by Terri Kraus
No one must know.
“Sometimes people you think can’t help, can,” the teacher added.
Leslie remained silent.
No one must know.
“I want to help you. I want to help Ava. Let it go, Mrs. Ruskin. It’s too hard to hold it all in.”
Leslie continued her silence, then, after a long moment, looked up. Mrs. DiGiulio’s face was kind, open, and caring.
The words came out on their own, almost with Leslie not saying them. “Panic attacks, Mrs. DiGiulio. I’m having panic attacks again. They’re even worse than before.”
She caught her breath, opened her hands, and placed them on the desk, flat, in submission. Mrs. DiGiulio simply listened, allowed her to talk, and didn’t interrupt.
“If he knows … if he finds out about them … he’ll blame me for …”
“Your ex-husband?”
“He’ll take Ava from me. I know he will.”
Leslie drew in an uneven breath.
“And I can’t let him do that. I just can’t.
Jack switched out the lights and locked the front door.
The place must have been a locksmith shop. This is one huge and expensive deadbolt. And that locked door in the back. I suppose I could tear out the doorframe and saw around the door hinges. Wonder what’s back there, behind that door? Must be something valuable … or at least interesting.
He placed the brass key in the breast pocket of his worn denim jacket, and buttoned the snap, something he always did before … well, before, when his life was much more episodic and dramatic and confused. He had gotten accustomed to waking up in strange places. Things in his pockets might be missing. He didn’t want to lose this special key, so he added a small bit of insurance by buttoning it.
He was certain he wouldn’t repeat himself again, never go back to that life he once led, even if he hit an occasional pothole or encountered the occasional accident.
Leslie hadn’t returned yet to her apartment with Ava in tow, as she always did on school days, and Jack breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to further explain his absence from work that morning. He would have to lie, and he never liked lying—even if it was for the best. Despite what had occurred the night before, he’d accomplished a fair amount of work this afternoon. The ceiling was all but finished. There were only two missing tin squares, and Jack had managed to switch them, so the empty spaces were confined to the far corner of the room. He was certain he could find an acceptable replacement—maybe not a perfect match but close enough.
He drove back to his apartment and parked the truck in the alley where off-street parking was allowed overnight. He placed the truck keys in the other breast pocket and closed the snap as well, without thinking or considering what the gesture meant. He would have gone upstairs, would have taken his jacket off and sat on his Goodwill sofa and watched the early news, but he felt a certain restlessness, and knew he would not be able to concentrate nor sit still.
He walked instead. He walked toward the building that used to be the Post Office, with its massive granite columns, fluted and strong, like they could have been on the facade of some small Greek temple. The elegant building housed some anonymous state agency, and Jack grew dispirited every time he walked past. The lintel stone over the columns had the words United States Post Office carved in deep relief. These words were all but hidden behind a badly painted wooden sign, in faded red, blue, and white that announced it was the Regional Services Center/Mid-States Division/H.U.D. The sign didn’t fully span the carved words.
He tried not to get angry or indignant, but it was impossible. To Jack, such things seemed like a travesty against the historic integrity of a building.
Just cover all the words! Make it look like you planned ahead!
He walked past the old Post Office, down the street, toward the one supermarket in town. He stood outside the store and read off the weekly specials on cake mixes, eggs, ground chuck, and skim milk. Jack seldom, if ever, bought any of those items. He favored ramen noodles and canned meals that didn’t need refrigeration, since his refrigerator was motel-sized and could hold little more than a carton of orange juice, a quart of whole milk, and a few bottles of water.
Instead of his typical miniaturized grocery shopping, Jack took a right turn and walked away from downtown, feeling like he needed to be somewhere other than right here, yet not certain where that other place was. He walked north along Main Street and headed up the hill. It was a steep hill. This was western Pennsylvania after all, and while there were no mountains, steep gradients abounded. He leaned into the hill and pushed his legs, hoping to clear whatever buildup had settled in his muscles and lungs and brain. Halfway up the hill, when he could see the crest when he straightened up, he stopped, breathing harder than he should.
To his left was a brick drive—not just a driveway, but a narrow road, curving into the hillside, cutting through a dense thicket of shrubs and trees and vines, like a lost road into a hidden jungle. Not a tropical jungle, but a western Pennsylvania jungle, with thorns and thistles and a tight culture of green leaf. At the edge of the nontropical jungle, on the south side of the brick road, was a sign. No one, Jack surmised, could see the sign while driving past, all but hidden by stray foliage and intrusive vinings: WELCOME TO NORTH SIDE CEMETERY.
Jack waited at the sidewalk. He knew there was a cemetery on this side of the street. He could see the waiting headstones, standing there patiently, he thought, as he crested the hill. But he had never been in the cemetery. He’d never had a reason to visit. But the air was warm, the sky pellucid, and Jack’s head had only recently ceased throbbing.
Maybe the peace and quiet will do me good.
He stepped onto the brick pavement, its edges rounded, its channels made uneven by years of cars and hearses, and made his way, further inside and upward, heading to the crest of the hill, the high ground above the town of Butler.
Mrs. DiGiulio wanted to come around the desk, put her arms around Leslie and hold her, like a mother comforting a child. But she didn’t. Children were still milling about, in the halls outside were other teachers, adults, parents, who may read too much into any gesture of caring. And Mrs. DiGiulio knew enough about panic attacks to know that drawing attention to them was not a recommended course of treatment.
Instead, she leaned in closer and spoke with calm reassurance. “Mrs. Ruskin … I know it feels hopeless. But I’m sure it’s not.” She reached over and put her hand over one of Leslie’s hands. “I know someone you can talk to.”
“I’ve been to counselors. I’ve read books. Nothing helps.”
Mrs. DiGiulio could tell that the panic in Mrs. Ruskin was rising. She could see the sinews in the young woman’s neck tighten, drawn sharp in outline, pulsing.
“This person is different. He is.”
Leslie shook her head. “I don’t think anything would work.”
Mrs. DiGiulio waved off her objection. “You have to be open. He’s a pastor. Very nice. Tim Blake. I go to his church. The big stone church on Diamond Square. He talked about it.”
“About what?”
“Panic attacks. He had them. He was open about the condition.”
Leslie shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. “Like in a sermon?”
Mrs. DiGiulio nodded. “He was really open about dealing with them. The congregation knew and was very supportive. If anyone would understand, he would.”
“He’s still preaching? They let him preach?”
“Of course, Mrs. Ruskin.”
Leslie waited for a long moment.
“I’m sure he would love to help,” Mrs. DiGiulio said with her most encouraging smile.
By the expression on Leslie’s face, it was clear she had never been this open with anyone about her condition and was not certain if this openness was a good thing or a ve
ry troubling thing.
Mrs. DiGiulio saw Leslie look down at her hands as she spoke, her words quiet, almost without emotion.
“What’s his name, again, Mrs. DiGiulio? I’m willing to try anything. I just can’t lose Ava. I can’t. I would die. I wouldn’t be able to live anymore.”
And as she heard that final sentence, Mrs. DiGiulio was quite certain that Ava’s mom meant it.
North Side Cemetery proved to be a quiet place. The traffic noises retreated, held at bay by the thickness of trees and shrubs, held back by the rows of grave markers and headstones, some from the early 1800s, and silenced by the sprinkling of small American flags, soft and still in the autumn afternoon.
One of his first counselors, years ago, more than a decade ago, when he was at the very beginning of his problems, once took him for a walk in a cemetery, much like this one, asking him to imagine his name on a headstone, the dates of his life, what it might say about him. Jack hated the counselor for doing that, and now, he could not erase the man’s image. Every cemetery he passed, that counselor’s smug and condescending face popped into Jack’s memory. He saw it today, briefly, and he pushed it away.
They’ll say what they say. I’ll be dead then and it won’t matter to me. It won’t matter to them, either, I guess.
He didn’t like cemeteries for a hundred reasons. The quiet unsettled him, unnerved him. It brought back memories. He didn’t like those memories.
He arrived at the top of the hill, a little winded, and surprised that the early settlers would use such scenic ground for a burial place. Standing at the crest of the ridge, he could see down over Butler—the courthouse, Diamond Square, the steel mills further south, the high, craggy ridge that ran parallel to Route 8, south of the city, the creek as it became a river. He would have sat down and enjoyed the view, but there were no park benches in the area. After reflection, Jack tried to recall if he had ever seen benches placed in a cemetery. He imagined that benches would be scarce, so he kept walking, heading north, toward the end of Main Street, when it stopped being Main Street and became Route 8 again. He knew there was a small strip mall, a cluster of businesses, there. He thought there was a restaurant in that mix. He was hungry now and did not want to go home to yet another bowl of ramen noodles from his microwave.
His memory was correct. He took a window seat in the nondescript eatery, in a small booth, facing the highway, and waited, his hands folded politely, staring at the traffic.
“Need a menu?”
“Sure,” Jack responded, though he was just as sure he would probably order a cheeseburger and fries.
These small places can fool you sometimes. Maybe they have something exotic.
They did not. Standard American fare dominated the short one-page menu. But the place looked clean and well cared for and that was enough for now.
The waitress brought silverware wrapped in a paper napkin, and a sturdy glass of water. The rim of the glass was nicked and scratched to a well-used patina, half full of ice, half full of water.
Jack didn’t surprise himself. He ordered what he thought he would order.
The food came quickly. The cheeseburger was done correctly—a thick burger, medium, American cheese, with crispy fries, lettuce, and tomato on the side, everything hot, and just a little greasy.
As he ate, he noticed another table in the middle of the restaurant, occupied by a young family of three: a mother, father, and a small child, no more than three years old, in a high chair pulled close to the table. The father, maybe twenty-five years old, sat, leaning back, reading a newspaper, folded into quarters. Jack could see it was the sports page, the crammed text of a series of box scores to some contest. The mother and son sat together, the mother making sure that the child was eating some small chunks of something soft, both of them laughing, heads close, a child’s arm in the air, a mother’s hand cupping the back of a head. The child must have gotten hold of a packet of crackers, held it, flexed his arm, and sent it flying. It hit the newspaper directly.
The young father slapped the paper on the table, speaking quietly, but harshly; only shards of his words could be heard from where Jack sat. Both the mother and son cowered, just a bit, leaning away. The child looked surprised, then upset; the mother turned away from the father, her eyes locked on her son. The father sat still, his paper held like a weapon, then drew it back up again, shaking it once as if to clean whatever crumbs might have settled.
More memories. Another layer of sadness settled over Jack.
The waitress came to the table, picked up Jack’s empty plate, and unasked, filled his water glass. Then, almost as she turned away, she asked, “Dessert? Cherry pie is homemade.”
Jack shook his head, then reached for his water glass. He noticed the tremor in his hands as it moved. He wondered if the waitress noticed as well.
He knew the why and how and when of that tremor.
He knew it well.
After a long time to play on the playground, Ava seemed happy to take her mother’s hand as they walked from the school. They crossed Main Street. Just to the north of them was a series of Victorian homes, most in immaculate condition, some needing a little care. And to the north of this small, exclusive enclave, was the entrance to the North Side Cemetery.
The light changed to green, and Ava took off with a skip.
“You’re in a good mood. I take it school went well today?”
Ava nodded vigorously. “I got to be the milk person today. Chelsea was sick.”
Leslie kept looking both ways as they crossed. It was a blind hill, after all. “What does the milk person do?”
Ava looked up, almost rolling her eyes. “Mom, I told you about this before. I was milk person already.”
Leslie saw the near roll.
“I don’t remember. Tell me again.”
Ava offered a most dramatic sigh, her shoulder slumping. “Well … just before the clock’s hands are together, Mrs. DiGiulio tells us when exactly, we get to leave class early and go to the lunchroom and pick up the milk cartons for lunch. We have to carry them on a big tray and they’re real heavy so we carry it together. That’s what a milk person does. If we didn’t do it right, nobody would have anything to drink at lunch.”
Ava stopped for a second. “Except for Jacob. He can’t drink milk. He throws up if he does. He threw up the first week of school and made everybody sort of sick. They don’t give him milk anymore.”
She started walking again.
Leslie waited to speak. She knew she had to. She knew Ava was waiting for the question as well. Leslie could just tell.
“Mrs. DiGiulio said that you asked if the class could pray for me. That was very sweet of you.”
Leslie looked down at her daughter, her Dora the Explorer backpack on her back, her dark hair glistening in the warm afternoon sun. At one time, Leslie did go to church—the Congregational church where Ava went to preschool—at first with her husband. Randy had said he believed. But it had become clear that any faith he had was in himself and his ability to succeed, to control everything and everyone around him. Soon it was just she and her daughter who went to church. Until Randy decided that they shouldn’t go either. Ava must have liked Sunday school. She asked about it now that they lived in Butler, but only occasionally, never insisting, just wondering if she could go once more, now that her daddy wasn’t there. She once told Leslie that Trevor talks about Sunday school all the time.
“Mrs. DiGiulio says that God answers us when we pray. That’s true, isn’t it, Mommy?”
Leslie did not leap to answer. She had prayed. She had prayed a lot back then. She prayed to find a place where she’d no longer be terrified and shaking, with bands of fear gripping her chest so fiercely, like a giant snake squeezing the life and breath out of a poor, simpering creature, with her husband’s … her ex-husband’s … furious breath at her ne
ck, his strong fingers tight on her arm, leaving an angry accordion of red marks on her white skin. She had prayed. She thought she had prayed to God. But her husband said that God doesn’t answer stupid prayers. Maybe that’s what they were. She wasn’t sure then and wasn’t sure now, what prayers might be considered foolish and what prayers God might listen to and actually answer.
She was as certain as she could be without really knowing, that He would listen to a child like Ava. Jesus liked children. She could remember, from the times she did go to church as a child, the brightly colored flannel pictures of Jesus on a black flannel board, with Him surrounded by children, holding them on His lap. He liked them a lot. Leslie knew that much about the Bible and Jesus.
I wonder if God listens to every prayer said by grown-ups? Gramma Mellie sure believed He does.
“It’s true, Ava. I’m sure God heard your prayer.”
Ava dropped her mother’s hand and bent down to pick up a cluster of acorns, a triad of them, with leaves still attached. She stuffed it into her jacket pocket, the golden leaves sticking out like a small, rustling flag.
“Good. That’s what Mrs. DiGiulio said.” And with that, Ava skipped off in front of her mother.
This was a quiet block, filled with houses, and the corner, where their home was, was a quiet intersection, an intersection that Leslie did not worry too much about, though she still worried some. She let Ava skip, alone, to the corner.
“Don’t cross without me.”
Ava stopped skipping, but still swayed, left to right, as if she was listening to private music in her head, music that Leslie could not hear, music not loud enough yet to cancel out the voice of a concerned mother.
As Leslie closed the gap, she wondered again if she might find voice to a prayer that was not foolish, but actually heard, and perhaps, even answered.
Jack was content with living in Butler. He liked it, for the most part, during the few months he had lived there. The town itself was small, compact, and close—at least the old part of the town. There were shopping malls and strips malls and clusters of restaurants, franchised businesses radiating out of the town, but the more charming old section of town and downtown itself was built on a human scale. Jack could walk from the south side to the north side in less than fifteen minutes. Even now, well on the north side of town, he was only a short stroll from the center of Butler. And this walk was all downhill, some of it steeply downhill, so the effort it would take to get home would be slight.