by Susan Vaught
My heart stutters. “I can get you the court documents, or let you talk to my folks so you know I’m not lying.” Desperate doesn’t quite cover what’s happening in my brain. More like nuclear panic. It’s real. It wrecked my life. And now I need to prove it to have a shot with my girl?
“No, no, not what you’re saying.” Livia waves both hands in front of her. “What happened—what they did to you. Are you serious? You got convicted of all that awful stuff for touching your girlfriend and looking at a naked picture of her?”
She’s … not freaked out. She’s confused and angry, but all of a sudden her expression’s reminding me of Mom when she’s trying to work out a puzzle. Livia’s thinking. But she’s accepting and she’s believing, and she’s still right here in front of me, talking. That might be the best part of all.
All the power drains out of my knees and I take the few steps to Harper’s dirty counter so I can lean on it. “I may be the world’s only virgin rapist,” I hear myself mutter, then wish I could roll that little confession right back into my mouth. I’m such an idiot.
Livia comes over to the counter, not up close, but close enough for me to know she’s not totally disgusted. “And you didn’t even rape her, and she told them.”
“Yeah. And her folks told the police, and my parents did, and her mom and dad didn’t want to press charges, but it was up to the DA, and he took it to court.”
“I feel sick.”
I go back to studying her face, trying to figure out, sick about what—me? Everything she just heard?
From somewhere a million miles away, a smoke alarm screeches.
Instinct makes me glance toward the other end of the counter—where Fred’s cage isn’t.
“I didn’t bring her in,” I mumble.
The alarm-screech echoes through the graveyard outside the house over and over and over again.
“Fred?” Livia asks. She’s looking around, too.
Cold dread stabs into every muscle in my body.
The fire …
Oh God.
No more thought. No more breath. I bolt for the door as Fred screeches and screeches.
Livia beats me to the front of the house. She throws the door wide open, and we both charge into Rock Hill, beating it toward the fire and the blanket and the tree where I left Fred’s cage hanging on the bottom branch.
Cherie’s already there.
She has Fred’s cage in her hands, and the door’s open, and she’s just standing there, crying, and Fred …
Fred’s not in the cage.
Heat blasts all over me, not fire, not outside fire. “Where is she?” I shout, my voice so loud it hurts my ears. “What did you do to her?”
“She was alone—I thought … I …” Cherie holds out the cage. “The door came open and she flew. She flew away.”
I snatch the cage away from her and throw it on the ground. “You’re lying! I heard her screeching.”
“I let her out. I didn’t mean to!” She starts wailing, but I block her out. My heart rips and pounds in my throat, my mouth.
“Fred!” I yell, trying to turn in every direction at the same time. “Fred? Hello?”
“Fred,” Livia calls, and starts walking in the direction Cherie’s pointing. Away, like she said. Into the sky. Into the thick woods bordering Harper’s property.
God, it’s so cold. It’s so damned cold!
The darkness seems to get even darker.
“Fred!” I grab her cage off the ground. “Fred!”
Not loud now, because I’m crying and hugging the cage and not wanting to let myself know that my bird is gone. My Fred. My bird. Gone forever into the woods. Gone.
Cherie rushes past me bawling about it being an accident and I don’t listen to her, and she never stops running. I feel like I’m completely losing my shit as an engine turns over in the distance and tires squeal out of the cemetery and away, away, gone like Fred.
I want to run into the woods and climb every tree. I have to. Fred’s in there somewhere, maybe still alive, at least for now, at least for a few hours. If she gets high enough to avoid raccoons and foxes and coyotes and opossums, if no owl sees her, then maybe I can find her and bring her home before she freezes to death or starves to death or dies of dehydration.
It’s over, idiot.
It can’t be over. Not just like that, because of an accident. A split second of Cherie being stupid or mad or mean.
It’s over.
“Fred.” I sit down, hugging the cage, feeling how totally and completely empty it is, not sure what to do next or how to do it.
My bird, my best little friend.
Harper’s got flashlights somewhere. I have to find them. I have to stop blubbering like a frigging idiot and get moving.
“It’ll be okay, Del.” Livia’s voice floats down to me, way too much like the sort-of lie I told Marvin the night we all got arrested. “We’ll find her. Come on. Get up. We’ll find her, and she’ll be okay.”
Now
NOW is frozen.
NOW is too hard for words.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Mom’s yelling before I even shut the door. She looks wild, her hair sticking out in all directions and her green SPCA shirt smudged with brown streaks that look suspiciously like graveyard dirt. She’s storming toward us from around the corner in the living room, which is why she doesn’t see Livia.
Dad, who is standing in the hallway between us and the living room, does. Which is why he’s not saying anything. He’s got on jeans and his SPCA shirt, the blue one, and his shirt is dirty, too.
Mom roars up beside him and spots Livia standing beside me, and her sneakers squeak like brakes on the hardwood. I know they’re taking in my scratched hands and torn jeans, the cut on Livia’s face where she got hit with a pine branch, and the fact she’s holding my hand. I’m so cold I’m numb. Livia’s face is tear streaked and we’re both red eyed and hoarse from yelling.
I feel empty. I can’t even talk, and Livia’s teeth are chattering.
Dad looks like he’s trying to work up a reasonable set of questions because the clock on the wall says fifteen past eleven. After curfew. Way too late.
“Where’s Fred?” Mom asks, zeroing in on the problem and already raising her hand to her chest. “We came to the graveyard looking—your blanket, we found it and the fire, but you two weren’t anywhere around.”
“Harper wasn’t much help,” Dad mutters. “We were thinking about calling the police, but …”
But all of us would let each other freeze to death on a cold winter night before we’d ask the police for anything. I get that. I think Livia probably does, too.
“Honey, where’s Fred?” Mom’s voice sounds worried and high-pitched.
She’s gone.
I can’t say it, but my eyes are telling Mom, and her eyes are filling up with tears.
Fred’s gone.
“There was an accident,” Livia squeezes my hand as she talks. “Cherie Blankenship let Fred out of her travel cage and she flew away into the woods.”
Mom’s hugging me before Livia finishes talking, and then she’s hugging both of us and Dad’s there, too, both of his hands on my shoulders.
“We looked”—my voice chokes out, sputters back into motion—“for hours. And we called. Nothing.” My mother still smells like raspberries under all the Humane Society and graveyard-searching stink. Raspberries. Sweet and fresh and momlike. With her arms around me and Livia beside me and dad behind me, I feel stupid and small but not like I’m floating away, because my mother still smells like raspberries.
“I’m sorry, son,” Dad tells me, and I know he means it. “She’s roosting by now because it’s dark. We’ll go with you in the morning before school at first light to look again. Maybe we’ll have better luck.”
She’s roosting. Not, she’s been eaten by an owl or she’s freezing to death or she’s out in the pitch-black night all alone.
Fred’s roosting.
It sounds better.
“You’re both freezing,” Mom’s saying as she lets us go. “Come to the kitchen and let me make you something warm to drink—and oh, honey, that cut on your forehead.” To my dad, she says, “Go get the first-aid kit. We need to clean that up.”
Mom and Livia seem to like each other, talking nervously but fast back and forth, sometimes finishing each other’s sentences as Mom peroxides Livia’s cut and dabs on antibiotic ointment.
Dad and I have our second cup of cocoa, and I’m not blubbering like a baby, so we’ve made a little progress. My fingers are thawing. It feels warm in our small kitchen at our antique wooden table with its wooden chairs and Mom’s decorative horn of plenty spilling out apples and pears and oranges on the spring-green table runner. Mom always puts out spring decorations in February. Dad calls it wishful thinking, but she insists it’s “hopeful thinking.”
I watch Mom and Livia, and catch, “Cherie Blankenship, that girl’s been such a problem for Del.…”
“I don’t think she meant any harm.…”
“Maybe not, but therapy could help that child.…”
My insides ache, watching them, watching how frenetic Mom is as she helps Livia and talks to her and listens to her.
It hurts because it could have been like this. My life. It could have been about baseball and school and dating and pretty girls my mom approves of sitting in my kitchen while Dad grins into his cocoa. This could have been my world, my planet.
“Livia’s nice,” Dad says, still more to his cocoa than to me. “I knew—well. She’s even prettier than—well, she’s—she’s nice.”
He’s struggling not to be weirded out by the whole situation, me with a girl after more than three years.
The banging on the front door makes everybody look up at the same time. Livia takes hold of Mom’s wrist, and her dark eyes get really, really big.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “What time is it?”
“Late,” Mom tells her, then her eyes get big, too. “Did you call your family and let them know you’d be late?”
“I forgot my cell phone.” Livia gets up from her chair as Dad heads down the hallway and the banging on the door gets louder. She pushes past Mom and me to get out of the kitchen, hurrying to catch up with Dad as he reaches the door and pulls it open.
The front porch light lights up the big man outside, a dark-haired mountain in jeans and a heavy flannel shirt. He’s got huge hands that make huge fists, and he’s breathing fast, sending up jets like smoke signals.
“My daughter’s car is in your driveway,” he says, part worry and part accusation.
“Yes,” Dad starts, but Livia interrupts him with, “I’m here. I’m fine.”
Dad steps out of the way to let Mr. Mason inside, and then ushers everyone into the living room. It’s the biggest space in the house, with two couches and two recliners and a big television and hardwood floors—but Mr. Mason seems to take up a lot of the room. He stops with Livia in front of the far couch, and Mom and I join Dad near the living room door.
“This was the first house after the graveyard,” Mr. Mason says to Livia. He sounds furious, but also worried. “I didn’t know where to start looking after I searched the cemetery, but your car was here.”
Livia faces her father. There’s no hint of whine or anger or defensiveness when she says, “I’m sorry, Dad. It’s been a bad night and I got really distracted. I just realized what time it was.”
Mr. Mason’s cheeks look red, like they’ve been scrubbed by the cold and all of his emotion. He squares off with his daughter, and now he seems to be towering over her with those fists still clenched. “What the hell happened?”
I feel his question in my gut, because it’s accusation now that his worry’s ratcheting up. I’m doing tense-wary, getting ready to help Livia if he gets much louder. Dad gets hold of my right forearm and clamps down hard, shaking his head slowly.
“Bullet and a target,” he murmurs so that I can hear him, and that image keeps me still.
For the moment.
Livia doesn’t seem afraid of her father. It’s more like she’s upset with herself. “Del works at the graveyard.” She tips her hand toward me. “His parrot flew away and got lost. We were trying to find her.”
Mr. Mason glares at Livia, but his attention shifts in my direction.
I have no idea if I’m supposed to say anything or not, and Mom and Dad don’t seem any more certain than me. In a fit of not knowing what else to do, my parents introduce themselves and they introduce me, too, using my whole name. My very weird and recognizable name.
Mr. Mason’s face tightens, and a narrow-eyed scowl slowly creeps over his face, and I realize he knows. He remembers my name from the news.
“You. You’re …” He points at me and takes a step, then Dad gets between us before Mr. Mason can say anything else.
“Del’s parrot escaped her cage,” Dad repeats, like the truth will make any difference. “Your daughter was kind enough to help him search for the poor bird, and we appreciate her help.”
“Go get in the car, Livia,” Mr. Mason says without taking his eyes off me.
“Dad—”
“Now.”
Livia gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t care what he says or does. I gaze back at her, grateful but worried and still not sure about anything. It’s me breathing fast now, and Mom, too. Seeing her scared digs deep, and I try to think of something to make this all okay.
“You move or I’m calling the cops right now,” Mr. Mason tells Livia.
Her mouth comes open. “For what?”
Now she sounds angry. Defiant.
Mr. Mason doesn’t react to her at all because he’s still staring over Dad’s shoulder, right into my face. “He’s not allowed to be around you. I know he’s not.”
That’s not true, but Livia doesn’t know it. I see worry cloud her ticked-off expression, softening it to concern and confusion.
“It’s okay,” I tell her because I don’t want her in any more trouble. “You can go. Mom and Dad will help me look for Fred in the morning.”
For some reason, she looks hurt instead of relieved.
“Don’t you talk to her.” Mr. Mason points his finger at me. “Don’t you say another word to my daughter.”
Livia’s staring at me and her eyes are telling me No, I’m not going just because he tells me to. I don’t care. You matter to me.
She matters to me a lot, too. I want her to stay until she’s ready to go, but her dad’s big and pissed and in my living room, and I’m not sure what’s about to happen. I feel myself going limp, like when pinhead Jonas gets in my face, because he might hit me and I can’t hit back.
If Mr. Mason hits me, it might be the only punch I ever take. I’m scared, but I’m more mad. I don’t know what Dad is, other than in front of me, where he’s likely to get hit first. Mom’s beside me, saying something about calming down and talking like rational people.
“Go to the car,” Mr. Mason tells Livia again, this time through his teeth. His glare never lets up and I feel it like lasers on my face, but it’s Livia I’m looking at.
Ask me to stay, her face pleads. Ask me to stay and I will. Let him do whatever—we can handle it.
“You—ah, you probably should go,” I tell her. “That would be best.”
The words hit her. Wound her.
Cherie’s laughter sounds in my head, along with her favorite insult.
Pussy.
Livia slips out of the living room without looking at me or my parents and heads out our front door, letting it bang shut behind her.
I want to run right after her, but my father and Livia’s father are standing inches apart. Livia’s father becomes Clarence the rooster in my head, and I’m sure he’s going to jump at Dad, spurs out.
Dad’s not trying to talk Mr. Mason down. This is one rooster he’s not trying to tame and save. He’s got his fists clenched like Mr. Mason’s, and I’ve never seen that from my dad, not ev
er.
Pussy, Cherie’s voice says again, this time with no laughing, but maybe it’s my voice. I’m still limp. Just standing there. I’m doing nothing. I feel the weight of it, the not moving, in my hair and teeth and skin and bones. Helpless. Useless.
“Go to your room, Del.” Mom’s voice is quiet but insistent.
I should argue. I should stand with my father or at least go after my girl, but I hear her engine gunning, and her tires spin on the gravel. I’m moving before I think about arguing with Mom, doing what she told me to do instead of going after Livia.
Piece of dirt. Useless. That’s all I am.
I have no options, no way of doing anything without facing more trouble, and I can’t stand that, not for Livia or Dad or anybody.
What kind of person am I?
I keep moving even when I hear Mr. Mason say, “You stay away from my daughter, you little bastard. You keep your hands off her.”
“That’s enough,” Dad tells him in a voice like his clenched fists, hard and strange and dangerous. “I don’t know what you’ve heard or read, but obviously you don’t know the whole story about my son. He only—”
“I don’t give a damn!” Mr. Mason cuts Dad off, looking three times more furious. “Nothing you say or explain will make it okay for that pervert to go near my daughter, understand?”
Mom heads for the kitchen phone as I reach the stairs, and I know she’s pretending to go call the police.
Mr. Mason probably doesn’t know she’s pretending, and after everything that happened to his family, I bet he’s as scared of cops as we are.
I take the stairs two at a time, then turn at the landing to see him backing out of the living room toward the door, refusing to turn his back on my father. He glances in my direction. “If you touch her, I’ll break your neck.”
Mom makes it to the kitchen and picks up the telephone.
Mr. Mason goes out the door and slams it behind him.
Dad stays where he is and so does Mom and so do I until we all hear the grumble of a second car’s engine and see headlights sweep across the front window.