by catt dahman
Lovie spoke in a monotone, “I’m a waitress down to the truck stop. That doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I have taken a few classes in education, but I couldn’t conform like that, so I wait tables. I admire you, Ruth, for being a teacher. That’s pretty impressive to me.” She didn’t add that the classes were fine, but learning how she was supposed to act and dress was too much. She would have to cover the tattoos on her neck and wrists with make-up, remove the extra piercings from her ears because two holes per ear was the limit, and she would have to have normal-looking hair, which meant one natural color.
It didn’t matter that she had better grades than the rest in her classes or that children adored her. She had to look the part. She understood that and respected it as much as she could but knew she didn’t want to live that way. She enjoyed looking a little differently than most women. Waiting tables didn’t require her to cover anything, remove things, or change her hair.
“The money is okay.” She didn’t add that she made very good money actually because she was pleasant, smart, fast, and liked meeting people and making them feel at home while they ate. She went on, “Like I said, Friday night I went to Miller’s and met a man called Randy.” There was no reason to explain that she never did this kind of thing, never chatted up strangers, and sure didn’t go home with them. She had let her hopes exceed reality.
“I don’t know a man named Randy that stands out to me,” Ruth said, “go on. What happened?”
“He was very nice looking and classy. I don’t know if he was out of my league, but he was hot, and we hit it off, so we have some drinks, and then he said we should leave and go someplace. I told you I got sick in the parking lot and was dizzy and weaving…not like drunk but like…sick.”
“He spiked your drink.”
“Yeah, I should be careful, but I’m not. Bad shit follows me.” She paused. She wondered if she could tell them about how bad things were for her. She didn’t know if anyone cared.
“That’s rough,” Jake said.
She blurted out her life story, letting them have it all. “You all think it’s bad waking up like this in dog cages and handcuffed in the dark, scared and confused. Think it’s bad to be drugged or knocked out? Maybe. But, trust me, there’s far worse. Far, far worse.”
“What happened, Lovie?”
Lovie turned to Jake’s voice, and answered, “My little boy was hit by a car on his second day of kindergarten and died. Kenny. He was so cute all dressed up with his backpack as big as he was. He had on denim shorts and superhero shirt. He was so proud of his new clothes, and they were pricey because back then, I was married, my husband had a good job, and I was taking classes. I was a typical mommy: nervous about if he’d make friends, or how his grades would be, and if he’d like the bologna sandwich I packed for his lunch. And then….”
“What happened, Lovie?” Ruth asked gently.
“He ran to the bus, and yanno, time stopped. I saw the car, and I screamed. I started running, but my feet were caught in fly paper, like how it is in bad nightmares. I tried to run. The car didn’t slow. It was some soccer mom taking her rich kids to school and tapping on her cell phone to send texts, and she hit him. She just hit him! I fell on the grass, got up, and went to him, but he was…broken and bloody, and one of his tiny sneakers was lying at the curb. It was bloody. He was so proud of those sneakers, too.”
She took a breath and said, “Some man taking his kids to the bus grabbed me and held me back, and his kids were screaming like crazy. They were older girls and sounded like sirens, shrieking. The woman who killed my baby boy screamed and stood outside her car; her kids were screaming. The kids on the bus... everyone was screaming. All the noise became a buzz in my head, and I lost it. I don’t know if I passed out.”
“Oh,” Ruth said.
“The EMTs put me on the gurney and shot a needle in my arm. I was wheeled away, and my baby lay on the street; it wasn’t fair. It’s hazy after that. Drugs. Shock, I know now, but that made me just a husk, no, a ghost. I walked as a ghost, haunting that street and my house. I scared people who saw me walking around and staring into the street all the time”
“I’m sorry, Lovie,” Jake said. Other echoed it.
“A month later while blaming me for Kenny’s death, my husband left and divorced me, took up with some old cougar woman fifteen years his senior, and I tried to over-dose, but my sister found me; that’s how unlucky I am,” she paused, “I went away for a while. I think I decided to live anyway, even if I didn’t care for living.”
“I’m so sorry, Lovie,” Mike said.
“Well, so I mostly don’t give a shit about living. That doesn’t mean I want to die in a cage though.” She was pragmatic. “This is bad, but it just isn’t the worst that can be. I’ve been in the darkest, worst place.”
“We won’t die here,” Jake said.
“But that’s my story. Now, all of you know who I am. I don’t care. Really, I don’t mind dying that much. Not here, though. I don’t want to rot here so that my sister doesn’t know how I died; that’s horrible,” she said as she cried again. Her matter-of-fact side was painful.
Jake rubbed her hand more.
Jake joined in and said, “You know my story, EMT. Hit in the head before I got to eat my pizza rolls on Friday night. He had to be in my apartment when I got there. Sneaky bastard. There’s not much else to tell.” He didn’t mention that he seldom had time to date, and those he did date grew jealous of the time he devoted to his career, something he absolutely loved. He had no luck with women, but that didn’t matter; it was silly to think about after having heard Lovie’s story.
Ruth waited for the person in the cage between Jake and Skot to speak, but there was nothing but sniffles. She skipped Skot as well. He didn’t seem inclined to speak unless he was being vicious.
“I’m Ruth. I teach law enforcement at the college, and I bet I’ve seen you, Mike. Maybe. I teach criminal psychology.”
“Dr. Ruth Bennet?”
“Yeah!”
“I had your class last semester. I sat on the front row and got an A. I was the Asian guy,” he laughed.
“I remember you.”
“You were the youngest, prettiest professor there, and I loved the class. You’re amazing as a teacher.” She didn’t know that he blushed.
“Love fest,” Skot said, “gee, you’re my teacher. Yay. Cool.”
Ruth ignored him and continued, “I was exhausted; I was very tired after a long week of grading papers, and I went to bed. I have on my night clothes right now. Interesting that we have ties to the bar and to the college.” Ruth wanted to think about that a little later. It was important, she figured. “Andre?”
“I am out of place, maybe. I never met this Julia, I don’t teach or attend the college, and I don’t go to Miller’s. Like you, on Saturday night, I was asleep, and that’s the last I remember.”
“What do you do for a living?” Ruth asked.
“I am a professional masseuse, but I work on a lot of sports injuries and other health problems. I have referrals from all over for what I do.”
“Like Jake. Are the athletes from the college referred to you?” Mike asked.
All the time, Andre thought. He had a way with those kids and had more business than he could take. There was something about a big, tall, calm black man easing their pain that made most of the young people follow his instructions and let him help them. He realized he did have a connection to the college, after all.
Jake called over, “I get the football calls on emergencies. I know you, Andre. Every doctor I meet says he’s sending the kid over to the black doctor. No offense.”
Andre laughed and said, “I’ve been called worse. OK, college connections for us, after all.”
Kimberly spoke, “I was hitching through town. I don’t belong here. I don’t know a soul, so I don’t know the connection.”
“Maybe there isn’t one,” Jake said.
Mike spoke, “Just talk it out. Where did you g
o and did you meet anyone?”
“I stopped at the truck stop, only place I went to, and I got a double bacon cheeseburger. I’m so hungry that I can’t help but think of that good burger. My waitress was cool, she was pretty and flirty and had her hair cut super short with some red streaks. I liked that. Her name was Lorie.”
Lovie laughed and replied, “You read my tag wrong. Not Lorie but Lovie. We are connected, too.”
“It’s you?”
“Me and my short blond hair and red streaks.”
“We talked. You sat down and asked where I was headed, and you gave me a free order of chili cheese fries, double order. You were nice to me, Lovie,” Kim said, “and that was sweet of you, and it meant a lot. Means a lot. I sure wish I had those fries now.”
“That sounds good,” Ruth said.
“I don’t get why you dumb asses think this is funny,” Skot announced, “because we’re trapped here.”
“It isn’t funny, idiot. If I don’t connect and laugh and just feel these bars over and over, I’ll start screaming. Do you want that?” Lovie demanded. “I’m so scared I could die. I want to leave here because this is a bad place, my arm hurts, and it’s locked in a cuff in another cage. How’s that for some real terror? Wanna know what else? I gotta pee.”
“Me, too, “ Ruth said.
Almost everyone shared that he had to as well.
“I gotta do worse,” Vinnie said.
“Yeah, I smell the gas, and it’s bad, so try to hold it. Yuk,” said Lovie as she shivered; she didn’t want things to be worse than smelling his body odor, stinky feet, and pool of vomit, and have him add some vile excrement as well.
“Are we single or divorced?” Nick asked. All of them said they were divorced or a widower. None were remarried, and all lived alone.
Andre shared, “I was married until two years ago to Goldie. Goldie was her name, see. That was what everyone called her because her personality was so bright and she was like sunshine. I was the luckiest man on earth, and we had a perfect marriage except for one thing: we wanted children very much and didn’t have any. The first few years we brushed it off because we had time, and then we worried a little, and finally, we tried to find answers.”
Goldie and he saw doctors. The problem could have been anything: maybe something that could be fixed or maybe something that couldn’t be repaired, but that they could live with. They needed to know, so maybe they could adopt children. Andre wished it had been his fault, but it was a problem with Goldie; a very tiny mass in her womb made her unable to get pregnant.
It happened in so many cases that they found the mass as it was beginning to grow. They would have found it even if they had not gone searching for answers because it was a voraciously growing tumor, one that would not be cured by radiation or chemotherapy. At the most, the treatment might give Goldie another few months but would make those months miserable.
“Within a month, Goldie was in pain and had to quit her job. Three months after we found out what was wrong, she was bedridden and on strong pain medication. In four months, thankfully she was dead and out of pain.”
“I’m sorry, Andre,” Lovie said.
“I am, too. She wanted to live and have children and do so much, so for me to give up here today would be an insult to her memory. I have to find a way out of here,” Andre said.
Nick cleared his throat and said, “Yep, makes sense we are loosely connected. I’m the new deputy-in-training, Nick Castile. I’m not out there much where people know me. I was a cop in Arkansas, and well, there were some drug runners, and they and I saw things differently. I shot first.” The fact was that, despite being a good cop, Nick really disliked drug runners and was glad one pulled a gun. Unfortunately, Nick shot the two men, along with the one who pulled a weapon.
“That was bad enough, my being itchy and a quick-shot, but it came out that one of the men was undercover.” It was not his fault that the local police had not been advised, but he did feel guilty.
“I lost my job and sat around for a year until I found an opening here where I could start over.”
During that year, he drank a lot and beat himself up over the ordeal. He wasn’t prosecuted or punished, other than being fired, but he hated himself for what he did.
“I don’t think I’m connected that I can tell although a week ago, I did stop a pretty woman in a little red sports car and gave her a warning ticket. Name may have been Julia.”
“Red sports car, yes!” Mike said.
“That’s her,” Kim added, “and where were you, Nick?”
“I was asleep before I was here. I took a sleeping pill and was out solid and didn’t hear or see anything. But there’s a little whelp on my shoulder that I can feel. It’s sore. Feels like when you get a shot, right? My inner arm is sore, too.” He took sleeping pills every night to avoid the nightmares of the shooting, and they knocked him out cold. He knew he would have come wide awake if someone had grabbed him and brought him here, so it had to be that he was injected or something. He didn’t have a lump and cut on his head, so he wasn’t knocked out.
Mike added, “ Sounds like you and Ruth were knocked out with shots.”
“I think so,” Ruth agreed.
“Terri, what about you?” Mike asked.
“Me? I was home in my trailer and got up in the night for some juice, Saturday night, by the way. I wanted some of the orange juice I made, frozen stuff with ‘lots of pulp, Mmmm. That’s the last I know ‘cept I felt like someone threw a piano on my head. I need a beer and a cig. I’m hungry, too.” She paused and then screamed, “Let me out, you bitch or bastard or whatever; let me out. I’m gonna whip your ass so bad; get me out of here.” She kicked with one foot.
“I bet you could beat someone solidly, Terri,” Nick said, trying to calm her.
“I could. I wish I had the chance.”
“Maybe you will.”
“Owen?” Mike asked when Nick and Terri were done talking. He was glad Nick was there to relax people.
“ I. I don’t like talking. I don’t like being out.”
“Out? Out of where?”
“Home. I stay home. Since I quit high school, I stay in. I live in Momma’s basement. I don’t go out much. Any.”
“In the basement” Skot asked.
Ruth warned him, “Don’t start.”
“Just askin’.”
“I have social phobias: PTSD.” Owen didn’t have time or the desire to explain that he saw his father go through the windshield of the car when Owen was fourteen. On a family outing to get ice cream, a car ran a stop light, but Dad, not thinking and half drunk on whiskey and cola that he had in a big cup in the car’s cup holder, slammed on the brakes while speeding at twice the speed limit.” However, there were parts of the accident that he had never shared:
Momma suffered bruises and a whiplash but was wearing a seatbelt. In the back, Owen and his sister also wore seatbelts and were banged up, but his sister had her nose in a book and didn’t see anything until after. Momma was staring out the side window, yapping about something, and didn’t see what Owen saw.
Dad was there one minute, sipping his drink, and the next minute, the car went sliding and screeching across the pavement, leaving rubber so impressive that local cops would talk about it for years. Dad went crashing right into the windshield and out of the car through the hole that his head made and that his shoulders widened, all in a split second. Blood poured down the glass on both sides, inside and outside. Dad slid across the car’s hood, maybe not even touching it, and, as the car spun, his body slammed into a big old pole beside the road. His body wrapped around the pole as if he were boneless, making a U shape, his back fracturing into pieces.
Momma and Owen’s sister sat in the car, hurt, and waiting for something, maybe for it to be different. Owen opened his door and stepped out, groaning with pain, but able to shambled over to his father, like a sleep walker being led to somewhere mysterious. He looked at the twisted body, the blood, and the po
le, tilting his head curiously.
“Lost my drink,” said Owen’s father as he gasped.
Owen jumped, never imagining that the ruined sack of shattered bones and skin could still be alive. Hearing the voice shocked Owen so badly that he started screaming and clawing at his face, and that was how paramedics found him, screaming soundlessly even though he had temporarily lost his voice, standing, staring, and shaking violently.
They tried to tell Owen that his father couldn’t have spoken and was dead upon impact, but Owen knew better. After that, Owen didn’t talk to friends anymore, and his grades fell. Like Lovie, he lived as a husk, as a ghost, invisible and quiet for a few years and dropped out of school when he was sixteen.
Owen didn’t tell anyone that every since he was three or four and up until he was ten, his dad had crept into Owen’s room at night and touched him, or that when he saw his father dead, he was glad, but also terrified that was what happened to sinners. Owen figured he was a sinner, too, since he had never told. He hadn’t known how to tell. How did someone bring that up?
Owen lived in the basement, a comfortable, sparsely decorated spot that he slept in and ate in, and played video games on his computer. He did other things there, too, but they were very bad things he didn’t mean to do or really want to do, but couldn’t keep from doing.
Owen didn’t tell that part.
“It’s better to sit here quietly since I don’t have my medication. I need my pills. I really need them. All of you are too loud, and I don’t like all this dark and all the people here. You scare me by shouting.” His voice dropped. “I don’t like this at all.” At home, he had eight pills he took each day at different times to make him calm, but they didn’t help the other problems; his pills only kept him from crying, yelling, and trying to slit his wrists.
Own rubbed at old keloid scars on his wrists. Failed attempts.
Jake was worried, “Are you okay, I mean as far as possible. We’re right here with you.”
Owen muttered. Terri muttered back.
In a few seconds, Terri called out, “Owen’s having a bad time. Worse than…us…and me. Poor thing. He’s done battered his face against the bars so his face is beatted up, it feels like. Jake, you shoulda oughtta be here. Or Andre. He’s hurt. He was pretty upset and hurt hisself.”