"Mom?" I said.
"I’m not feeling well, Honey," she said, her voice sounding like it had been muffled with cotton. Not looking at me, she shooed me away with a hand. "Can you make yourself something to eat?" she asked. "I’ll be in bed for a while."
I nodded. "Okay, Mom." I closed the door quietly then backed away.
I stood in the hallway and listened to Mom cry, her breaths heaving quietly through the door.
***
The sun was brilliant white, and it reflected off the snow that covered the culm.
My boots crunched the snow and culm, creating a gray slush. There was a slight breeze that chilled the icy air even more and made the cold tears on my face even colder. I wiped my face with my bare hands and closed my eyes to the blinding white all around. Ahead lay the red semi-trailer, its roof covered in snow, its tires sunk into meringue-like snow drifts. Behind me lay a mile of snow-covered culm which ended in a gray treeline that hid my home from view. When I finally entered the clearing and walked up to Fred, I leaned against its rear doors and cried.
I told Fred about the sleepness night, the screams and the slaps and the pounding on the walls. I told it how the closet space didn’t hide me enough anymore, how I stayed awake the whole night under a blanket like a ghost, and how Mom stayed in the bedroom probably wondering how she would cover up the marks this time or how she could say the right thing when he got home so he wouldn’t do it again. I told Fred that I was thinking of hopping one of the trains that passed through town and letting it carry me to wherever it could, but that I couldn’t go without Mom and that I wanted us to have that island somewhere on a blue ocean where we each had a home and the only nightsounds we had to hear were the winds in pine trees and waves on a beach.
Then I slid to the ground, my buttocks planted in cold snow, my face between my knees. Somewhere, melting snow trickled through the trees and off-key birdsong twittered in the sky. The semi-trailer whistled in the icy breeze, and I cried in the cold air, ideas and options running through my mind, but always returning to the inevitable: return home, return to the closet, hide, hope things will remain quiet, at least for a few days. I slipped my hands into my coat pockets and felt for my gloves before realizing that I’d left them in my bedroom, so I kept my hands in my pockets, drew my arms tightly to my body and sat in snowy silence.
Above my head, a strange whine and creak carried on the wind.
Metal on metal, rough and grating. A pop and a clang. I looked up and saw that the twin locks that no one had been able to open on the trailer doors for years were now swaying in the wind and banging against the doors.
Unlocked.
I stood up, brushing snow from my pants, and looked at the locks. They appeared as though they’d been open for some time, but still caked in rust and dirt. I was sure they were locked the previous day, as they had been for years. I looked around and saw only a blue jay alighting on a birch branch, its wings flapping out old feathers. I crawled onto Fred’s rear gate, balancing against one door while reaching over to the locks and pulling them off. The locks felt like ice in my hands, and I placed them in my pockets as I grabbed the door latch, pulled it up, then slid it over, surprised at how smoothly the rusting latch opened.
The door creaked open an inch, and warm air spilled out. I wrapped my fingers around the door’s edge, pulled it open, and stepped inside, kicking snow off my boots.
I stood in the semi-trailer, my mouth agape, unable to form words.
The trailer’s interior was a long, straight corridor that seemed over a hundred yards long with soft lighting flickering from the far end and warm air flowing out—from somewhere. I stepped forward, closing the door behind me, and looked down the corridor’s wood-plank floor and steel walls.
"Hello?" I shouted. "Hello?"
The only response was the breeze whistling from outside.
I pulled off my wool cap and inched forward, examining the ceiling, the floor, the walls. I continued walking, shouting "Hello" every few steps, pausing, listening, then moving forward. "Hello". Pause. Listen. Move.
And I kept walking. . . .
III. Fred
My voice echoed off the walls and bounced down the corridor, which seemed to lengthen the deeper I walked into it. Warm breeze, salt scented and fragrant with pine, rolled over me. The walls groaned like a ship rolling over ocean waves, and the ambient light was deep amber, dim but soft, the kind of light I remembered from old libraries and old churches. Every few feet I paused, looked behind me, saw the doors recede farther and farther the deeper I walked into the semi-trailer.
After a couple hundred yards, a dark recessed doorway appeared to my left. I waved my hand in front of it and felt warm, moist air rushing out. My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I called out "Hello?" several more times before I rounded the corner and stepped through the doorway.
I was staring into another corridor, but this one was shorter, and I could see its end opening into what looked like a room filled with stars. I stepped lightly, moving along the wall as if somehow it would give me security if the corridor collapsed or if the floor. My eyes examined every shadow for anything that might jump out, and my ears listened for any footsteps or breaths that may have been sneaking up behind me, but I saw nothing but the red metal walls and ceiling, the dark wood floors, the rich amber light, and I heard nothing except the warm air rushing past my ears, a distant groan from somewhere in the walls, and my boots thumping on the floor.
The corridor opened up into what I thought was a room, but when I stepped over the threshold, the room became a dark blue starry sky, a shoreline of sand and stone, and tall pines reaching high into the air, their tips like arrows aiming at a crescent moon. I was standing on a long pier that stretched straight over a large body of black water that lapped at its pillars. In the bright moonlight and starlight I espied an island several hundred yards ahead, perfectly round and dotted with high pine trees. At one end, a tall lighthouse flashed bright beams of white light over the water, scanning the shoreline and the sea in a steady slowdance.
Behind me, the doorway through which I’d just passed was embedded in stone, the corridor walls still glowing with amber light, and the shoreline to my left and right seemed to stretch into infinity, an unending line of rocky shoreline, low hills, and tall pine trees. Ahead of me, the island floated on the calm black waters, and I walked toward it, the thick pier boards creaking under my feet, the night waters lapping below.
The dark sea gently caressed the island shoreline, foaming lightly as it passed over pebbles that shimmered and sand that glowed under the night light. I stopped at the end of the pier and bent down to run my fingers over the sand, which was warm and moist, and I picked up some round stones and smelled the salt water in which they’d been soaking. I placed the stones in my pocket and looked again back at the shore, the pier stretching back in its perfectly straight line to the doorway that was still embedded in the shoreline’s stone wall, and I stepped onto the island.
***
The pier transitioned into a flat stone path that curved into a dark forest of pine and led in the direction of the lighthouse. I followed the path, taking off my coat and hat and feeling sweat trickle down my back. Air whispered through the pine needles, and crickets chirped in the underbrush. Every few seconds, green and yellow fireflies drifted from leaves as they found new homes, and the white flash of the lighthouse cut through a light mist that flowed over the island.
The path twisted and turned, its edges marked with glowing green lichen and scattered mushrooms. A small rabbit stopped on the path and looked me up and down before walking on, its long rear legs and white tail disappearing in a crash in the underbrush. The path made another tight right turn and opened into a large round lot covered with hard-packed gravel.
Opposite one another sat two small houses. Each house looked familiar, one roof edged with blue, the other pink, both sided with solid redwood. Both houses had p
orches with two wood rocking chairs and a flickering gas porch lights. Behind the homes, the land dipped down into the area where the lighthouse lashed the night sky. I walked a few steps, then stopped in the middle of the lot.
The houses did look familiar.
The windows, the roofs, the doors, the porch chairs.
One house for me.
One house for Mom.
Through the windows, soft light flickered. I stepped up to the blue-roofed house and peered through a side window. Inside, a lantern glowed on a small white kitchen table around which sat four white chairs. The kitchen had a small sink, white cupboards, a small stove, and a cabinet that I realized was a refrigerator.
I stepped back, then backed out of the lot. I turned and ran for the pier, almost falling over seams in the flat stones several times before I reached the island’s shoreline. I clumsily ran over the pier, and I panicked, thinking the pier was getting longer as I tried to reach its end, but it remained the same length, the doorway remained in the same place, and through it I ran until the corridor turned right.
I continued running, now thinking the walls were about to close on me. The semi-trailer doors were little more than a rectangular dot that gradually increased in size the faster I ran. My breath became gasps, and my coat flailed wildly in my hand. The island stones fell to the floor, and I stopped to pick them up only a few feet from the doors.
I reached up to the steel doors and pushed at them. The one I’d opened swung free, and white daylight and icy air stung my eyes and skin. I threw my coat and hat to the snowy ground, jumped onto the rear under-ride bar, then onto a patch of unmelted snow. I fell on my side and rolled, sharp edges of stone stabbing me. After gasping, I rolled over, grabbed at my coat, and pulled it towards me. I rummaged through the pockets and found the rusting locks and the sea-smoothed stones, then looked up at the open trailer door.
It swung in the breeze, whining on its rusting hinges, warm air spilling from its opening.
I stood up and brushed snow off my coat, pants, and hat, then pushed the door closed. As the door squealed shut, I jumped back onto the under-ride, slid the latch back into place, and replaced the locks, locking each one before jumping to the ground again.
I stared at Fred, the rusting-red semi-trailer covered in snow, the semi-trailer that sat inert for years. It stood without sound or movement as it always had. Cold air lifted snow off its roof, carrying it over the clearing where it shimmered like diamond dust in the winter sun. I put on my hat and my coat, zipping it up to my chin, then backed away as Fred’s skin sang with the whistle of swirling air.
***
I ran across the white-patched black culm field, the air cooling and drying the sweat on my neck and back. I breathed in air that smelled sweetly of burning wood and tasted of metallic grit. My face stung, and my legs ached, but I ran off the field and into the treeline, over the abandoned railroad tracks and down the embankment that led to my house.
By the time I got home, Mom was limping to the pea green station wagon. She was dressed in her heavy gray winter coat, her neck wrapped in a black-gray checkerboard scarf, and her hands covered in heavy blue gloves. She turned to me, the left side of her face covered in purple bruises, her lower lip swollen and split. She was shoving black trash bags into the rear seat, and the wagon was filled with clothes.
"Where’ve you been?" Mom asked, her mouth still sounding muffled. Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, her jaw swollen on the left side. "Jane," she said, "where’ve you been?" Every word seemed to hurt as she spoke.
"Mom," I said, gulping as much air as I could, my lungs heaving. "Mom, I—"
"Doesn’t matter," she said. She lowered herself to one knee and put her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth trembled as she spoke. "I want you to go to your room and grab anything you need. I think I have all your important clothes and books. We can’t take everything, but get whatever you need, okay?"
"We’re leaving," I said. "Just you and me?"
"Yes, Honey."
"For good?"
"Yes, I—"
"Let me get a couple of things," I yelled as I ran to my room. I pulled my comforter out of the closet and the tablet that it covered. I looked around the room, thought about what I might need, but if Mom packed my books and clothes, I didn’t need anything else. I left the room and closed the door behind me, hoping I’d never need its hiding places ever again.
Minutes later, Mom had locked the door, started the car, and pulled us out of the driveway.
The old station wagon rumbled down the street, and behind us the house got smaller and smaller and smaller.
IV. The Night of Snow and Stones
It was the first night I could remember lying on a bed and feeling safe.
We found a motel room outside Scranton. It was a small motor inn with twelve rooms and was tucked away several yards from the main road. We’d tried to find a room for several hours, but most of the local hotels were filled with Christmas visitors. As the day wore on, the sky got darker and darker, and in desperation, Mom pulled into the first motel that looked like it had an empty lot. As the sun flattened into an orange line on the horizon, we were finally able to sit in seats that weren’t car seats, and we were finally able to shower with hot water. She parked the car around the back so it couldn’t be seen by anyone driving by, covered as much of our stuff as possible with my comforter and with another blanket, then locked the doors and sat on the edge of the bed, holding a bag of ice against her face.
She had the hotel telephone in her lap and had just replaced the handset back onto the receiver.
"Your father canceled the credit card," she whispered. "We’ll need to leave tomorrow morning." Mom placed the telephone on the nightstand Bible and lowered her head, ice pack still pressed against her face. "We have enough money for a few days."
I lay on the bed, looking at her hunched back. The lamp light enclosed her in a glow like the light I'd seen in the semi-trailer, amber and soft. Mom's breath rasped heavily through her swollen lips. The knot on the left side of her face was a bit smaller than when I saw it earlier in the day, and she kept the ice pack on it, pulling it away every few minutes to feel her face with her hand, wincing with every touch.
"They released your father," Mom said. "Released him. Arrested him this morning and released him just a few hours later. Just a few hours," she whispered. "They saw my face, Honey. They took pictures and promised they’d do something, but they just picked him up and released him on bail." She placed the ice pack on the nightstand.
"We’re not going back, Mom?" I asked, more statement than question.
She shook her head. "No, Honey. Never." She grabbed the ice pack again, pressed it against her face. "Never."
"Where can we stay?"
Mom breathed deeply and exhaled. "I called my mother this morning," she said. "Said she didn’t want to deal with the drama. Drama, Jane. That’s what she called it. I don’t know who else to call." Mom turned, then lay beside me, groaning as pain must have crept through her face and body. "All these years," she said, barely audible, "just drama. Now we have just a few hundred dollars and a car that should’ve been scrapped ten years ago, Jane." She kept the ice pack on her face. "We’re never going back to him, Jane. Never. I don’t care how far we have to run or where we have to go."
We lay on the bed, bedsprings squeaking from our breaths. In the room next to ours, someone had turned up the television. Professional basketball echoed through the wall, one player passing the ball to another, one player fouling, and one making a long jump shot. The crowd roared like falling water.
I thought about Fred. The long corridors, the pier, the shoreline, the island and lighthouse and houses. The warmth that surrounded me like honey. The air that tasted of ocean mist. The stars and moon shining like nightsun. I’d not told Mom about it, and I wasn’t sure if I should. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d dreamt it,
that there was a moment when my brain insulated me from what I’d heard in my parents’ bedroom the previous night, but I had the scents in my nose, and the sights in my mind, and the stones and flakes of rust in my coat pocket. If it was a dream or hallucination, I’d still managed to pull the locks off somehow, and I’d gotten the stones from somewhere, stones that smelled of salt water and beach sand.
"I think I left your Christmas present at home, Honey," Mom said.
"It’s okay, Mom." I nudged against her, and she pulled me close, running her fingers through my hair.
Mom turned out the light, and we drifted into an early sleep.
I awakened somewhere after midnight. Mom sat in a chair and looked out the window. Wet snow fell in large flakes that churned and tumbled in eddies of air. She stared at the parking lot, her chin resting in her hands. She’d close her eyes and shake her head, whisper something to herself, then blow out a mouthful of air, blasting the window with a thin layer of fog.
I tried to imagine what she was thinking. Was she thinking of places to where we could escape? Was she thinking about how much money was in her purse? The cancelled credit card? If Dad was stalking the streets of every town and city in the area, his white truck rolling down main streets and side streets, bright headlights slashing through curtains of falling snow? Yes, probably all that and more. Mom hadn’t worked for years and had no income. She had no family to which she could turn, no belongings that she could really afford to sell for money. For years, Dad had been able to control what she did and where she went. He’d placed her in a pot of water, slowly increased the temperature, and it wasn’t until the last minute when she realized that she was being boiled alive. She had a station wagon, she had some clothes, a fistful of money, and a daughter to feed and clothe and send to school.
When a frog realizes it’s being boiled and can’t reach the edge of the pot, what does it do?
I only prayed she wouldn’t turn around and take us home, that her never wouldn’t become a maybe. We’d make it without Dad. We had to.
But outside, the snow and the temperature kept falling. It was Christmas Eve, and though I was only ten years old, I knew Mom didn’t have a plan and that we could soon be living in a car under snow-thick skies until the weight of winter finally crushed her once and for all.
Christmas in Culm: Three Stories Page 2