by Laura Wiess
Drunken mobs never rampage on Sunday nights. The attack, when it comes, will be friendly fire.
I lie wide-eyed in the dark, listening. The obscene waits outside my door, counting the minutes until dawn when it will come at me again. And why not? What’s going to stop it? Laws, prison, and counseling didn’t. The distant threat of eternal damnation pales in comparison to the immediate gratification of corrupting young skin.
I draw a quiet, shaky breath and glance over at the Madonna.
She gazes back, serene and unblinking.
I’ve been hoping for a save in the last inning but now, when all the outfield chatter has faded and the other players have gone home, the only one stepping up to the plate is me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Coffee. Toilets flush. Daylight leaks through the blinds.
My eyeballs have been rolled in sand. I creak out of bed and kick the beanbag chair. The pyramid collapses.
Voices. “Don’t forget the glass man is coming at one.”
“Now how could I forget that, Sharon?”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I know but I’m a big boy, okay? I don’t need another mother.”
“Fine. Forget I ever said anything.” Silence. Running water. “I’d forgotten how cranky you were in the morning.”
“I just don’t like people nagging me the minute I get up.”
“I wasn’t…forget it.” Compact snaps closed. “Zip me up, please.”
“Okay. Watch your hair.”
“Ow.”
“I said watch your hair. Christ, who wears a turtleneck in the summer, anyway?”
“The store is air-conditioned. What is wrong with you this morning? Are you trying to piss me off or what?”
His silence hones the tension.
“So what are you and Meredith going to do today?”
Sigh. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Just lay off the third degree, all right, Sharon? Now, do you want a cup of coffee?”
Silence. “Sure. Fine. I’ll be out in a minute. Thanks.”
Heavy footsteps pass my door. Lighter ones hurry into the bedroom.
I drag the beanbag chair away and cross the hall to the vacated bathroom. Pee, wash my face, and rush back to my room.
My mother knocks softly as I’m strapping on my overalls. “Meredith?”
“I’m up,” I say, jamming my feet into work boots. Double-knot the ties. My feet have spread out from going barefoot and now feel trapped and smothered under layers of socks and leather.
“Open up for a minute.”
I pack my survival gear into my pockets. Turn on the teddy cam, open the door, and am greeted by a choking cloud of perfume. “What?”
She steps inside. Glances worriedly over her shoulder and says, “Look, I don’t know what’s eating your father, but he’s in a rotten mood so just be nice and don’t antagonize him, okay?” A jagged-edged hickey peeks out over the top of her turtleneck. It wasn’t there when they came home from the shore last night. “I had to pay for everything yesterday and I think it hit him that I’m the only one earning any money. It’s hard on a man to be unemployed. The simplest things make them cranky.” She sighs. “So just be good, will you?”
Be good. Be a nice girl. Don’t ruin our happy family.
A searing flash cuts a chasm in my surface calm and I shock myself by saying, “Please don’t leave me here alone with him, Mom.” Whose plaintive voice is this? Not mine. Never mine.
The pain is scalding. “No, Daddy, no,” I beg, hysterical. “Mommy! Mommy!”
I want my mother. I have always wanted my mother.
“Oh Meredith, please, not now,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead and glancing toward the kitchen. “We have to trust each other if we’re ever going to be a real family again, can’t you see that? Your father’s trying so hard and it hurts him so much when you back away. So please, try just a little. For me.” She looks straight into my eyes for the first time in years and somehow it’s worse than not being seen at all. “Promise?”
Pain digs deep inside of me. “Fine.” The vow is void the moment it falls from my lips.
“Good,” she says and smiles. “That’s one less thing I have to worry about.” She hurries off to meet my father and I am left in my four-sided box, alone.
So I leave the teddy cam running, follow her into the kitchen, and make the one-word answers she requires of me. I don’t know when the basslike rumbling in my brain starts, but every time my father speaks it increases in intensity. Not in volume but in agitation.
My mother kisses my father good-bye and leaves.
The air vibrates.
I sit at the table with my back to the wall, one hand welded to a mug of steaming coffee, the other to the knife in my pocket. I move my thumb and press the smoke alarm camera remote. I would give anything to be someone else.
“Well.” My father leans back in his chair, cocks his head, and smiles. “We’re finally alone.” He waits but I don’t answer. “What, now that your mother’s gone you have nothing to say? C’mon, Chirp, you used to be such a chatterbox. Fill me in. Give me an update on the last three years.”
“They were great,” I say.
“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” he says after a moment.
I say nothing. Acid eats my stomach.
“I was hoping you’d say you missed me like I missed you.” His hand creeps across the table like a hairless tarantula until it touches mine. “There’s so much I want to say but you make it so hard.” He strokes the claws curved around the coffee cup. “Don’t punish me, baby. Look at me. I need to see your eyes.”
I can’t. I won’t. If I look, I die.
“C’mon, Chirp.” His fingers wander past my hand to my wrist. “Give it up. I’m not such a bad guy. Really. I love you, sweetheart. Just let me love you again.”
Leah Louisa, Nigel. Ms. Mues, I need your God. Andy, come home. The rumbling is ferocious. “You’re not ever going to stop, are you?” My voice is a thin, flat blade.
The thumb stroking my wrist stills. “Stop what? Loving you? Wanting you? No. Not until the day I die.”
So that’s it, then. I could put him away again and again, and again and again he’ll get out and come for me. It will never, ever end. “Dad, please.” I push the words past the lump in my throat. “You don’t understand. You have to let me go. Please.”
“Chirp,” he says softly. “Just stop, all right? It’s not gonna change anything.”
My head jerks up and for an instant our gazes lock.
I shove away from the table but am still anchored by his grip. Release my coffee mug and watch in slow motion as the cup hits the table and the steaming brew splashes, as he instinctively releases my wrist and jumps back.
“Whoa!” He grabs a place mat and drops it on the spreading spill. “What the hell are you doing? You could have burned us both!” He looks up and catches me backing away. “Oh, no you don’t. Get over here and help me clean this up.”
I shake my head. He likes it. Look at his eyes gleam. Ready to pounce. How much is enough? My work boots keep retreating. Fight or flight. Sacrifice me. Do it. Do it.
“Come on, now,” he says, skirting the table and slowly coming toward me. “This is getting out of hand. What’re you so jumpy about?” And then he lunges faster than I can wheel and run, and my back is to the wall, my head hits the wall and his arms close around me and the rumbling in my mind drowns his apologies and declarations of love. My head sinks and the golden baseball strung around his neck presses hard and cold against my mouth.
“Oh God, baby, I missed you so much. I don’t want to hurt you.” His body is burning and his hands are everywhere, gripping, squeezing, rushing to unlatch my overall straps.
I am small and growing smaller. A desperate wail reverberates through my brain and I can feel the memory of blood running rivulets down my legs. “Mommy,” I whisper.
His head snaps up and he turns toward the door.
My sho
ve catches him by surprise and knocks him backward.
I bolt for my bedroom.
“Meredith!”
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. The silent litany flows unbidden. Queen of families, have mercy. Help me.
I shoot inside as my father thunders down the hall. Slam the door but he’s there, right there, turning the knob as I fight to lock it and he’s stronger than me so I back away with my own breathless blubbering in my ears, wordless terror a jagged, stuttering, “Hunh…hunh…hunh…” and the Blessed Virgin watches from my nightstand as he clamps down on my shoulders.
Bared teeth. Absolute intent.
Game over.
Paralysis comes and goes. In a flash I’m berserk, all claws and work boots. “I hate you!” I grind out, wild because I’m not going to be the one torn and bloody again, raped on camera, the pathetic victim sacrifice absorbing the sick pain of the sick fucking world. I’ll kill him first, I will, and somewhere deep inside of me, I realize I’ve always known it.
He grabs my hair and yanks my head back, exposing my face.
I go still. Adrenaline floods my veins, numbing me for the final blow.
His fingers tighten, bringing tears to my eyes. “Don’t ever say that again.” He licks his lips. “Now lay down.” Releases my hair and shoves me backward onto the bed. Unzips his pants. “Take off those disgusting overalls.”
The weight in my pocket nudges my thigh, suddenly becomes my knife. I put my hand to its unforgiving outline and can’t stop crying years of tears because if I don’t stab my father with my weapon, then he is going to stab me with his.
Palsied and blind, I fumble my hand into my pocket.
“What’re you doing?” he says and reaches for my arm. “What is that?”
My fingers close around the knife but I can’t get it open. I jerk away from him, panting, squirming backward across the mattress toward the headboard.
He seizes my ankles and drags me back. “What is that?” He kneels on the bed and grabs my flailing arm. “Give it to me.”
“No!” I twist and kick, but he pins me down, relentless, pulling me into the abyss and I know I’m losing, cracking, breathing in the impossible scent of roses and dark, rich soil as the golden baseball dances above me, flashing, mocking, and the Madonna stands steadfast and serene, a savior still within reach.
Queen of martyrs. Mirror of justice.
I stop fighting. Flick my wrist and the knife sails toward the door.
“Goddamn you, Chirp, what the hell is that?” my father snaps and releases me. The bed bounces as he backs off and turns to retrieve it.
I wipe my eyes and reach for the Holy Mother. Close my hands around the heavy, solid oak statue and with my own tears anointing my palms, rise up behind my father.
He straightens.
I plant my feet in a batter’s stance and swing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I sit on the front steps. My stomach heaves and I just manage to part my knees before I vomit on the step below. Wipe my mouth on my arm and realize I’m shaking.
I think I’m in shock. The sun is brutal and I should be sweating, but my skin is cool and clammy. I gaze up the road to the bend. The world is tilted and the scenery jumbled, sharp-edged and carnival bright.
Nigel rounds the bend in a shuffling run, shouting into his cellphone.
I don’t remember calling him, but I must have, because a squad car screams into sight, passing him and squealing up to my curb.
I grope for the railing. Stand. Wobble down past the splattered vomit. “Virgin most powerful,” I croak and one of the cops says, “What?” like he didn’t hear me, but it’s too late because the world spins crazy and I’m gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
My mother is arrested and charged with a list of offenses, including leaving me alone with a known pedophile. The judge grants bail because she is not considered a flight risk.
She hasn’t contacted me. Not even a note.
She spends her days at the hospital with my father. She doesn’t understand it yet, but he is my gift to her. He is all hers now; she wins by default as there is no one else in the race. Well, except for the newly fertilized egg she’s carrying, but she’s got a couple of months yet to decide whether or not she really wants to share him again with someone else.
My guess is no.
The doctors reviewed the nanny cam tapes and agreed that although the blunt-force trauma from the oaken icon was sure to do some damage, it should not have been enough to cause my father a C4 spinal-cord injury resulting in quadriplegia.
But somehow it was.
The doctors say my father has some function below the level of the injury. He can move his head and neck and has limited shoulder movement. The rest of him is paralyzed, but with technological advances and assistance devices like a chin controller and voice recognition, he can still go online or operate an electric wheelchair.
He is also under arrest. Big time.
Nigel relays the news. His voice is grave, but his eyes glow with triumph.
It’s been four days now, but it’s still hard to believe I’m done being hunted.
I hold one quiet, curious card close to my vest and only play it with Nigel, even though he’s a bigger skeptic than I am. Was. Am.
“But don’t you think it’s weird that Andy left the Madonna in case I needed her and she’s what saved me? I mean, I know that’s not how he meant it and all, but still,” I say on Friday as we amble down Leah Louisa’s quiet, tree-lined street. She’s my official guardian now and the rose room my new home. I stick my hands into my empty shorts pockets. The police have confiscated my knife and Leah Louisa, my cigarettes.
The Dumpster got my overalls.
“Hell no. You’re what saved you, kid. Not divine intervention.” Nigel wedges a cigarette in his mouth and offers me one.
I look around and accept. No doubt word will somehow get back to my grandmother and she’ll insist we discuss my addiction with my new therapist, but I don’t mind. It’ll be good to argue about something normal for a change.
He lights them and squints at me through the smoke. “You know what? Check that. You know better than I do what happened and if thinking you had a little help along the way worked for you, then who am I to say it didn’t?” He shrugs. “Point being, I got no solid answer on this one. You need to decide for yourself.”
“I know,” I say and linger in the shade of a massive maple tree. I run my fingers along its craggy bark. It’s weathered what, a hundred seasons and still it stands fast, roots deep and branches spreading. “So you honestly think it was just a coincidence?”
He sighs and hitches up his saggy jeans. “Does it really matter what I think?”
“Yes,” I say and meet his gaze. “It always has. You’re the best man I know.”
He looks away. Blinks and rubs his eyes. “Damn smoke.” Catches me in a brief, one-armed embrace that’s more headlock than hug. “All right, honestly, between you and me? I think you got the rest of your life to figure it out.”
“Gee, thanks,” I whisper and snort a laugh into his rumpled sport shirt.
“Don’t mention it.” His cellphone rings and he releases me. Digs it from his pocket and answers. “Balthazar. Hey, how’re you doing?” His considering gaze searches my face. “Yeah, she’s right here. No, I didn’t. Sure. In about ten minutes. Hold on.” He hands me the phone. “It’s Andy.” He turns and ambles a few yards down the block to give me some privacy.
“Andy?” I say into the phone, breathless.
“Mer? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I made it, Andy. It’s done.” Hearing his voice has me near tears and suddenly I can’t wait to be with him, to be new with him, and to tell him yes, he was right, all things are possible and there actually may be such things as miracles. “Where are you? Are you still on your way home? Did Nigel tell you what happened?”
“We’re home, Mer. We never got there.”
/>
“What?” I stare at Nigel’s broad back. “I…why not?”
“The guy died,” Andy says simply. “The victim soul, I mean.”
“Oh my God,” I say, straightening. “That’s awful. What happened?”
“Huh?” he says, distracted. “Oh, uh, wait a minute. Okay. Sorry. Uh, we got to the motel Sunday night and my mother called to confirm our meeting for Monday. His wife said he was really agitated and told us to call back the next morning to make sure he was up to having visitors. We called Monday morning before we got back on the road, and they said he’d passed away maybe a half hour earlier.”
“So you never even got to see him,” I say, leaning against a tree. “That sucks.”
Andy sighs. “I guess. The brochure said he’d been a victim soul for like sixty years, bedridden, in and out of a coma. He’d received more than three thousand of the faithful over his lifetime and that’s a lot of human suffering for one person to absorb. Too much, maybe. Now I’m kind of glad I didn’t add to it.”
He sounds different, subdued but not devastated, and it leaves me at a loss. “Oh. Well, that’s good, I guess.” Is it? I don’t know. This conversation isn’t anything like I thought it would be. I thought he’d say he loved me, that he’d be dying to know what had happened between me and my father, and how soon could I get there to see him, but so far, nothing. A low-level dread settles over me. “So, when did you get home?”
A heartbeat hesitation. “Tuesday morning,” he says, and the words echo like a death knell in the ensuing silence. “I know I should have called sooner, but I talked to Nigel and you had so much going on and I didn’t want to…what?” He says impatiently, off to the side. “Hold on, Mer.” He covers the phone but I can still hear him. “I am, Mom. Give me a chance.” Uncovers the phone. “Listen, it’s too much to go into right now. I’ll tell you the next time I see you, okay?”
“I…okay.” So this is it then. The moment I’ve feared since we first met. Funny, how I’d prepared for his leaving me if he could walk and I’d prepared for his leaving me because of my father being around, but what I’d never prepared for was his leaving me while still paralyzed and with my father safely gone. “But you know I’m not living there anymore, right? I’m at Leah Louisa’s now. I can’t just cut out of here and come over.” I wait, barely breathing, sinking into the gaping silence. “Hello?”