Rust & Stardust

by T. Greenwood

  Her panties felt wet, and she worried her bowels were starting to release. The thought that she’d soiled herself, like a baby, filled her with horror and shame.

  Sally practically ran into the ladies room, closing the door behind her. She lifted her skirt and tore down her panties.

  Blood.

  So much blood, coming from down there. She felt her vision vignetting: blackness at the edges and then stars.

  “Miss?” the woman said on the other side of the door.

  Was she dying? Had whatever Mr. Warner done to her torn something deep inside her? She held her breath and studied the bright red bloom in her underwear, the toilet bowl filled with blood. She thought she might vomit.

  Knock, knock.

  “Miss? I have something for you,” the woman said.

  Sally stood up, feeling woozy. She slipped the soiled panties off and rolled them into a little ball before stuffing them into the bottom of the waste bin. She opened the door to the restroom just a sliver, and the lady’s arm reached in. In her hand was a brand-new pair of clean white underwear as well as some sort of bandage and a pink box that said MODESS: SANITARY BELT. The picture on the cover looked like one of Susan’s garter belts.

  “I wasn’t sure what you needed,” the woman said on the other side of the door.

  Maybe she could invite her in now, beg her to please take her to the hospital. To keep her from dying. To maybe even take her home with her and hide her from the law, from Mr. Warner with his bristly face and sharp hands. (Each night, she recalled the blades, the blood of girls swirling together.) She looked down at her leg where a single blood drop traveled down toward her sock and sucked in her breath.

  “Go ahead, sweetheart. Take them,” the woman said.

  “Ma’am … I … I’m scared…”

  “Oh, poor baby.” Her voice was gentle, and Sally almost pulled the door all the way open. She imagined embracing her, the lady stroking her hair as Sally told her everything that had happened since the last time she was in a Woolworth’s. That Mr. Warner had done something bad to her, and now she was dying. But then she was struck with a terrible realization. Maybe this was a trick. Had Mr. Warner set her up? Had he done something to her to see if she would steal something again? The underpants still had the price tag attached. She looked at the pair of panties, felt the cool air on her bare flesh beneath her skirt. It felt so strange to be without her underthings. But she couldn’t take a chance; if she was caught stealing again, she might never get home.

  She shook her head, though the woman couldn’t see her.

  “Is this the first time your monthly visitor’s come calling?” the lady whispered.

  Sally stiffened. She’d heard Susan say that before, curled up in her bed with a hot water bottle pressed to her belly. Sally had been so worried about her, but Susan had just smiled and said, It’s the curse. Horrified, Sally had wondered how her very own, sweet sister had been cursed. And by whom. But then Susan had laughed, and said, It’s just my monthly visitor, Sally. I’m fine.

  “Just attach the pad to the clips on the belt, and then put it on like a garter belt. Wear these panties over them.” Her voice was low. “When you get home, tell your mama what happened.”

  Trembling, Sally took the items from her, readying herself for Mr. Warner to come barreling through the door. She quickly cleaned herself up, including the tears, which ran hot down her cheeks, and the thin river of blood on her leg. She tried to get the bloodstain out of her sock, but it just blurred pink, the sock cold and wet against her ankle. When she came out, Mr. Warner was waiting, as he was always waiting, pretending he was only looking at a rack of lady’s blouses.

  “For her mother,” he said to the shop girl, plucking a hanger from the rack and examining the fabric.

  Sally choked back a sob as she thought of her mother, tried to imagine her in that pale yellow blouse. She even thought for just a moment that he meant to send her home now, with a gift for Ella. She’d tell her mother about the helpful shop girl, and then ask her what she was supposed to do. How long she’d keep bleeding. If she could die if she lost too much blood.

  “It’s lovely,” the shop lady said. She looked at Sally and winked.

  But Mr. Warner replaced it on the rack. “Too small. We’ll just take the other things, thanks.”

  Outside the heat made her swoon as they walked, his hand returned to her arm like a vise. As they walked briskly back to the house, she was aware of the bulky pad between her legs beneath her skirt; what would Mr. Warner do if he discovered that she’d taken the new panties without paying? Would he still believe she was a good girl who did what she was told? That she could be trusted? If he found them, he might never let her go home.

  AL

  “Excuse me? Do you know where the closest service station is?” Al leaned out the open passenger window and asked an elderly gentleman who was walking a small dog.

  “There’s a Sinclair station over at East Twenty-fifth and Kirk,” he said.

  “That way?” Al asked, and the dog started to yap.

  “Near the Coca-Cola bottling plant,” he said. “Come on now, Buster. Heel.”

  Al had never been to Baltimore before and didn’t really know where he was headed, nor what he might be able to find once he got there. As he parked the car on the blighted street in East Baltimore, he reached for the photo the police had found in that rooming house in Atlantic City, that oddly disturbing picture of Sally sitting on a rope swing, wearing a dress neither Ella nor Susan had ever seen before.

  He’d gotten his nephew to keep an eye on things at the greenhouse today, and he’d left Susan behind reluctantly. The baby was coming any day now. She hadn’t slept right in weeks, tossing and turning all through the night. During the day, when she wasn’t on the phone, comforting Ella, she was consumed with readying the house. He’d caught her going at the grout in the bathroom with his old toothbrush and a cup of bleach just the other morning. Sun hadn’t even come up yet.

  He wanted nothing more than to be able to bring Sally back home to Susan. To Ella. But where should he even begin? He’d asked Buzz Murdock, a buddy of his from high school who’d lived in Baltimore for a spell, if he knew if there were any pool halls, any places where a criminal like Frank La Salle might go.

  “You know they call it Mob City these days,” Buzz had chuckled. “You sure you want to go stirring up that hornet’s nest?”

  Buzz was right; hunting down criminals wasn’t exactly in Al’s wheelhouse.

  The police had said La Salle was a mechanic by trade. Al figured he’d start by stopping at all the garages, show Sally’s picture around. He also had La Salle’s photos from the papers, though he could barely bring himself to look at his face. The cops were pretty sure that La Salle didn’t have a vehicle, so Al thought he might speak to some folks at the train station, at the bus depot. Though if that failed, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. Maybe just start knocking on doors?

  “Be careful,” Susan had implored. Her voice was muffled, as she disappeared under the sink looking for God knew what. Ammonia maybe.

  “Of course,” he’d said, and offered her his arm as she struggled back up to her feet, clutching a rusty green can of Comet.

  “And you’ll be back tonight by supper?”

  “I’ll try. If not, I’ll find a phone and give you a call.”

  He studied the city maps he’d picked up at three different service stations: Shell, Gulf, Sinclair. He figured he’d start here, stopping at every service station noted on the maps, asking if anybody had seen the man in that photo. The little girl on that swing. Now, he opened up the car door and stepped onto the street, could feel sweat rolling down his sides as he made his way toward the bright green-and-red Sinclair sign.

  * * *

  All day he searched, but no one had seen La Salle. Sally, either. He’d show the photo of La Salle first, the one from the papers. “You seen this guy? He might have come by looking for work?” A collective shaking of heads, shr
ugging of shoulders. “How ’bout this girl?”

  You’d think somebody would at least have recognized her from the articles in the paper. This was the photo they’d all used. But not one person had any idea who she was, never mind where she might be.

  He’d gone to the bus station, the train depot. To three rooming houses and six different bars. He’d stopped by the police station as well, and they’d told him they were actively pursuing all leads. That he should let law enforcement do their job. But the lieutenant he spoke to seemed more concerned with his sandwich than he was with Al’s lost sister-in-law.

  He’d been a fool, he thought, to think he could find her here. That it would be as simple as showing her photo, asking around. Foolish to think a guy like him was capable of saving anyone. He was no hero; he never had been.

  Al had spent exactly two years in the U.S. Navy, aboard the USS Alabama, where in February 1944, he’d been in the head when his best friend, Robert Lee Langston, was incinerated. While repelling enemy air attacks on their way to the Marianas, there was a malfunction in one of the gun turrets, causing a five-inch gun to fire back into another turret on the ship. It killed five of his shipmates and wounded eleven others. When it was over, he’d vomited first and then wept. He’d been seasick (he’d actually been sick since the minute he’d come aboard), and Bobby Lee had offered to take his spot at the guns. The only thing left of his friend was his boots. He’d gathered them, smelling of ash and sweat, kept them with his personal belongings for a whole year. After the war, he delivered them to Bobby Lee’s mother, and she’d looked at him with such hurt in her expression, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Bobby Lee had died because Al was busy puking his guts out, and all he had to offer his poor grieving mother was a pair of blackened boondockers. Al still dreamed the smell of burning flesh and metal. The look in that woman’s eyes. He couldn’t bear to have another mother look at him with the same disappointment. He wanted to bring Sally home. In the flesh. Alive. And if he couldn’t do that, he at least wanted to be able to give Ella and Sue something, some small bit of hope.

  After six hours, his feet hurt from walking; he must have walked a hundred miles already. His clothes were nearly soaked through with perspiration. He hadn’t stopped for lunch even, and now his stomach was howling with hunger. He figured he’d grab an early supper and then head back home. If nothing came up, he’d have two hours in the car to come up with a plan for what to do next. There had to be something. He felt in his pocket to see how much money he had for his meal. Just a single, crumpled dollar and some change.

  Money. Maybe a reward would help to motivate people. Yes, that was it. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Feeling a jolt of inspiration, he walked into a Woolworth’s on the corner and made his way to the lunch counter. The waitress said they were closing down the kitchen, but then she took pity on him and said she had some leftover fish she could warm up. He was starving and devoured the tepid fried fish platter and side of canned peaches and cottage cheese.

  “Can I get you a nice slice of pie for dessert?” the waitress asked. He’d seen the Boston cream pie in the glass display, but now as he looked at his watch, he figured he’d better check in with Susan and then head home.

  “Looks delicious, but I’ll pass today. My wife’s gettin’ ready to have a baby, and I best be makin’ my way back.”

  He paid his bill and left a generous tip on the counter. On his way out the door to go find a pay phone, he saw a display of baby items.

  “Can I help you find something?” a shop girl asked.

  He smiled. “I’d like to pick up a little something for my wife. She’s due any day now,” he said.

  “Oh, how exciting!” she said, clapping her hands together. She was young and pretty, bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “We just got in some new baby books, you know, places to keep track of things. Put their birth certificates and footprints and such.”

  “That would be perfect!” Al said, and followed her to a display, noting that her hair was secured with a pretty peacock hair comb, its feathers made of colored glass. “Do you sell those here?” he asked, gesturing to the hairpin.

  “Oh no,” she laughed, touching the barrette. “This was a gift from my fiancé.”

  He paid for the baby book and left the store. She’d told him where to find a pay phone, and he used the rest of his coins to call. As he was dialing, he thought that after he checked in with Sue, he’d go back and show the ladies at the Woolworth’s Sally’s photo. The waitress, the shop girl. Maybe one of them had read about her in the papers.

  But when Sue answered, he forgot all about Sally and Frank La Salle.

  “Oh my God, Al, where are you?” Sue asked.

  SUSAN

  Susan had woken from an afternoon nap and known right away that something was wrong. Pain pulsed through her body, and for one awful moment, she thought that perhaps the same thing that had taken hold of her mother’s body had somehow now taken hold of hers as well. In a slumber-induced stupor, she felt the same terror her mother must have felt each and every day when her body conspired against her.

  It wasn’t until sleep left her, and awareness and memory crept in, that she realized it was the baby. It was coming.

  For months she had tried to imagine this, what it would feel like and how she would know. Everyone assured her that there would be no question when it finally happened, that true labor pains could not be mistaken for anything else.

  “Al,” she’d said, reaching across the bed as another contraction made her body pulse with pain. But then the realization hit her that Al wasn’t home. He was still down in Baltimore looking for Sally.

  “Oh my God,” she said, feeling panicked. The fingers of pain gripped her so tightly she cried out. And as she did, her water broke, soaking the sheets, her legs, the bed.

  * * *

  Al had promised he’d try to be home by six or seven o’clock. It was only four now. By the time he finally called to let her know he was on his way, the contractions were coming every few minutes. Hardly enough time to catch her breath in between.

  “I’ll call Davey,” he said. “Get ready. I’ll have him come get you right away. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

  In her brother-in-law’s car, she closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and held her breath through the waves of pain. She thought of the beach, of the time they took Sally with them to the shore: the waves backing away and then coming and crashing against the sand. Sally had marveled at them, somehow surprised each and every time the waves returned. Sally had looked at Susan, who was sitting on the beach, reading a magazine, as if to confirm that this was really possible: that the push and pull of the ocean would go on endlessly. The look of wonder in her face made Susan smile.

  Sally. The pain of her absence was not predictable like this. It didn’t have a cadence, a rhythm. Instead it was like a pit, a hollowness, a hole that opened up abruptly when she was least expecting it. A bottomless well she fell down, grasping at the sides to hang on. The fear she felt about the baby was petty, small compared to this. It was like trying to imagine the depth of the universe, infinity.

  * * *

  “She’s having a baby,” Davey said to the woman at the counter. (As though the woman wouldn’t know this by simply looking at Susan, hunched over and cradling the bottom of her belly like it was a basket of ripe fruit she was trying not to drop.)

  “Oh God,” Susan cried as the pain gripped her harder. She felt the pressure bearing down on her pelvis. The baby was coming; she felt herself aflame.

  “Her water’s already broke,” she heard Davey say to the woman.

  She wanted nothing more than to fall to her knees to the floor, to crawl like an infant herself, her body rocked by the rhythmic ache. But just as she was lowering herself to the blessedly cold linoleum, someone came behind her with a wheelchair, and then she was being rushed down a brightly lit corridor. God, where was Al?

  The old nurse, whose hands and words were rough, brusque
ly situated her and her enormous belly on the bed.

  “No time for an enema, I don’t think,” the nurse said, almost scolding. “When was the last time you ate?”

  Susan reached out and grabbed the nurse’s wrist. She wanted to tell her that she just needed to get down onto the floor, onto her hands and knees. But her words were gone.

  “Now, that’s enough of that,” the nurse said, peeling Susan’s fingers from her arm. Another nurse entered the room, and the older nurse called her over.

  “We’re going to need to tie this one down.”

  The new nurse nodded. She was young and pretty, with dimples.

  “Please,” Susan pleaded. “Help me!” But the younger nurse only shook her head, her face filled with pity, and as the other nurse tied her hands down to the bed, Susan had the unbearable sense she was being imprisoned, held captive by not only this pain that enclosed her, but this sadistic nurse as well.

  Sally. She thrashed, trying to free herself. “No!” she screamed, and the next wave of pain crashed over her.

  “Calm down now, you’re not the first person to ever give birth, you know,” the cruel nurse said as the other one offered gently, “I’m givin’ you something to ease the pain now, and I promise you won’t remember anything later. But you’ve really got to hold still.”

  As the needle entered her arm, she tumbled, her body sucked under by an undertow.

  The doctor entered.

  “Is she out?”

  And she drifted, first on those receding waves of pain and then farther out to sea. She was alone. Adrift on an unending expanse of black water, black sky, starless, terrifying. She knew Sally, the baby, Al, and her mother were all out there somewhere, and she woke screaming and reaching for them, her cries mixing with the sound of a bird screeching in that dark sky.