The Dime Box

by Karen Grose

  “No.”

  Her mouth dropped. He hadn’t even read it. She glanced across the table at her mother who looked down at her plate. She’d signed it the moment she got home from school. “But why not?” Greta asked.

  “Because I said so.”

  Ian slammed his empty coffee mug on the table. He stood and left the kitchen.

  Greta went upstairs to her bedroom and fell in a heap on her bed. Her mind was spinning. Suddenly, it stopped. She blew her nose and rolled over. Her feet touched the floorboards and she slipped downstairs. There was nobody in the kitchen. She stood in front of the fridge and stared at the cheque tacked up to the door. St. James Church. One hundred dollars. She double-checked the bottom right-hand corner. She looked left, then right, and pulled it out from beneath the magnet.

  Back in her bedroom, she took Mr. Ennis’ crumpled note from her pocket. Smoothing out the creases, she laid it flat on top of the cheque. She held her breath, lined up the two pieces of paper perfectly, and examined them.

  “Crap.” She couldn’t see through.

  She lowered her nose to the paper, her finger tracing each loop and line she could make out. They were faint, but she followed them slowly, practicing, almost like a doctor performing surgery. Once. Twice. Ten times over.

  “Shit.” She still couldn’t see it.

  There had to be an answer. Her back ached. She sat up and stretched. There was no way she was giving up. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and went to open the window. Then it hit her: she grabbed the note and the cheque off the floor, holding the two flat up together against the pane. She could see her father’s signature in front of her, clear as day. She picked up the pen.

  When Greta showed up at practice the next day, the older girls gave her a hard time; about being a baby; about her ratty sneakers; even the way she looked when she ran. The teasing dissolved the first time they went around the track together and she left them in her wake. In the weeks they practiced as a team, Greta’s speed and discipline made them forget her ugly clothes and awkward gait, and on the morning of the first regional meet of the year, she won every race. She beamed with pride as her teammates high-fived and slapped her on the back. She was one of them.

  The short race, saved for the afternoon, was the last. Greta overheard a group of parents calling it the event of the regional meet. She didn’t understand it.

  “What’s the deal with the hundred-meter dash?” she asked after she sat down on the ground in the holding area beside her teammates.

  The team captain glanced sideways, stretching, head down to her knee. “It’s the race for the real athletes.”

  Greta looked around the tent. “Isn’t that everyone?”

  The captain smirked. “No. Some are wannabes.”

  “Giffen,” the race director shouted, interrupting their conversation. Clipboard in one hand and a chocolate donut in the other, he was the only one who didn’t look the part. He pointed over his shoulder. “Heat One,” he told her. “Lane Three.”

  She walked out to the track. As she looked down the home straight, the competition came forward and joined her. Some crouched. Some stood rigid. She bent down and pressed her hands to the ground. Then she put her feet in the blocks, raising her hips, and kept her head tucked down the way Mr. Ennis had taught her. She listened for the official.

  “On your mark.”

  A hush spread over the crowd. Her body tensed and she took a deep breath and held it.

  “Set.”

  The gun fired.

  She exploded out of the blocks. She locked her head forward and pushed her body up. Her arms swung to the rear, and at thirty metres, she felt smooth on the balls of her feet. At fifty meters, elbows slightly away from the sides, she took a fast look left. Then right. No sign of the other runners. At seventy meters, she had company. Six girls surged forward and all she saw was their backs. Decelerating into the finish, she leaned her chest forward and crossed the top of the line. Seventh place? She’d been completely blown away. Bitterly disappointed, she didn’t make the finals.

  After the meet, the team, tired yet victorious, boarded the bus. When they arrived back at Tall Pines, Mr. Ennis asked Greta to stay in her seat. He sat down beside her. “Tough one, huh?” he said.

  She turned away from him, shoulders slumped.

  “It’s the thrill of victory and the agony of de-feet.”

  What? She didn’t respond.

  “Here.” He handed her a box.

  She prayed it was a sandwich. While no one on the team appeared to notice, she was the only one who didn’t have a lunch. Whether Ian hadn’t bought sandwich meat or he’d eaten it all again himself wasn’t top of mind. Either way, though, she was starving.

  “Go on,” Mr. Ennis said. “Open it. You may like what’s inside.”

  She took the box and lifted the lid. Her face reddened and her mouth froze in an O. Inside was a brand new pair of running shoes.

  Back at the cabin, she slid her hand down beneath her bed, pulled out the box, and slipped the new shoes onto her feet. From the top of her bed, she stared down at the two large lumps sticking out from under the sheet. Her heart soared, and she fell fast asleep.

  It was just past one o’clock of the biggest race of the season. Between the runners, the teachers and the parents in the park, Greta had never seen so many people gathered together in one place in her life. She hoped her parents might have considered coming, but when she remembered how she got there in the first place, her throat tightened and she felt sick.

  “Ready, Greta?” Mr. Ennis asked after he found her stretching her legs out on the field.

  “I think so.” She was. Her new running shoes made her invincible.

  Coach Innis gave her a skeptical look. “Five kilometers is a long way and it’s your first big one. Go out there, run fast, and have fun.”

  She looked at him dumbfounded. Her speed gave the team hope the season would end better than last year’s mediocre finish. She wasn’t there to run fast and have fun; she wanted to win the whole race.

  Coach Innis scanned the crowd. “Your parents here?”

  She leaned forward and touched her nose to her knees. “They’re busy at work.”

  “Oh.” He looked confused. “I was hoping to meet them today.”

  “Maybe next time.” She tried her best to put an end to the conversation.

  Mr. Ennis didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “I’ll cheer you on then.” He sat down beside her. “Look what I brought.” There were ten shiny dimes in his hand.

  Greta laughed out loud. She’d forgotten their conversation on the bus ride home from regionals; her new running shoes had erased everything that day from her mind. She told Mr. Ennis if he wanted her to run faster at the next meet, he was going to have to cough up and pay her.

  “How much?” he’d asked.

  “Ten dimes,” she’d told him.

  “Really?” He’d looked totally surprised.

  “Yep,” she’d said. Ten or she was done.

  It was supposed to have been a joke. The warning horn blared, and girls from every school approached the starting line. Mouth dry, coins tucked in her pocket, she stood and jogged over to join her teammates. You’ve got this. Her heart pounded. You’ve got this.

  The final horn sounded and she stepped out quickly. For the first kilometer, she kept pace near the front of the pack. In the second, her body relaxed, her breathing slowed, and she hit her stride. By the third, she was well out in the front with five runners she didn’t know. She sized them up. If she wanted to win, she knew she was going to need to pick up the pace.

  In the fourth kilometer, she pushed forward. She passed three girls, yet was still trailing the fastest. The fifth and final kilometer was the most difficult part of the race; the route took her past a large pond, wound through a dirt path in the forest, and ended with a climb up and down a steep grassy hill. The two girls were neck and neck. As they ascended the hill, Greta focused forward, sped up, and passed
her competitor. Beads of sweat ran down the sides of her face. Her legs screamed, but she held the pain in, showing no emotion. As she crested the hill and rounded the corner, she caught sight of the finish line. Mustering one last burst of speed, she blew down the hill and tore through the paper banner.

  The crowd roared and Mr. Ennis stood at the finish line to congratulate Greta. She caught her breath, pumped her fist in the air, and gave him a high-five. The Northern Ontario Junior Elementary Cross Country Track Championship had never been won by a Grade Three student before. She’d made history—and added ten shiny new coins to her dime box.

  ***

  Greta waited for Detective Perez to respond, but she twisted in her chair and kept writing. After a few seconds, she looked up. “Let’s take that break.”

  That was it? No congratulations? No comment? Not so much as a smile? The woman was untouchable. She reached around the back of the chair for her coat.

  “Did you bring someone with you?” the detective said. “Latoya perhaps? Your mom?”

  Everything spun. For a second, she thought her heart would stop. “What? My mom? My father killed her.”

  SIXTEEN

  D etective Perez’s face bulged. “Your mother’s dead? Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I’m saying so now.”

  “But I had no idea.”

  “Isn’t that your job, detective?”

  Silence descended in the space between them. The detective’s face reddened. “I’m not a mind-reader. If you think—”

  “Here’s what I think,” she fired back. “All you care about is him. You don’t care about my mom, and you sure as fuck don’t care about me.”

  The detective raked her hands through her hair and moaned. “This kind of muddles things.”

  Blood roared to her ears. Barely able to make eye contact, she couldn’t believe what she heard. Her chest tightened, her whole body shook. Muddles? For who? Her mother’s murder changed her whole fucking life.

  “When did this happen?” the detective asked.

  Greta thought of the dark years she could never seem to outrun. She longed for the days with her mom on the back patio at the cabin. The moments they walked down the laneway in the summer; Mom in her green sundress, head thrown back, relaxed and smiling, the soles of her feet rusty brown, the afternoon sun bouncing off her auburn highlights; and Greta, beside her, holding her slim wrist, listening, trying her best to understand. She wished she’d captured them in her bare hands like a firefly in a jam jar. If she shut her eyes tight, she could still feel a little warmth from those days, the warmth of their connection living on.

  “First your mother. Now your father?” the detective repeated. “How?”

  She sunk into the chair and pulled her hands to her face. It was all so much more complicated than that. She had no idea how to explain it. A hand touched her shoulder, and she wrenched away, sucking in air. When she opened her eyes, Detective Perez was crouched on the floor beside her. A hand squeezed hers, the skin peppery and cool.

  “Take your time, Greta,” the detective said. “Talk to me.”

  That summer, Greta had had trouble sleeping. For years, following one or, at most, two cracks in her bedroom ceiling a couple of times over was enough to send her to sleep at night. But when she was nine, following every single crack’s route couldn’t exhaust the thoughts that ran wild through her head. When she did manage to drift off to sleep, she would dream she could see herself running naked outside the cabin. She had no idea what the dream meant, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make it stop. Each night it jolted her awake, and her sleepless cycle started over again.

  She heard everything going on in the cabin through the night. The comforting noises and the scary ones. She remembered sitting at the top of the wooden stairs when she was small, hidden in the shadows, watching her parents fight. She could tell when they were coming by the static in the air. She knew their rhythm by heart. First, Emily’s voice rose; next, a door would slam; then Ian’s deep, booming voice would echo, followed by a crash. Objects would fly through the air or he would flail his fists. But Greta always felt the same. She longed to leap off the stairs to help her mother, but instead she would crouch with Bunny, holding her hands over her ears, watching as her father’s strength grew. It was like he was Hulk—a superhero she’d grown to loathe. Superheroes didn’t beat up their wives… Or did they?

  By morning, the static in the air and the thunder and lightning of the fight would have blown over. Her mother and father would always carry on as if nothing had happened, and Greta often wondered if what she’d seen had actually been a dream. But now her sleeplessness filled in their story. All the fights her mother had previously minimized came into focus, and she was no longer confused about what was and wasn’t real. Ian was a monster.

  How the devil got into her father was an enigma. It tormented her. She couldn’t understand how he’d been asked to be a deacon at the church when he was a devil at home. Didn’t God know? Didn’t He see everything, like Santa? But then, she’d long since lost her belief in the magical man who would visit at Christmas; he never came, after all. And as for God… well, her faith in Him was wavering, too. ’Cause, really, He should have known. And if He didn’t, her father was the best evidence she had that God wasn’t doing His job well.

  How did it all start, she would wonder. Was he born a sharp-clawed monster, wrapped in blankets by his parents? Her mother never would have dated someone like that. She hated long nails and always made sure Greta’s were cut close to the edge. More likely, he was born a sweet, cherub-faced baby and later on transformed to a savage in his teens. Her mother had always warned her to stay away from teenage boys because they did a lot of weird things alone in their room. She guessed this was one of them.

  Despite the sleepless nights, the summer passed, and Greta returned to school, defeated by the violence she heard each night. Her parents never discussed it. When she tried to talk to her mother alone, she couldn’t look her in the eye. The only thing that kept her alive was running. As the pain in her heart multiplied, feeling her feet against the ground and the wind through her hair soothed her. And, while the new school year meant a new teacher, Mr. Ennis remained her track coach, which filled her with warmth and a sense of home. She was part of a team; it was where she belonged. Lunchtime practices became her lifeline, and as no one cared what she did at home as long as she was quiet, she snuck out each night to run after supper, too.

  By spring, familiar with every footpath and trail within a five-kilometer radius of the cabin, Greta swept every race, including the hundred-meters, and won the Junior Track Championships a second year in a row.

  The day after the championships, Principal Parthi burst through the door of her classroom. He didn’t bother to knock, just barged inside, red-faced, waving a newspaper around over his head. When he stopped at the front of the room and held out the Bracebridge Examiner, Greta’s mouth dropped. Where was the team photo? Her picture—Greta’s, alone, without her teammates—was on the front page. Bile filled her mouth. What if someone saw it?

  Mr. Parthi’s voice shook. “Tall Pines Junior Track Team Does It Again.” Light filled his eyes.

  Greta shrunk in her seat. The photo wasn’t pretty; her arms were relaxed and her form streamlined would make Mr. Ennis happy, but her mouth hung open and her nose dripped with snot. She waited for her classmates to snicker, but they applauded and congratulated her instead. Proud of being part of a winning team, proud of herself, she’d inched her way back up and, by the end of the afternoon, her anxiety eased.

  Early the next morning, Greta wound her way through the trails in the woods. Lost in thought, she stopped in front of a rusty padlocked gate at the perimeter of the property, turned around, and picked up speed, making her way back through the dry shrubs and thick trees as fast as she could. Mosquitos gnawed at her face as she bounded up the steps and opened the front door of the cabin. Ian, home from the night shift, blocked
the doorway.

  “What the hell is this?” he spat.

  Greta glanced at his hand and her heart froze. Her face stared out from the page. He pulled her inside, threw her to the ground, and sat on top of her.

  “Answer me.”

  He grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerked her head backwards, and slammed it down hard on the floor. The framed pictures in the hallway rattled, and one smashed into pieces on the ground. Greta saw stars.

  “Are you stupid and deaf?” he screamed.

  She couldn’t breathe. She squirmed and twisted for air.

  “Why do I have to find out what you’re doing behind my back?”

  She didn’t answer. When he shifted his weight, she thought her back might break.

  “I never gave you permission to run,” he yelled. “So ask me.”

  She didn’t need to: she’d won. He had no choice. He’d never risk his precious reputation.

  “Do it.” His hand tightened. “You’d better do it now.”

  Her eyes welled. She couldn’t take the chance. It was too important. She struggled to speak through what was left in the space in her throat. “Can I run school track?”

  He slammed her head on the floor again.

  Somehow she managed to speak. “Please.”

  “That’s my good girl.”

  The sound of his voice gave her chills. He pushed his weight off her and lowered his face to hers. His breath on her cheek smelled like a warm gym bag. “I don’t give a shit what you do,” he said.

  They both knew that wasn’t true. She rolled over and flipped him the finger. Ian stood, pulled his foot back, and gave her a swift, hard kick in the ribs. Eyes shut, bone-tired, she drew in a breath and curled inward. The fight drained out of her.

  ***

  The sun rose and dawn faded. Greta woke, pulled on her socks and shoes, and tiptoed out of the house. With Mr. Ennis’ encouragement, she recommitted to training each morning that summer—but not with his goal of winning the Junior Track Championships a third time and not with the school’s hope of appearing on the front page of the newspaper again. She still cringed when she remembered the photograph. Their dreams weren’t her motivation; she’d become acutely aware the constant pain in her heart, the type that cut it straight through, was temporarily soothed under the strain of a strenuous run.