My momentum threw him off balance, and we tumbled to the ground. My hands found their way around the small body an instant before impact. I clutched the child to my chest and jumped up off the floor, but only took a step when he caught my foot. Tears streamed down my face. I fought to shake him off, but he pulled me back and propped himself on one knee. Shifting my weight, I hobbled back to her crib and set her in it before the drunk regained his balance. With grim determination plastered across his face, he jerked me face first onto the floor.
“How dare you, woman!” he screamed as he straddled my back, pinning me to the carpet. His fingers closed around my neck from behind and began jerking me back and forth like a rag doll. Through the crib’s ornately carved wooden bars, I watched Gloria’s tiny eyes meet mine in a curious gaze.
Please be all right, I wished as tears streamed down my pale cheeks.
“Leave her alone, Daddy!” whimpered another small voice from the doorway, but it soon faded. As the darkness closed in, the last words I heard were those of a young Abigail crying, “Mommy, don’t hurt Mommy!”
* * *
I blinked away the memory and focused on the small rabbit in my hand. The smell lingered, but not for long. The stuffed animal peered up at me through its one button eye, each arm reaching out as though seeking salvation. It seemed appropriate. I had hoped that as the visions came, I would somehow become immune to the emotional effect they had on me, but that wasn’t the case. I wiped my damp eyes on the sleeve of my father’s button up. I knew it was difficult for them, but never considered what the girls might have endured before the drunk appeared in my life.
Lifting myself up, I padded down the hall to the room the girls shared. The door was cracked and the lights were out. A small plug-in night light cast an eerie glow from the far corner. In its yellow hue, Gloria slept peacefully in the twin bed they shared. Her eyes were closed and the covers were pulled and twisted in a fist, cradled under her chin. She looked just like the infant in the vision. I stood watching her from the doorway, unable to go in for fear of waking her. Her small freckled nose had darkened over her short years and her face had broadened, but the changes were insignificant. Gloria’s face was still the same as the child I had seen only moments before.
In the dim light, I noticed that Abigail’s side of the bed was still vacant. I found her sitting at the kitchen table, constructing a project for school out of Popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners. She was focused, her legs crossed underneath her in an awkward, yet somehow comfortable pose. Her hands manipulated the elongated materials and twisted them to meet her needs. She must have learned at an early age how to hide in plain sight. She worked alone, in silence.
Abby had never mentioned what happened to her mother, Helen. During our first year together, I overheard the drunk tell Gloria that their mother left them. She asked many more questions, having come of an age to understand what was missing. She knew Vivian wasn’t her mother. Her questions began to irritate the drunk and Abigail shushed her before it became too much. Eventually, the questions died away and she accepted Vivian as a suitable substitute.
I turned my gaze away from the silent soldier who had come to her mother’s rescue, but now sat twisting pipe cleaners in the overhead light of the kitchen. Gloria lay in the darkened room. I pitied her. She still had no way of protecting herself and wasn’t even aware of the danger that lurked a few feet away. Why he hadn’t killed her too, I didn’t know, but somehow she survived. Fortunately, Abigail was grooming her for survival, teaching her when to talk and when not. Whether she knew why or not, Abigail was her guardian angel. And what was I, a young man who pitied himself for not having his father? For years I was wrapped up in my own sorrows, so much so that I overlooked the needs of those around me. The thought shamed me. It was as though I’d been dipped in dirty motor oil. I bowed my head and walked to the bathroom. Maybe a shower would clean away some of the grime.
Thursday - 11
October 6, 1995
The next day was an opportunity. I threw on another of my father’s button-ups and a faded classic rock shirt. As usual, Frank was snoring in sync with his father, their nasal voices echoing down the hall. I made my escape, but stopped in the kitchen and waited for the girls rushing down the hallway. Gloria emerged, ushered along by an ever-solemn Abigail. She handed a plastic shopping bag of materials to Gloria after she got her backpack settled. Gloria placed it in her own bag with care. Then while Abby steadied the poster board foundation of the building, Gloria grabbed a cinnamon roll off the kitchen table. To my surprise, she turned to me and held the roll aloft.
“Breakfast,” she offered, her innocent eyes peering at me like the night before.
To her delight, I accepted the roll with a polite, “Thank you.”
I finished it in two bites. When Vivian brought them home, it was quite a treat. They were expired and she would get them on sale, but they still tasted as sweet as they did minutes after leaving the oven. Gloria smiled and grabbed the two remaining rolls for her and Abby. Two folded bills sat next to the plate, my weekly allowance. This month’s check must have arrived. The money wasn’t much; Vivian kept most of it. I used the rest for lunch and a few odd things. It was all that remained from the lawsuit, what they felt my father was worth. I’d rather have him back. Thirty dollars a week… I stuffed the bills into my pocket with a grimace. They even felt dirty, like blood money.
When Abigail had balanced the teetering building in her hands, she muttered a relieved, “Okay.”
I looked down at her through fuzzy, blue, interconnected beams of sunlight. Her dark eyes filled with renewed confidence and a haunting gaze that belonged to someone much older. As we stepped out the front, her foot caught on the lip of the doorway and her building project stretched to the side, attempting to fall to the floor. One hand grasped the doorframe while the other strained to maintain the teetering project. After a brief balancing act, she made her way down the shifting stairs with wary glances and succeeded in reaching the ground intact.
“You want yours?” asked Gloria, peering up at her burdened sister.
Abby’s attention remained focused on her project. “Not right now, Glory. Maybe after we get to school.”
I reached out and lifted the fragile building from her. She gasped in surprise, thinking it had somehow gotten away, but when she saw it held in my hands, her expression turned quizzical. I ignored the look and headed down the sidewalk.
“Eat your bun, Abby. I got this.”
After she’d recovered from her astonishment, the older sister glanced at the small hand waving a cinnamon roll in front of her face. She took it with a smile that Gloria returned. The rest of the trip to school was uneventful, except for the few close calls with prevailing winds, but we made it there with the replica intact. Most of the trip was filled with questions from Gloria, but I caught Abby looking askance at me a few times. Unwilling to broach the topic, Gloria did so for her, commenting on the change in routine in her childlike manner.
“I’s glad you sided to walk wit’ us today, Alex.”
“Thanks, Glory,” I replied to her upturned face. “I am, too.”
Abigail’s nickname for her seemed fitting considering her blonde hair, freckled nose, and pale cheeks. She reminded me of a childish Valkyrie from Norse mythology. I imagined her fighting for justice on an alabaster horse, her long hair trailing behind her as she charged forward, a silver sword protruding from her upraised hand and gleaming under a bright ray of sunlight. When I looked back at her, in its place was a sticky cinnamon bun. I smiled and she grinned back. She licked the icing from the roll, rotating it in her hand so as not to miss an inch of its creamy goodness. I couldn’t help but chuckle.
For the first time in quite a while, I actually made it to school before the bell rang. The day began with Trigonometry. Paige grinned when she saw me. Mrs. Easely had given up on recruiting me for after school make-up work. Most of the time I was sent into the hall to complete missed assignments. She alw
ays started by asking us to think about a historical question relating to whatever concept we were covering that day. Sometimes it was interesting, but more often than not, I wrote down some lame excuse for an answer. It was enough to get me through. Rarely did anyone get the right answer, but a few people in the front row would sometimes surprise her. Her stony façade would crease and crack as she rediscovered what smiles were for. Today was not one of those days. She handed me back the quiz I’d made up. A D- graced the top with a frown drawn next to it. At least it was passing. The rest of class went the same way, my participation worthy of a D at most. I slunk into my chair and avoided her searching gaze as she sought out volunteers to answer her questions.
My thoughts returned to Gloria and Abigail. I was relieved not to have dealt with such brutality earlier in life, but how has Abby coped for this long with the knowledge of what happened? She should have said something to someone. I hated the drunk even more now, something I hadn’t thought possible the previous day. Life wasn’t supposed to be this way. Paige and others never had to deal with people like that. Why couldn’t we have lucked into a family like hers? As my thoughts turned to my own family and the father I would never see again, it occurred that I was one of those people. Life had been good for most of my life. Not great, but good till Dad was taken. Then it was as though God had cast us out. These cursed visions left me more confused than ever. Father Gilbert said I should help the people I saw in my visions, but how could I help the girls when no one believed a word I said? I needed to talk to Paige. She would know what to do.
Thankfully, Mrs. Easely never called my name that day. When the bell rang, I grabbed my bag and waited outside for Paige. She was always the last one out, and one of the few people Stone Face Easely greeted in the morning. When she caught up to me, I gave her my best smile. Just the sight of her brown eyes was reassuring. At gym, I finally got a chance to speak with her in depth. By the time we had changed, Coach Moyer pulled out a few carts of basketballs.
“Two groups,” he boomed. “People who want to form teams go to the right and scrimmage. Those of you who want to shoot at your own pace, head to the left and pick an empty basket. Hop to it.” He pointed at the two sides of the lacquered court for emphasis.
Paige retrieved a ball from the aged metal cart. We joined the less enthusiastic kids and headed for an unused half-court at the far side of the gym.
While she weighed the ball in her hands and aimed at the basket, I whispered, “You won’t believe what I found out about the drunk.”
She cast a curious eye my way, still shifting the ball in her hands. “What?”
“I had another vision when I picked up a stuffed animal of Gloria’s. I was Helen for a few minutes.”
Her eyebrows quirked. “Helen?”
“Yeah Helen, the girls’ mother.”
With the question answered, she fired at the basket before turning to face me. “Okay, what about her?”
“Well, you know I only get those if something extremely bad happens, right?” I waited for her to nod before continuing. “She didn’t leave them like he always said.” Paige stood waiting for me to continue, her attention now focused. “The drunk murdered her when she tried to protect Gloria.”
“He murdered her?” A hint of skepticism entered her voice.
“Yes.”
“Listen, Alex, I know he’s bad news and all, but don’t you think this might be taking it a little too far?”
“Paige,” I rasped, “Father Gilbert knows the visions are real, and you do, too. Remember what we found at the historical society?”
She nodded but began fidgeting, dry washing her hands at the thought of someone we knew doing such an awful thing. “I know. I just have a hard time believing it.” She considered the possibility for a few silent minutes before resigning herself to my point. “Well, if anyone we know could do such a thing, I guess it makes sense that your stepfather would be the one.”
I winced. Even now, the reminder of my relationship grated on my nerves. I lived with him every day, but had never thought fondly of the relationship. Even the mention of it was painful, as though he were somehow trying to take my father’s place. Setting my emotions aside, I asked, “So what should I do? Gloria survived that day, but only because her mother took her place. We’re all still living with him. Abigail saw the whole thing, and she hasn’t said a word about it to anyone. I’m sure she’s lived every day since scared to death of what he might do.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” muttered Paige. “Why’d he go after Gloria?”
I ran through my memory of the vision again, as I had multiple times that day. “I’m not sure. He doesn’t need much reason, but he said something about not being able to afford another kid.”
“Was that all?” Her jaw almost hit the floor.
“He was drunk and stressed out about losing his job.”
“That can really stress some people out,” she mumbled with a nod. “I’d say he’d be a prime candidate. But why go after the one person still working to make ends meet?”
The question was a good one. Helen had offered to get another job, but it further infuriated the man, throwing him into a rage. I said as much to Paige. “So, what next? I can’t leave the girls with him. Who knows what could happen?”
Paige took a moment to consider the question. “Well, you need proof. You’ve seen how helpful the police can be without evidence, and I’m sure your mother will vouch for his character no matter what.” I watched in rapt attention as her cheeks shifted into a subtle frown. “The hard part will be having the knowledge and not being able to do anything about it until then.”
I understood what she meant. Since the vision, things had changed. I had not gotten much sleep last night. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw Gloria’s infant face turn toward me and felt his hands around my throat. Afterward, I’d glance over at the door to make sure it was still closed. With little possibility of proving his guilt, I knew more sleepless nights lay ahead.
“I know,” I mumbled.
Seeing my pain, Paige stepped over to the collapsed bleachers and rescued the ball she’d shot wide of the basket. The brief reprieve gave me a few minutes to dwell on my thoughts. By the time she returned, I still hadn’t emerged from my solitary lake of depression. She placed a hand on my limp shoulder.
“It’ll be okay, Alex. I know it will. We just have to keep our eyes open. Besides, you’re the only one looking out for those girls. They need you.”
“Well, Abby’s watched out for Gloria her whole life,” I replied. “What have I ever done for them, other than push them aside when they tried to get my attention?”
“Look, you can’t blame yourself for that. You didn’t know, but now you do. And Abby can’t protect them both. She’s smart, but what happens when he comes after her? What matters now is what you do from here.”
Her words parted the sea of sorrow that was attempting to drown me and helped me find my way to the surface. I had a responsibility to the girls and I couldn’t ignore that anymore. This was what Father Gilbert had meant, to speak for those that couldn’t speak for themselves. He wasn’t just talking about the dead, but those living their lives in fear of the murderers, dead to the world around them. Shrugging off the anchor that had descended onto my shoulders, I met her gaze.
“What do I do?”
Paige lined up another shot with her eyes and let the ball fly. This time it arced through the air and into the net.
“Do what you can to find out more, but lay low,” she cautioned. “You don’t want to antagonize him. Stay out of his way, especially if he is guilty of murder.”
As I jogged after the runaway ball, I considered my options. I couldn’t watch the girls all the time, not if I still wanted to visit my dad. If I went straight to their school, I could walk them home and beat the drunk to the trailer. But what if something happened at home? I was barely five-foot-six to his six-foot, and scrawny, too. Athletics had never been my forté, and everyone alw
ays called me a wimp. My thoughts strayed to the worst possible scenarios involving an enraged drunkard. Each time, they ended in violence.
By the time I reached the other side of the court, my mind still had not come up with a solution. Turning, ball in hand, all thoughts of the drunk fled as I came face to chest with a sweaty gym shirt. I hadn’t noticed him approaching. My gaze crawled up his broad shoulders and settled on a set of brown eyes that ran in the Brogand family.
“So what the hell were you talking about yesterday, Drummond?” demanded Grant.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I answered.
I knew I was playing with fire, but I couldn’t help but revel in the moment, knowing that I had something over Grant Brogand. I tried to hold back the chuckle rising in my throat, but only managed to suppress it. It emerged as a twisted smile, curling the corners of my mouth. He noticed the smirk behind my words and it outraged him further.
“I’ll bet you don’t,” he spat through clenched teeth.
His anger was less apparent at first glance, but looking into his eyes was like watching someone pour a barrel of lighter fluid onto a two-story bonfire. Inside, a storm was raging, fighting to get out. Seeing that was enough to kill the joy I had taken from the situation. My smile vanished.
“You had better tell me before I knock your freaking head off.”
Every facet of his face supported the statement. I didn’t need to know his family history to see the restraint he was exercising, especially when confronted by someone as small and patronizing as me. He was quivering as though a chill had descended in the heated gym.
“Look,” I prompted, raising my voice. It echoed over the bouncing balls, gaining the attention of students throughout the large room. “Everyone knows what your grandfather did to his wife, and people have always wondered how much your father really had to do with Michael Michowsky’s death. Now, a few people that were there have started talking. It’s only a matter of time till the authorities come knocking down your door. No amount of money can silence the truth, Brogand!” My final words ended in a shout.
A Life of Death: Episodes 1 - 4 Page 7