hadn’t gotten around to opening yet. I was going to.”

  “And the Closed sign still turned over.”

  She reached out and flipped the flimsy black-and-red sign hanging by a suction cup on the glass. “There.”

  “Your mother could watch the counter for a change. It’s just one morning, Molly.”

  “She’s not here. And I—” Molly heard a piddling sound, like a dog urinating on the carpet, looked around until she saw it, a thin stream of stray rainwater dripping onto Elvis’s shoulder. “Oh, shoot.”

  She hugged the King around the middle, tried to slide his feet along the floor to move him, and stumbled backward. Tobias steadied both her and the wax figure, his arm around her waist and partly under her shirt, on her skin. The first time he’d touched her. And it wasn’t like the novels, with electric sparks running up her spine, and her head spinning with excitement. No. Her stomach roiled with revulsion, the way a snake slithered, contracting and releasing as it moved up in her chest, jamming against the back of her throat until she had to bring her hands to her mouth to keep from vomiting. Elvis, his weight entirely on Tobias now, shifted forward and fell to the ground. Tobias moved fast, stood him back up, as if the damage would be lessened if the statue lay on the ground less time. But the King’s arm fell out of his sleeve, breaking into pieces.

  “You let go,” Tobias said.

  Molly pressed herself against the wall, arms buckled around her shins, teeth digging into her left knee—a safe pain, one she knew from where it ca
me and how to stop, one she controlled with the pressure of her jaw, the angle of her mouth. Tobias’s hand had been rough on her, like the edge of the corrugated pizza boxes he brought over. And it hurt, an old pain so deep she never thought she’d feel it again, but there it was, scuttling up from the past. It was as if his fingers were long, thin pins—straight pins, the kind she put through Shirley’s wax hand—sliding in deep and smooth.

  “It’s broken,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it by myself.” He looked at her. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  He held out his hand toward her. “Here. Let me pull you up.”

  “No,” she said, shrinking away, shimmying to her right and pushing herself up the wall so she wouldn’t come in contact with him again. “I’m good. I got it.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “I don’t know.” She crept around the pieces of the arm, far enough away from Tobias so that, even if he reached out, nothing of him would graze any part of her.

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  “I’ll pay for it. I’ll tell Louise I bumped it, knocked it over. Whatever. She hates me anyway.”

  She kicked at the broken arm pieces. “It’s fine. Really. I think there’s another arm in the storeroom I can replace it with.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “No. Please . . . go, Tobias.”

  “Molly? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She backed toward the door, until the dead bolt pressed into her spine, cool through her shirt, hard, menacing. “I just need to get this fixed before Mom gets back. She’ll be here soon.”