This Little Light

by Lori Lansens

  “He did,” Dee agreed.

  “Jesus said a lot of things,” Jinny said.

  “I don’t feel well,” I said. “I think I might be getting the flu.”

  “Me either,” Fee said. I don’t know if she was trying to have my back or also felt carsick. “Can we turn up the air-conditioning back here?”

  “Fever in the body opens a door for the devil,” Jinny said.

  “You’re already a heathen, Rory, so watch out,” Zee said, mostly joking, I think.

  Jinny knew I was sick. So of course she goes, “Let’s stop for fro-yo before we go home.”

  The drive took forever. I watched the world pass by from the window of the Tahoe, wondering about the people in the cars all around us. I spend a lot of time wondering about people—the voyeur thing again. I really wanted to know why the old couple in the Audi beside us were arguing, and who the bald guy in the Beemer was yelling at in his speakerphone, and if the kid crying in the backseat of the Honda knew his parents were assholes for not putting him in a car seat. You never have to wonder who the Crusaders are. They wear Bible verse T-shirts and put Jesus fish and sword decals on their bumpers and windows. So many of those decals around now, and more as we approached our Calabasas bubble.

  On the outside patio at the fro-yo place, as the girls licked Oreo crumbs and frozen oil product off plastic spoons, I sat sweaty, shivering and silent. Jinny wouldn’t give it up. “What we did before the track meet, Rory? That was God’s will. You have to fight for right. You get that? Like, God is waiting for you to come back to Him. And all the stuff you’re saying now and doing now against His will? He’ll forgive.”

  “Okay.”

  Jinny put her spoon down and said we should all pray that I’d see the light sooner rather than later. Zara looked at me, kinda apologetic, then joined hands with Jinny as she whispered, “Please God, help our sister feel the power of Your spirit. Please lift the curtain on the darkness in her soul.”

  Fee and Delaney kept spooning yogurt into their mouths so they didn’t have to take part in praying for my soul.

  “I don’t need prayers,” I said. “I just really need to go home.”

  Jinny pretended she didn’t hear. “My mother’s best friend was a heathen, you know, Rory. When she was young. Like, she wasn’t raised with God, and she’s the best Crusader I know. There’s hope for you. I’ll never stop praying for you.”

  “Okay.”

  Zee asked, “So how did she find God? Was it through your mom and dad?”

  That’s when Jinny told this story about the best friend of her mysterious mother—who has been working at some mysterious job overseas since they moved to Hidden Oaks. Jinny said that when her mother’s friend got out of college, she took the first job she could get, as a receptionist at an abortion clinic in Chicago—“back when killing babies was legal.”

  According to Jinny, one night the woman got home from work then realized she’d forgotten her phone, so she drove all the way back to the clinic to get it and was surprised to see some sketch strangers, not clinic employees, working in the operating room. She wondered what was going on, so she listens at the door and she hears these people laughing and she looks inside and sees these skeez guys there smoking weed and sorting the frozen bagged fetuses from that week’s abortions, separating them into three bins. One of the bins was labeled Medical. Another was labeled Cosmetic. The third bin had no label.

  The other girls were hanging on Jinny’s words, but I couldn’t let her go on. “That’s not true, Jinny. None of that was ever proven.”

  “Abortion clinics were definitely selling dead babies to the cosmetic company for that thousand-dollar firming cream, Rory. Everyone knows that.”

  “My mother said all of that stuff was made up. Propaganda.”

  “Well, my mother’s best friend saw it with her own eyes.” Jinny made a screw-face.

  “What was the third bin for?” Zee asked.

  “Well, my mom’s friend wondered about that too. So she got in her car and waited until they’d loaded the bins into this van and she followed.”

  “She didn’t call the cops?” I said.

  “No. She followed the truck for an hour to this suburban neighborhood, and this guy gets out of the van and he takes the Cosmetic bin to the door and this geezer answers and smiles and gives the guy a briefcase, which was obviously full of cash, and he takes the bin like it’s pizza delivery and goes back inside. Well, guess what? That guy was a retired chemist who was working for that cosmetic company. My mother’s friend outed him later that night. And he’s in jail right now. For life.”

  I grabbed my phone. Ready to google. “What was his name?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  She ignored me. “She keeps following the van and the guys take the next bin—the one labeled Medical—to the parking lot of a vape shop and he gives it to a guy in a black car parked outside. He gets a duffel bag in exchange, which was also, obviously, full of money.”

  “I can’t believe you believe this stuff. There was no evidence for any of those things, Jinny.”

  Dee piped up. “Unproven doesn’t mean untrue.”

  Zee goes, “So what about the bin with no label?”

  “Well, she keeps following, right, and they drive and drive and she’s wondering if they’re going to Cleveland or something, and it’s been like an hour, and she’s getting tired, and then the van pulls up outside this Chinese restaurant.”

  I groaned, loudly.

  We’d all heard the rumors. For years. Everyone had. Urban legend. People point to those disgusting rumors as part of the reason the government defunded Planned Parenthood. We girls had discussed the fact that we did not believe the old stories.

  “Stop,” I said. “Please stop, Jinny.” I thought I might throw up at the table.

  Jinny paused. “You’re calling my mother’s best friend a liar?”

  “I’m just saying stop.”

  “Fertility soup.” She stared at me.

  “No.”

  Dee’s chin started quivering.

  “Those stories are really dangerous, Jinny. It’s like people used to tell stories about Jews with horns and all. It’s just too much.”

  Fee, who had been focused on her frozen yogurt during the whole exchange, looked up and said, “Can we agree to disagree and talk about shoes for the ball instead? Mr. Tom said he’ll buy me the Miu Mius.”

  Dee clapped. “Told you he would!”

  Zee tilted her head. “People used to say Jews have horns?”

  “Yes. And tails. And that we smell like sulfur.”

  Fee put her nose in my neck and goes, “Only if sulfur smells like Dior.” Then she realized I was burning up with fever. “We gotta get you home.”

  That night, I was too sick to watch Jinny from my window, but I imagined her convo with the Jesus fan was pretty lively, as she no doubt shared with Him, like a proud daughter, the many righteous acts of her day.

  Now I want to remind Fee about that day of the track meet, and how Jinny was fanning the flames with that story about fertility soup. I want to make her understand that Jinny sees her acts of aggression as a service to God, and that makes her freaking dangerous. If she could only see how truly warped Jinny Hutsall is, I think Fee’d join me in my fear and loathing instead of resisting me, and the truth.

  But she’s busy looking out the window, leaning against the wall for support. All she’s said in the past little while is, “Winds are starting back up.”

  The drunk guy’s truck is still in his driveway. I wonder if he’ll be mad when he finds out his Gatorade is missing.

  Fee asked me to check online again. She seems relieved when I’m writing, or checking online, instead of talking. It’s all too much. I get it.

  Courtesy of breaking news and trend alerts on Nina’s pink laptop, we now know that my DNA has been found in my Prius. Shocking. My DNA, in my own car. Some of the media is treating the discovery l
ike proof of guilt. Hilarious, and yet not. They showed an illustration of my 2015 white Prius with the turtle decal—they keep showing the freaking turtle decal like it means something, but it was the previous owner who actually put it there, so whatever—with hundreds of red dots to indicate where my fingerprints have been found. They’ve matched Fee’s DNA to hair samples found in the car too. Seriously? Like, it’s my car and she’s my friend, so, of course…They don’t have results on the blood in the backseat yet. The blood. Oh my God. I can hardly bring myself to think about it.

  What the fuck???????!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Someone just knocked at the fucking shed door!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  * * *

  —

  The knock. It was so timid. So sorry to intrude.

  And even though Javier said not to open the shed door to anyone, I did. Just a crack. No one was there. So I think I’m hearing things, right? I’m, like, losing my shit because of all the trauma? But no. I look down and there’s an old plastic grocery bag—hardly ever see those in Calabasas—at my feet.

  I stay hidden behind the door because I can hear copters in the distance. I look around, and I can’t see anyone at first, and then something catches my eye behind a nearby bush. Not the pit bull. No. It’s a kid. A girl. In a red-white-and-blue dress. A skinny little shaved-head girl in a fucking Patriot Girls dress. I had that exact dress when I was seven! I thought I was seeing a ghost—Nina, maybe? This little girl is Latina, but she looks nothing like the pics of Javier’s daughter, and besides—ghosts? Um. No.

  We lock eyes, this little bald girl and me, and she lifts her chin to the sky to alert me to the fact that there’s a drone hovering right over the shed. I don’t move a muscle until the drone flies off. I look at the girl again and she kinda smiles, and nods, and disappears into the brush.

  The drunk man’s truck is still in the driveway. I wonder if she knows him. I wanna warn her she shouldn’t be playing near his yard. I drag the white plastic bag she left us into the shed with my foot, and shut the door.

  Fee is like, holy shit, and we open the bag, and inside—I can’t even tell you what it was like to find three cans of cold soda and two squished peanut butter sandwiches. This little girl? Wha…?

  The experience of drinking that freaking cola was orgiastic. When Fee finished her can, she reached for another, and I’m like, “Fee, we gotta save it for later. We don’t know when we’ll have anything to drink again.” We hoovered the peanut butter sandwiches, though, and afterward Fee said she felt almost like herself again, and I did too.

  Then, like at the touch of some unseen button, I was taken by a crygasm. Lasted five whole minutes. First time I’ve cried, I mean for real bawled, in so long. I think it was partly because that little kid took such a risk for us, but also because the stupid peanut butter sandwich took me back to Sunday mornings when I was small, and the rest of the cul-de-sac was at church, and Shelley would go for a walk to nowhere, and I’d snuggle with Sherman on the sofa, eating the peanut butter toast he made us, watching Rick and Morty—our secret because Shell thought it was inappropriate—feeling so loved, and safe, and so close to my dad.

  The last Sunday morning I spent with him? Shelley left the house so that my father could pack up his suitcases in peace. She wanted me to come with her, for a walk at the ocean, or a drive to the Grove, but I told her I was gonna laze with the girls because they’d just gotten back from church. That’s not why I stayed, though.

  He left the double doors to my parents’ master wide open. I watched from behind my door at the end of the hall, as Sherman collected his belongings from his bedside table—his watch and phone, a couple of vials of pills, loose change and some crumpled bills, eyedrops and lip balm, most of which he stuffed into his pocket.

  But the framed family portrait that he kept at his bedside—a silly photo snapped by Zara’s dad at that Super Bowl party where my parents are laughing with each other as they pretend to crush me between them—the one Sherm called the best family photo ever? He left that on the table.

  I crept down the hall, unseen, as my father emptied his drawers, tossing the contents into the three suitcases that lay open on the bed. It was like he was fleeing. Not just leaving. He headed into the walk-in closet off the bathroom as I reached the door. I stood there listening to the sound of hangers clicking.

  In a minute my father came back into the room, struggling with an armful of suits and shirts, and jumped when he saw me. He’d cleared out his closet of everything except the floral Hawaiians. I guess Sugar Tits didn’t care for Tommy Bahama.

  “I thought you were at Brook’s?” he said.

  I shook my head. I didn’t wanna cry in front of him so didn’t, couldn’t, speak at all.

  He folded his suits in half and stuffed them into the largest suitcase. He said nothing for a long time, and then, “This doesn’t change anything between us, RorRor.”

  I looked at the detritus of my father’s life in the suitcases on my parents’ bed. Dude.

  “I just need a break, Rory. Your mother’s been…I just need a break. Some space.”

  I tilted my head. I remember thinking, like, maybe this will all make more sense if I look at it sideways.

  “There’s no villain here, Rory. Marriages go through hard times.”

  I noticed then that he’d taken off his wedding band. Instead of the thick gold symbol of love everlasting, there was a thick white tan line on his naked finger. He saw me looking and hid his hand in his pocket. Like, why?

  “You shouldn’t be here for this, Rory.”

  I stared.

  “It’s just making it harder on both of us.”

  I stared harder.

  “Wanna have a hug and then you can head over to Brooky’s?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Please don’t, Rory. Honest to God, I’ve had enough from your mother.”

  I said nothing.

  “I don’t know what she’s told you, but you should not be involved in any of this.”

  I was driving him crazy. I realized it felt good. Powerful.

  “Ror, this is—”

  His phone rang in his pocket. He didn’t take it out. He knew who it was. So did I.

  “Rory. You have to go now.”

  I stood my ground. His phone rang again. And again. And again.

  Finally he answered, and told the person on the other end, in a whisper, that he’d have to call back. Then he turned back to me and said accusingly, “This day is hard enough.”

  I gave him nothing.

  “Please.”

  I kept staring.

  “Rory.”

  Nada.

  Now he was really getting pissed. “Should I call your mother to come and get you? This isn’t okay, Rory. I don’t know what little game you’re playing here…”

  I wanted to scream at him about the little game he was playing, but bit my tongue. Sherman didn’t know what the fuck to do with my silence.

  He shook his head like nothing more could be done here, and headed back into the bathroom to pack up his toiletries. I listened to him opening drawers and rattling bottles, wanting to hear some sign that he was upset, but no. Hadn’t shed a tear for us. Least none that I’d seen.

  The family photo on his bedside table called to me. I picked it up, thinking, Who even are these people? This blond woman and middle-aged dude making love eyes at each other? The freckly teen squished between them with the big loopy grin? These people were a lie. Before my father returned from the bathroom, I crammed the framed photo into the middle of the smallest suitcase, between his socks and underwear.

  When Sherman came out of the bathroom, he seemed surprised to find me still there. I’m fucking relentless. Haven’t you heard?

  “I love you, Rory.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “I know you know, but I still need to tell you.” Relieved that I was finally talking to him, he smiled at me.

  “I know.” I didn’t smile back.

  “I know you know.”
Still smiling.

  “Sherman,” I said, making sure he was understanding me. “I know.”

  He stopped smiling. “What do you think you know?”

  “Sugar Tits,” I hissed, then turned and left him there.

  Tears blinded me as I careened down the hall toward my bedroom. I slammed the door shut behind me and fell onto the bed, crying out in my head: God. Help us. Please.

  Anyway.

  There is no God. Prayers are not answered.

  The little bald girl bringing us soda and peanut butter sandwiches? Fee thinks that was an act of God. I think it was just human.

  Stopping now. Fee asked if it’s time to check in with Jagger Jonze’s Higher Power Hour. It is.

  So Fee and I watched the show. Jonze said some pretty shitty things about us under the guise of praying for our souls. Fee shrugged like it didn’t hurt. But it did hurt. This does hurt. It hurts like hell to be wrongly accused and scared for your life. And then, in the finale, Jonze announced that he was raising the bounty to TWO million fucking dollars. And he was purposefully vague about whether the bounty means dead or alive.

  Everyone in the audience—all the Crusader types—cheered his condemnations of me and Fee. Who cheered the loudest? Front row center in white sundresses even though it’s freaking November and that’s so boojie? Our girls—Zara and Delaney and Brooky, joining hands with Jinny Hutsall—whom Jagger invited up onstage to sing “Thank God for American Girls.”

  If words were arrows, we’d have died a thousand deaths by now. Online, the ultra Crusaders have been calling for an old-fashioned crucifixion. I am so done with violent religious people. So done.

  Apparently the Feds are holding a press conference soon about the contents of the purse. I think it’s hilarious that this is press conference material, but Fee is really freaked. She’s like, “What if they lie, Ror? What if they say something was in it that wasn’t in it?”