The Minor Apocalypse of Meena Krejci

by Susan Taylor Chehak

  A red-haired woman in a yellow dress stepped off the elevator, brushed past, left a smell of flowers in her wake, and the elevator operator offered you his toothy smile, said something about the weather—too much rain? Not enough? On the ninth floor, the elevator stopped and the brass doors opened out onto a long narrow hallway. Your shoes skimmed the geometrically patterned carpet; your double glanced back at you from within the mirrored wall—stony face set beneath a troubled storm of hair. Flowers in a glass vase nodded in the breeze of your passing as you ticked off the numbers on the doors. 908, 910, 912—Mr. Grandon was in 916.

  You knocked, stood back. Nervously shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hand on a hip, head cocked, as you listened for the sound of his approach. Hoping to see a shadow cross the peephole and the door swing open, hoping to see him there before you, grinning from ear to ear.

  You tried to tell yourself: he had his reasons. He'd be able to explain, you would understand, together you'd find a way to work things out. You'd think of something. And if you had to kiss him again, you would.

  You waited.

  You knocked again.

  But, of course he wasn't there.

  What an idiot you were. What had you been thinking? Why would a man like Jack Grandon be in his room now, in the middle of the day? Of course he was out somewhere, conferring with a client or sitting at an open house, or whatever it is he did all day at his job.

  If you left him a note at the front desk, then they'd give it to him that evening when he came in, he'd know that you were looking for him, he'd go up to his room, and he'd call you back.

  But the front desk clerk was shaking his head. "Mr. Grandon? I'm sorry, but he checked out a few days ago."

  "What?"

  "He's not here, Miss. He's gone."

  "Gone? Gone where?"

  A shrug. "Now that I do not know."

  "But when will he be back?"

  Seeing the look of desperation on your face and hearing the squeak of panic in your voice, the clerk stopped. He cocked his head suspiciously. "Say now, aren't you his daughter?"

  You were backing away.

  "Would you like to leave a message?"

  Ducking your head, turning on your heel.

  He called after you, "What's your name again, Miss?"

  But you didn't stop to answer. You whirled through the lobby, toward the tall glass doors, away from the Grandons and back to yourself, out of the light and into the falling rain.

  Seen from afar, as you moved along those streets of Linwood on that wet summer afternoon, you were no more than a shadow of a girl, huddled in upon yourself, small and inconsequential, hardly noticed, easily overlooked. You might have been a pilgrim like your father, wandering aimlessly from one neighborhood to another without direction or intent, but beneath the dark surface of that apparent calm you seethed, and it was the power of your flaming hatred for the Grandons that drove you on. You were cursing them, damning them, wishing death and disaster on them all—Mr. and Mrs., Libbie and John. And didn't they deserve it? Not only because they'd let you down, yet again. Not just because they had rejected you, yet again. They had failed you and at the same time they had failed themselves, hadn't they? But worse, they had been ungrateful, careless and thoughtless and neglectful of the many gifts that had been given them in their lives.

  Josef Krejci was right about them; he had been right about them all along. Shallow, stupid people. Why in the world did you ever think you wanted to be like that? Or, one of them. How dare they be so unhappy, and such a mess? Your neighbors who had always had everything. Everything! All the comforts of an intact family and a crowded home—noisy, lively, bright and welcoming and warm—all of it handed to them, as if they deserved it. As if it were nothing more than their just due. And yet without thinking, without looking back, without even understanding what it was they had or what there was to lose—they'd just tossed it all away. As if it were junk. Piece by piece by piece.

  And to think that you, poor pathetic lonely motherless Meena Krejci, had ever envied them. Had ever wished that what was theirs might someday also be your own. This was what was hurting you the most just then. This was the deep pain that fueled the rage that was driving you on, away from downtown and back toward Otis Road. Fourth Street, Fifth Street, Sixth Street.

  You had decided: before you went home, you would stop at the grocery store and tell your father everything. The bill, the kiss, the touch, the check. He'd take care of things for you. He'd find Mr. Grandon and demand to be paid the money that he owed. Maybe he'd even go to the police. It was likely that he was going to be angry with you, too, at first, and maybe his anger would linger for a while, but he'd get over it, finally. In time, he would forgive you. How could he not? You were his daughter, after all, and hadn't he said it already, that you were all he had?

  Maybe he'd even kick Libbie out of the apartment, while he was at it. If you asked him to, you were sure he would.

  You didn't have a chance of going to community college now, you knew that too, much less to a real university. But maybe that had been a bad idea anyway. As absurd as thinking that Josef Krejci and Faye Grandon might find something in common with each other—their loneliness—and decide to do something about it between them. Maybe it was all just as well, now the situation was clear.

  By the time you got back to the store, the rain had stopped and the streets were steaming. Josef Krejci was at the register, cheerfully ringing up a big order for a woman with three children—one on her hip, one clinging to her skirt, and the other seated in the cart—and he looked up when you came in, surprised to see you back.

  "I need to talk to you."

  He shrugged you off. "Not now, Meena. I'm busy."

  You could see that there was a line of customers, and that he would be busy for a while, which was just the way he liked it anyway. You would have liked to tell them all to go away. You needed him for yourself just then so you could tell him everything, before your anger dissipated and you lost what resolve you had, but you knew better than to even suggest such a thing. The customers came first, of course, the customers always came first, that was how his world worked.

  You went to your desk under the stairs, took your place there as if you had something to do, but you didn't unlock the drawers, didn't take out your adding machine, didn't turn on the lamp. You sat quietly, with your hands in your lap, and you waited. You felt your temper cool, your breathing deepen, your heartbeat slow. When he was free he'd come to you and ask you what was the matter, why were you there, why weren't you home, what was wrong, were you all right? And then in the face of his concern you'd be able to tell him everything, and maybe he'd be angry, all right, sure he'd be upset, but he'd also know what to do, he'd be on your side, he was always on your side. He was your father, you were his daughter, you each were all you had. There was nothing that either of you could do that would ever be able to change that fact. He would not abandon you. And you would not abandon him.

  You pulled out a pen and paper, and you wrote him a note.

  Dear Dad Josef Sir Dad,

  I have made a terrible mistake and I am sorry. As you can see by the attached statement, the Grandons owe us more than four thousand dollars in unpaid bills. It's all my fault. I've tried to collect and but have been unsuccessful. I'd hoped to spare you the trouble of this but they . Can we talk about it later this evening, when you come home?

  Love With love With sincere apology,

  Your daughter, Meena

  Outside the back door of the store, Fox Dow was lounging on the stairs. His coppery hair, his ginger grin. Your first thought was that you would duck back before he saw you, pretend you'd just remembered something you'd left behind, turn quickly and go back inside again, cross the store and leave through the front door to avoid him altogether. But why? What were you afraid of? What was there to keep you from returning his greeting, why not smile back, why not stop and talk to him? Why not?

  He saw you hesitate and pounced.
"Meena!" He seemed so glad to see you. Or maybe it was your obvious embarrassment that delighted him. "What's happenin', Meena?"

  You shook your head. "Not much. Nothing." You didn't know how to talk like that: groovy and far out and right on and like, wow. "I guess I'm okay, Fox. How are you?"

  This made him smile. He nodded. "Sure. I guess I'm okay, too." He ran a hand through his hair, blew out a long puff of breath, shook his head. Now that the rain had stopped and the sky was clear again, the world steamed, the air was thick, the sun blinding. You squinted at him. A swarm of gnats hovered near the bushes that edged the parking lot and crept against the stairs. Fox waved a hand to scatter them. He was wearing a blue plaid cotton cowboy shirt with pearled snap buttons, open at the front, and faded jeans, torn at the knees. A rope belt, bare feet. His body was pale, freckled, frosted with coppery coils of chest and belly hair. His hair was long and tangled. He looked like a bum, Josef Krejci said.

  "Where's Libbie?"

  He shrugged. "She split about an hour ago. She should be back pretty soon."

  You nodded. Well... You had begun to turn away just as Fox was stepping toward you. He was tall and thin, and his hair fell in his face as he leaned closer. His smell was smoky, musky, sour. He reached out, skimmed a fingertip across your cheek, tapped your chin and tipped your face toward him, just as Mr. Grandon had done.

  "Hey, you want to come upstairs for a minute?"

  "What for?"

  "Because it's too fucking hot out here!"

  He had backed away, turned and bounded halfway up the stairs before he stopped and looked over his shoulder, down at you. "Come on!"

  The screen door creaked open, slapped shut.

  The world steamed. Cicadas hummed. Gnats swirled. Your hand slid along the rickety wooden banister as you followed Fox upstairs.

  "My grandmother lived up here you know. And when I was a little kid I spent every day here, with her."

  You were sitting on the old flowered loveseat, rolling a cold bottle of beer between your palms. Fox perched, birdlike, on a straight-back caned chair that you recognized from Mrs. Grandon's dining room. You were struck by how unlikely this seemed, that you should be there, in that place, then, alone, with Fox Dow. Unlikely, but there you were. He had lit a cigarette, smoke swirled around his head. He offered one to you, but you shook your head, No thanks. He was laughing at something, but you weren't sure what, unless it was you. He had turned on the stereo and there was music playing, music that sounded strange to you, some foreign instrument that vibrated up a scale alongside a shiver of tambourine, behind a wail of voices chanting nonsense syllables. And although you could see Fox clearly, and smell and hear, somehow that moment was less substantial to you than what you could remember of yourself there before, with Matka: the summer heat caught in the stillness of these attic rooms, the low growl of a delivery truck pulling up to the door downstairs, a clatter of conversation from the store, your father's deep voice, his hearty laugh. Matka, dozing in her chair, a blade of sunlight glinting in her hairpins. The sheen of her black dress, the mottle of her swollen feet, the comforting rhythmic surf of her breathing, her delicate snore.

  "And then what happened?" Fox was asking. His posture in the chair was effeminate, one leg crossed over the other, elbow cupped in palm, cigarette dangling from curled fingertips.

  "And then I met Libbie. We were friends. Her family sort of... well, I guess they took me in."

  "That was kind of them."

  "I guess it was."

  You eyed his freckled fingers. Through the holes in his jeans, you could see that his knees were freckled, too.

  You would have liked to tell him about how you saw him, in the pool, all those years ago. You'd have liked to let him know you'd hidden in the woods and watched him then, but you couldn't bring yourself to say it. He already thought you were a freak, as appealing as some strange animal in a zoo. Worth gawking at as a creature from another planet. An alien being left behind by a U.F.O. Abandoned changeling child. What would he say if he knew you'd spied on him?

  His look was puzzled, curious: head tilted to one side, his golden eyes searching yours, a questioning crease furrowing his brow, a frown of bewilderment on his lips. You couldn't hold his gaze; your own eyes slid away.

  And then the screen door banged open, and there was Libbie whirling in, smelling of incense and patchouli. Her fine blond hair braided in the back. Beads and tank top, soft cotton skirt, heavy leather sandals, her small shoulders nut brown, her smile like a lightning flash.

  "Meena!"

  Dazzled, you were stammering an excuse for being there, as if that were something that needed an excuse. "I... I was... I was just trying to find your dad."

  Libbie had tumbled into Fox's lap and thrown her arms over his shoulders. She kissed his cheek, nuzzled his throat, catlike. "Mmmm..."

  You blundered on: "Where is he, do you know?"

  "Why do you want him?"

  You told her: "Money."

  Libbie snorted. "Good luck then." She had taken Fox's cigarette and was smoking it herself.

  "It's really your mother's bill," you said. "Over four thousand dollars."

  Fox whistled.

  "And when my father finds out..." You would have liked to explain the situation; you'd have liked to make Libbie understand what you'd been risking by protecting her family the way that you had. You'd have liked some sympathy, some gratitude, something.

  But: "Fuck your father," Libbie said.

  You stood.

  "No, really. Listen..." Libbie was on her feet too. She'd bounded out of Fox's lap and landed next to you. "Hey wait, I'm sorry." She put an arm around your shoulder, squeezed you close. "Friends forever, right?"

  Fox was grinning at this. He sat with his feet planted on the floor, his elbows on his knees. His long red hair framed his face like flames.

  "Sure, I guess so. Right."

  "Oh, Fox," Libbie went on. "You should have seen us. Best friends. Meena and me."

  Shadow and light.

  "We were like sisters. We were! Weren't we, Meena?"

  You nodded.

  "We were always together. Always. We played in the woods. We went to the park." She was counting these things out on her fingers. "We were in all the same classes at school. We had games and dolls," she told Fox. "And not a care in the world, right?" She sighed. "Those were the days, weren't they? Weren't they the days?"

  Before you could answer, Libbie had stumbled on: "Remember poor Julia? And Leo!" Libbie was grinning. A giggle bubbled up.

  Fox was mystified. "What?"

  Leo Spivak, scabbed and scarred, naked in the spotlight of your flashlights. You kicking poor Julia and pushing her out the door. Libbie in just her underpants, wagging her hips and blowing kisses: "Ooh la la."

  And now here was Libbie, with her flowing clothes and her brown summer skin, her white lipstick and heavily shadowed eyes, her wispy blond hair, as fine and filmy as cobwebs, and she was grinning at you, she was standing next to you and squeezing your hand, flashing a glance at Fox, who squinted through a fog of cigarette smoke and shrugged. Indifference or assent.

  "Sure," he said, go ahead. "Tell her."

  Libbie shivering with the thrill of it. "Okay." Then calming herself down. "Okay. Want to know a secret?"

  You felt like a plain white wall, expressionless and unmoved. Did you want to know? Not sure. Know what? "I guess."

  "You can't tell anybody."

  "All right."

  "Not anyone. Not my mother, not my father... Not your father... Especially not him."

  "All right."

  "Promise?"

  "Sure. I can't find your father anyway. That's why I'm here, remember?"

  But, was that why you were there? You were trying to guess at what it could be that Libbie was trying to tell you... She was pregnant... They were getting married...

  "We're running away."

  "What?" As dumb as that.

  "We're going to run away."


  "Who?" And dumber still.

  "Me and Fox, who else?"

  "But, why... and where? When?"

  "In a few days." California. Because they could. And, why not?

  So, that was it. Libbie Grandon and Fox Dow were leaving Linwood. They'd walk out on the rent they owed Josef Krejci, but who cared about that? Capitalist pig. They'd drive Fox's Mercury all the way across the country—through the prairies over the mountains across the desert to Los Angeles, California, where John was waiting for them. It had been his idea, as a matter of fact. Hollywood! Malibu! He was in his last year at Caltech; he had an apartment in Pasadena, and maybe they'd crash with him for a while or maybe they'd head north to San Francisco, where it was really happening. Big Sur. Carmel. Maybe they'd join a commune that John had heard about up there. Another kind of Foreverland.

  Fox's amber eyes, regarding you. "Come with us?"

  Libbie's small hand, squeezing yours. "Oh Fox, that's a great idea. Yes, Meena, come with us. Why don't you?"

  You pulled your hand away. "No, oh no. I couldn't." Thinking of... your father, downstairs, in the store. Thinking of... your life there, in Linwood, on Otis Road. How could you leave that and what would you do for money, what about all your things, and what about your father? Fox and Libbie weren't serious, were they? What would Josef Krejci do without you? How would he get on? And besides, your place was here, wasn't it? You had a job. You had a... career. In groceries.

  "No," you said. "Oh no. I couldn't... No, I'd better not."

  Libbie sat down. Folded her arms over her chest. Frowned with disapproval. "So you're going to stay here for the rest of your life, Meena? Is that it?"

  "No. I don't know. Yes. Maybe. So what?"

  "And die a virgin?"

  Fox was grinning. "Looks like we'll have to kidnap her, Libbie. If she won't go willingly."

  Libbie giggled at this. "Yes! We'll steal you from him. We'll come into your house in the middle of the night, and we'll spirit you away. We'll leave an old moldy scarecrow in your place, and then when he sees that, won't he be the sorry one."

  Fox raised his fist. "Foreverland forever!"