Cheesus Was Here

by J. C. Davis

  “Glow-in-the-dark stars are stupid,” Claire had said. “Ceiling Cat will always be funny.”

  “Not laughing,” I whisper, refusing to look at where the picture still hangs. A year. It’s no time and a lifetime.

  Downstairs, I ease open the liquor cabinet, pulling out a mostly empty bottle of brandy. The vodka bottles are still there, filled with water and air. Normally I wouldn’t risk removing a bottle, just in case Mom checks. But today, more than any other, I’m going to need something to soften the edges of the world so I can sleep tonight. I creep back upstairs, slip the bottle under my bed, and then head noisily for the kitchen.

  Emmet is already at the table, cradling a bowl of Cheerios and glaring at them like they’ve spelled out something insulting.

  On the table in front of him is a huge vase of yellow roses with a little card tucked on the side. It’s addressed to Mom but I swipe it and flip the thing over.

  Our thoughts and prayers are with you on this difficult anniversary.

  —Clemency School Board

  As if flowers are going to make a difference. Claire preferred blue roses anyway. She said you had to work harder for them and that made them better.

  I flick the card onto the table and it lands next to Emmet’s clenched fist.

  “Pretty,” I say.

  Emmet grunts and gets up from the table, dumping his Cheerios down the garbage disposal. “Let’s go. There’s a strategy session for the football team before class.”

  And life moves on. Emmet will throw himself into football, I’ll go through the motions at school, and neither one of us will acknowledge the fact that everything fell apart a year ago today.

  Gabe is waiting for me at school with a huge styrofoam coffee cup and a Milky Way bar. He hands them over without a word and pats my shoulder.

  “I love you,” I say fervently. The smells wafting from the coffee cup make me want to melt into a puddle on the school steps. A white chocolate mocha, proof that civilization is not a complete loss. It’s exactly the rush of sugar and heat I need to chase away the awful feelings coiled in my stomach.

  Gabe grins. “I knew that old cliché about girls and chocolate had to have something to it. A billion heart-shaped boxes can’t be wrong.” His smile slides away and he studies my expression. “How you holding up?”

  “Fine. Just another day, right?”

  Gabe winces. “Not exactly.” I can see the confusion as he tries to figure out if I’m serious, if I’ve truly forgotten what today means.

  I take pity on him—he did bring me sugar after all. “I’m not going to have a breakdown at school if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m worried about you, don’t be stupid.”

  “I’ll be okay, promise.”

  Gabe takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “If you want to talk or need a shoulder, I’m here.”

  I give him a curt nod and take a sip of coffee, the hot froth burning my tongue. It matches the burning in my chest.

  “Is your family heading to the graveyard later?” Gabe asks.

  “Not sure. If they are, I’m not going.”

  All I get for that is an exasperated sigh. Gabe hefts his backpack higher and bumps my shoulder with his. “Let’s head inside.”

  Thank goodness he’s letting it drop.

  That first week after Claire died it was like someone had turned the sound off. Every one tiptoed around, whispered, and looked at me from the corners of their eyes. I expect today will be like that—a miniature time warp with the world bowing and bending around the black void Claire left. She always could turn the world upside down and twist it however she wanted.

  I was wrong. Today is worse. In a small town everyone knows everyone else’s business and our memories are long. I will always be the girl with the dead sister. Everyone knows what today is. Everyone. The pitying looks are back. I prefer the angry glances I got right after the ABC segment, but they’ve completely disappeared. My teachers either avoid my eyes or, like Mrs. Morrison, pat my shoulder and murmur platitudes. I want to punch Mrs. M in the face. As a bonus, I’m pretty sure that would get me sent home. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Yet.

  By lunchtime I’m ready to snap and all it’s going to take is one more whisper of Claire’s name. Wendy springs up from her table when I enter the cafeteria. Oh hell no. I turn and bolt from the room, Wendy’s shrill voice calling my name behind me.

  I don’t stop running until I’m out in the parking lot. If I had the keys, I’d take Rust Bucket and tear out of this place so fast. As it is, I have to stop by the time I reach the end of the parking lot because there’s a burning pain in my side and I can barely catch my breath. I’m a walker, not a runner.

  Bending, I rest my hands on my knees and suck in a breath. My backpack feels like it’s loaded with bricks and it’s sliding up my back thanks to my downward angle. There are no fences around the school, no bars across the parking lot. Nothing keeping us here, except the fact that every one of our teachers is on a first name basis with our parents. I don’t care.

  I walk down the road and the sun is hot on my face. The leaves rustle and sing. It’s such a beautiful day. That feels like another betrayal. Today should be cloudy and gray. I don’t know where I’m going. I just am.

  I walk. Away from the school, away from the people. If I didn’t know every corner of this town I could lose myself. But I’m always right here. The one thing I can’t ever escape.

  Everyone thinks I took Claire’s death so hard because I loved her. And I did. But in the end I hated her too. I hated her so much. She ruined everything. She ruined our family. Her death erased me from the world for a long time because all anyone saw when they looked at me was my dead sister. I know she didn’t have a choice. I’m not an idiot. It’s not her fault she died. I hate myself for hating her. I hate God for hating both of us. Sometimes it feels like hate’s all I have left inside.

  I walk and walk and walk. There is no sense in the world. I think that’s what I want more than anything, to understand why and how and what the hell comes next. One breath follows another. This whole year I’ve been searching for something. I’m not even sure what. My pictures pull me closer to it, my wall of proofs, but I still can’t find it even now.

  When I finally surface from my mental pity party, I’m over on Beecher Street, three miles from the school. Rather than houses, most of the homes on this street are single and double-wide trailers. They’re decorated with wind chimes and white trellises, abandoned toys out front. It’s a better class of trailer, the kind you have to save up for, the kind that probably isn’t going to be moved elsewhere because it’s practically fused to the foundation slab. Sometimes the trailers are nicer than the houses in town—more time and effort put into keeping them pretty.

  Case in point, the trailer in front of me, Melanie Teasedale’s place. Mel is a clerk at the grocery store, stuck in Clemency taking care of her mom. Mel’s in her thirties, and her mom isn’t that old but early-onset dementia derailed both their lives a few years ago. Now Mel bags groceries, carries a shift at Maggio’s on Fridays, and has to round up her mom every time Mrs. Teasedale wanders down Main Street in her nightie screaming at people to get off her damn lawn. For some reason Mrs. Teasedale is convinced the town square, with its wide gazebo, belongs to her.

  You’d think with everything Mel has to do her place would be a wreck. Last thing she needs is yard work, right? That lawn is always perfectly trimmed, pretty boxwood bushes clipped and framing the tiny porch. Every spring she puts a fresh coat of wood stain on the tiny lawn-art wishing well and then crams it full of white flowers.

  Now, with fall knocking on the door, the well cradles blazing yellow and orange mums. Like somebody shoved a sunset inside it.

  Something is off about the well today though. I stare for a long moment, puzzling it out. There are dark splotches on the side, marring the wood. I take a few steps to the left to get a better angle.

  “No freaking way.”r />
  An image of the Virgin Mary, hands extended at her sides and a halo radiating around her head, covers one side of the well. The image is blurry at the edges, dark and light swirling together to make a soft, dreamy picture, almost abstract. Her lips curve in a smile, as though she knows a secret.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Interview with a Grocery Clerk

  I glance around, checking out the empty street before edging closer to the well and stepping onto Mrs. Teasedale’s lawn. Beneath my sneakers the grass is spongy and soft, the ground still wet from being watered that morning. Despite that, I kneel down, wincing as damp seeps through my jeans at the knees.

  I bend close to the well, tracing a finger over Mary’s halo. The lines are darker at the edges; a myriad of browns blending together. The image seems to rise up from the wood, a natural part of it. I touch each line, tracing my fingers over the rough wood, searching for some hint of how the image was made. A tiny nick in the wood drags against my skin. There, at the bottom, a breath from the lines that form the roses resting on the tops of Mary’s feet, is a thin scratch. A magnifying glass would come in handy right now.

  My wet jeans press against my shins as I bend low, nose almost touching the wood. I squint, trying to see that one detail closer. It’s a mirror of the line beside it. A guide. Someone lightly scratched the image in place using something sharp beforehand. Below, under the deeper brown, there’s another small mark, like a tiny burn. My breath catches. As clues go, it’s pretty crap, but it’s the first real proof that the miracles aren’t real. I pull back and fumble in my backpack for my camera, check there are still a few snapshots left, and then hold the camera as close to the image as I can without risking the focus. I’m prepared to admit, in this moment only, that a Polaroid isn’t the perfect photo in every instance. I could use a high-res digital camera in addition to that magnifying glass.

  I snap the picture and wait as the camera spits out its tiny white-framed square. It’s only as I’m waiting for the picture to finish developing that it occurs to me I might be stalking Mel’s lawn art for nothing. She could have paid someone to come decorate her wishing well. No implied miracles at all.

  The photo is marginally helpful; you can sorta make out the scratched line against the wood grain. My extreme close-up of Mary’s feet looks like an abstract painting. I step back and snap another picture, this one of the entire image. If this is more than just a home improvement project, I want plenty of photographic evidence.

  I look up and down the street again. It’s still quiet. Peaceful. We’re far enough from Main Street that you can’t hear the traffic, and no out-of-towners are tramping around. Such a contrast to the noise and rush of school. To the tension at home. I think of Claire and the graveyard, of Emmet and his long silences. I think of Mom, hiding at work, and Dad hiding in another state.

  The burning is back in my chest and I focus on the wishing well instead. I need this mystery. These miracles are fake. I know it and I’m going to prove it. Whether this town likes it or not. Whether it costs me my job. Screw Mayor Thompson. This could be the clue Gabe and I need to crack the case. I just have to figure out how.

  I debate knocking on Mel’s door to ask about the wishing well. Better not. Mrs. Teasedale might brain me with a frying pan. Besides, one-ish on a Wednesday? Mel’s at the grocery for sure. My stomach growls, reminding me I ran out during lunch hour and all I’ve had today is a candy bar and some coffee. The sugar crash is probably contributing to my bad mood.

  I search my pockets, finding a crumpled five-dollar bill. The remains of my last paycheck. But it’s enough to get a sandwich and soda from the grocery deli. And the perfect excuse for chatting up Mel. Maybe she’s the miracle mastermind and all of the other miracles were leading up to this one, conveniently sitting in her front yard.

  When I walk into Bryer’s Grocery fifteen minutes later, the place is hopping. There are at least twenty people milling around that I can see, and five already standing in line at the lone cash register. Mel is swiping items across the scanner and having a cheerful one-sided conversation with a woman in a purple jogging suit who keeps checking her watch.

  “I don’t understand how you can be out of milk,” the woman interrupts.

  Mel gives a small shrug. “It’s been busy.”

  Understatement of the year. I eye the other customers and re-evaluate my lunch plans. The damn out-of-towners are like locusts, gobbling up everything in their path.

  I turn my attention back to Mel. Her brown hair is bleached light blonde, the roots dark. She’s stuck between skinny and overweight, with a solid body frame that could never be called anything except big-boned.

  Mel catches sight of me and her eyes widen, darting to the clock above the employee break room door. “Did something happen at the school?” she asks, suddenly ignoring the customer in front of her.

  The woman taps the counter. “Excuse me? I’d appreciate if you could finish checking me out, please.”

  I give Mel a reassuring smile and stop at the end of the lane. I begin bagging groceries and that shuts the snotty woman up. Apparently if I work for the privilege, I’m allowed to talk to Mel.

  “I couldn’t take the cafeteria food,” I say. Mel attended Shrenk High years ago. She knows it’s a closed campus and I’m not supposed to be here.

  She frowns for a moment but then her expression melts into a compassionate grimace. “Tough day today? I’m sure Principal Candlewhite would understand if you need to take the day off and spend it with your family.”

  She scans the last item and gives the woman her total in an extra cheerful voice, shifting her focus for a moment.

  Great. Even the grocery clerk has a mental calendar with a big red star slapped on today. Maybe next year they’ll make it a town-wide holiday honoring Saint Claire.

  I hand two sacks of groceries to jogging suit lady and she gives me a blank look. “Aren’t you going to walk them out to my car?”

  “It’s self serve, lady. Grab a cart if they’re too heavy.”

  “Delaney!” Mel says in a quiet voice, then turns to the woman. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t have any extra clerks right now.”

  The woman hmphs and storms off with her groceries. There’s a guy in line next and he nudges his bag of potato chips toward the scanner meaningfully. Mel bites her lip and fumbles the bag across the scanner.

  “I’m sorry, Del. I can’t talk right now.”

  “I understand,” I say. Maybe a new tactic is called for. I move to the deli counter and discover there are still a few sandwich supplies left. Blake, one of Bryer’s other perennial employees, throws a sandwich together for me and passes it over without comment. I appreciate his lack of conversational skill. He’s in his late twenties, gaunt and pallid with a hoop earring in one ear. A scrub of reddish-brown hair clings to his chin but his head is completely bald. He looks like Mr. Clean’s younger, skinnier brother.

  “Thanks,” I say. Blake merely nods. Maybe he’s taken a vow of silence. Or maybe years of working with Mel and her near-constant chatter have seized up his vocal cords.

  I get in line to pay for my sandwich and grab an IBC root beer as well. When I finally get to the register, there’s no one in line behind me, thank goodness. This is my chance.

  “I passed by your place earlier,” I say.

  Mel tenses. “Was Mom out in the yard again?”

  “No, but I—uh—like what you’ve done with the wishing well.” I try to look casual but every cell in my body is on high alert.

  “The new mums are gorgeous, aren’t they? I drove all the way to Ashby for them.” Mel beams, taking my money and handing back change.

  “No, I mean the decorative panel you added to the front.”

  Mel frowns. “It’s a wooden well, there aren’t any decorations. Other than my flowers, of course.”

  “There’s definitely something on there now,” I say. “An image.”

  Mel’s frown morphs into a little oh of surprise and her
eyes widen. “Did someone deface my well?” She throws a look at the handful of people still browsing the aisles closest to us and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Do you think it was gangs?”

  “I think gangs normally use spray paint, and it definitely wasn’t.” I suppress a laugh. Yeah, roving gang bangers drove all the way from the city to graffiti our town. Not.

  Mel chews her bottom lip. “Is it bad? Something obscene? Maybe I should call the police station.”

  I hold up a hand, placating. We only have three cops for the entire county and at least one of them is on permanent duty outside the McDonald’s these days. If the other two rush to Mel’s looking for phantom gangs, I’ll probably get a ticket for inciting a false report. “It’s fine. It’s a religious symbol, not a gang sign.”

  Mel’s eyes widen. Suddenly she breaks into a huge grin. “It’s another miracle!”

  It’s a sign of how crazy things have gotten that she’s made the leap from graffiti to miracle in mere seconds. And unless Mel has insane acting skills she’s never displayed before, I’m pretty sure she didn’t know about Wishing Well Mary until I told her. Damn.

  I mentally kick myself. I could have ripped the panel off the well and had the latest miracle to study for as long as I need to figure out who’s dicking with our town. Now it’s way too late for that. A few of the people in the store are already looking at Mel curiously.

  Mel whirls and faces Blake. “Did you hear?” Her face is shining and there are tears in her eyes. Her hands knot together and then release over and over. She looks like she might bounce right out of her shoes at any moment. “A real, live miracle on my front lawn. Maybe God has healed my mom!” She glances at the clock again and bites her lip. “I have to go, Blake. You understand, right? I have to check.”