The Big Door Prize

by M. O. Walsh

  Cherilyn walked out of the store and into the heat outside, where the people stepped aside for her, as well. Then she stood in the grass lot looking for her car for a good two minutes, before she remembered that it wasn’t her car she was driving today.

  And even on the way to her mother’s, she looked at her hands, placing them side by side atop Douglas’s steering wheel as she sat through a surprising amount of traffic. But the traffic was okay with her. She didn’t worry that she was late. In fact, a part of her was glad. If there was something she knew about Deuce Newman, it’s that he would still be waiting there for her, no matter how long she took. He had waited for her his whole life, so what was an extra hour? Plus, the way she felt in that dress, the way the gold trim cast its small prisms about the car in the afternoon sun, made her feel that she was a person worth waiting for.

  Much of this feeling faded, though, when she pulled on to her mom’s street and saw Deuce Newman’s truck parked in her driveway. It looked so ostentatious sitting there that Cherilyn experienced an immediate sense of panic. What if people had seen it? How could she explain that? Cherilyn forced down this new feeling of dread, as it was not at all what she had on her docket today. There would come a time for explanations, she knew that, but it would come later. Still, the thought of this made her stomach do a churning thing.

  She parked next to his truck with its oversized tires and ­silly-­looking dumbbell hanging from the trailer hitch and walked into her mother’s house without knocking. When she turned the corner to the kitchen, she saw her mother and Deuce sitting at the table. Her mom was dressed and looked ­put-­together, which gave Cherilyn a great sense of relief. Her mother was having a good day, it appeared, which meant Cherilyn would not have to stay long.

  When Deuce saw her walk in, he stood up from the table. “Holy smokes,” he said, and did a little bow. “Her majesty has arrived.”

  Cherilyn smiled, in spite of herself, and performed a little curtsy with her dress. She was perturbed that he had come in the house when she had asked him not to, that he had not followed her instructions, and said, without too much conviction behind it, “I thought I’d asked you to wait outside.”

  “Cherilyn,” her mother said, still not looking at her. “Who is this man in my kitchen?”

  “Oh, come on, Mrs. Fuller,” Deuce said. “We’ve been talking for half an hour.”

  “That’s Bruce Newman, Momma,” Cherilyn said, and walked over to give her mother a kiss on the forehead. “You remember him from high school, I’m sure. He’s a photographer now. He’s going to take some pictures of me for his art project tomorrow.”

  “Remember?” Deuce said. “That’s why I took yours earlier. I’m doing a mural of everybody in town.”

  “Well,” her mother said. “I don’t want him in here.”

  Cherilyn looked at Deuce and smiled. “Oh, be nice,” she said. She turned toward her mom and pulled out her sari on both sides. “Aren’t you going to at least say something about my dress?”

  “You’re the work of art,” Deuce said.

  “Look at my hands, too,” Cherilyn said, and held them out for her mother to see.

  Her mother looked at her hands, then up to Cherilyn’s face. “What is it,” she said, “Halloween?”

  Cherilyn sighed and walked to the freezer. Her plan was simple. She would heat up a frozen dinner to make sure her mother was fed and be gone.

  “I was just telling your mom, she should come out to the square tomorrow and try that DNAMIX machine,” Deuce said. “It might give her a little lift.”

  Cherilyn pulled out a Salisbury steak dinner and opened the box. “The square?” she said. “Don’t you mean Johnson’s?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Word is they’re moving it out to the square tomorrow for the bicentennial. Let the tourists have a go at it. I have a feeling it’s going to be a hit.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Cherilyn said. She pulled the plastic off the tray and set it in the microwave.

  “I’ve been asking your mom what she’d want to be, you know. If she could be anything.”

  “And I’ve told him a thousand times,” her mother said. “I am Mrs. Jean Fuller.”

  Cherilyn shut the microwave and said, “No, Momma. That’s who you were when Daddy was still around. That’s just your name. This thing tells you what you could be. What you should be.”

  Her mother stood up from the table and walked her glass to the sink. “I’m old, honey,” she said. “I’m not ignorant.”

  “I just think you’re missing the point,” Cherilyn said, and looked at the microwave to punch in the time. It was already ­four-­fifteen.

  She was going to have to call Douglas. There were no two ways about it.

  “Y’all give me a second, if you don’t mind,” she said, and grabbed the telephone mounted on the wall. She took it down and stretched the long cord around the door and into the laundry room. That this thing still worked was a miracle, as she remembered using it back in her high school days, whispering to Douglas on the phone late at night when her parents were asleep. And here she was calling him again.

  She dialed his cell phone number and cupped her hand around the receiver. She would have to be quick, she knew, so that he couldn’t hear Deuce in the background still imploring her mom to pick a better destiny.

  It was noisy when Douglas answered, some music playing somewhere, and Cherilyn was surprised at his voice. He sounded happy on the other end of the line and this was something she did not expect. He called her funny pet names and she could feel him smiling out of her sight and she had to force herself not to be happy for him.

  She had her reasons.

  She had to remember that she was upset with him for lying to her about Geoffrey. She had to remind herself, as she looked at Deuce in the kitchen, that this was not a time for explanations. That this was a time for herself. For her true self. And she had to remind herself that this was who she was being.

  So, she asked him to stop whistling for one second, to pay attention, because she had a message to deliver. She would not be at home when he expected her to be. No. Today she would not be so predictable, and he would just have to be okay with that. She then walked into the kitchen and hung up the phone. She pressed start on the microwave and looked at Deuce. “Let’s go,” she said.

  Deuce grabbed his keys from the table and said, “Yes, ma’am.” He then pretended to tip a cap that he was not wearing to her mother and said, “Mrs. Fuller, it’s been a pleasure. I hope to be seeing more of you soon.”

  “I hope I go blind first,” she said.

  Cherilyn reminded her mother that her food was in the microwave and then opened the door for Deuce as he walked out to his truck.

  When she turned to follow him, her mother spoke from the kitchen.

  “Cherilyn,” she said. “That man is not Douglas.”

  Cherilyn turned back to her and sighed. “I know that, Momma. You’re just confused. It’s okay.”

  Her mother walked over to her and took Cherilyn’s hands into her own. They were surprisingly warm and strong and she squeezed them hard enough for Cherilyn’s ring to dig into her finger. “What I mean to say,” she told her, “is that man is no Douglas.”

  And was it there again between them? The buzzing? Could Cherilyn feel it coming through her mother’s palms and into her own? If she could, she did not want to, and so she pulled her hands away and walked out of the door.

  When she got to Deuce’s truck, she looked back and saw her mom still standing there watching her. Cherilyn heard the sound of the microwave going off in the kitchen and thought to remind her again of what was there waiting for her. But, instead, she opened the truck door, lifted her dress, and climbed inside.

  28

  You’re Up One Day and the Next You’re Down

  Pete pulled out of the Johnson’s Grocery parking lot with
as much bravado as any priest borrowing his new friend’s wife’s Subaru Outback can achieve. He felt energized and near holy on his way to see Trina. He also felt a bit ­self-­righteous, one might say, even as the ­pre-­installed governor of Catholicism did what it could to tamp down his enthusiasm.

  Why should you feel good? the voice asked him. Trina is obviously in trouble. Yes, he told it, but I am on my way there to make it right. Whatever it is, I’m ready to help. I was her age once. How hard can it be? I’ve been through some shit myself, as you may recall. I just want to be involved. I want to be of assistance. I can do this. Careful now, Pete, it said. You don’t know what’s going on with that girl. Don’t assume you can fix everything. That sounds an awful lot like pride.

  Well, whatever this is, he told it, it feels good. I’ve made a new friend, I believe, and I’ve got Anna all over my mind right now and she would want me to be doing this, too, I know. Ask her if you don’t believe me. And tell her I said hello. Tell her I love her, please. She’d probably want us to take Trina in if she were here, you know that, into our own home, no matter her issues. But I feel happy right now, is all that I’m saying, with my readout and with Douglas and with Anna and with this opportunity with Trina. I feel happy for a change. Can’t I at least have that? Even if you think I’m somehow doing this for me and not for Trina. If I’m doing all of this for me. It’s a bit of happiness. Can’t I have it?

  The voice went quiet for a moment, as if it were perhaps indeed checking with Anna, wherever she was, to make sure everything was on the up-and-up.

  Very well, then, it eventually said. A little happiness for Pete. Enjoy it while it lasts.

  And so Pete enjoyed it by driving along the shoulder of Iris Lane, bypassing the traffic in an undeniably illegal manner and turning up 61, just like any bad-ass priest on a mission might do.

  He topped out at eighty miles per hour on his way to Lanny’s and, just as he put on his blinker to turn into his driveway, saw a curious thing: his own pickup truck, the ancient blue Toyota that moved like a riverboat, tearing out of Lanny’s driveway. It sprayed gravel all over the road, fishtailing onto the far shoulder before righting itself and heading north out of Pete’s sight. It was an odd sensation to see your own car on the move without you in it, but was also, to Pete, a great relief, as he would much rather talk to Trina without Lanny there. So, he said a quick prayer for his old truck and thanked God for yet another fortunate turn in his day.

  This feeling did not last long, though, as he pulled into Lanny’s driveway and saw a car he did not recognize parked by the house, about ten feet away from where Lanny’s blue ­Laplander–­pit bull mix was currently chained up and losing its mind, barking itself into another dimension. The car was a small ­two-­door coupe without any plates at all, and when Pete got out of the Outback, he realized this other car was still running. This was also a relief, as whomever Lanny had left there would not be staying long. Pete looked at the dog, who he remembered being named Ollie, and clicked his tongue at him a bit. Ollie continued to lunge against the chain, barking and growling in its obvious rage at Pete’s presence, and Pete told it, “You know, Ollie. This is why y’all can’t have nice things.”

  Pete then climbed the two steps up onto Lanny’s front porch. He went to knock but saw that the door was cracked open. Always a gentleman, Pete knocked on it anyway, stepped inside, and said, “Katrina?”

  As soon as his foot crossed the threshold, Pete became extremely conscious of what he was wearing. Maybe that’s why Lanny’s demon dog had been so rude outside. Pete was still in his work clothes, and his white collar and pressed pants looked as out of place in Lanny’s foyer as would all the shiny stars and buckles of a policeman’s uniform. He didn’t want to appear as an authority figure to Trina, he understood, but rather as a family member or a friend, and so he went to pull off his collar.

  Before he could do this, though, he was nearly knocked out by the smell of the place. It was an awful mixture, thick in the air like marijuana and burnt plastic, and Pete immediately recognized it from a time he’d smelled this exact same thing around some of the men behind the Catholic food bank. It was one of those smells, so distinct in life, that it could make you travel in time. So, Pete did the same thing now as he had done that day behind the food bank and put his hand to his nose to cover it. When he turned the corner to the living room, he saw Lanny sprawled out on the couch.

  “Lanny?” he said. “That you?” But Lanny did not move.

  Pete walked over to him, figuring he was passed out high but, when he got to him, saw that Lanny had been beaten. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose and mouth smeared with fresh blood. Pete checked his pulse and, when he realized he was still alive, thumbed a quick sign of the cross on Lanny’s forehead and went to lift him. He then heard a noise outside, behind the house, and stood up. A crashing out in the yard, somewhere. A shed door slamming. He looked around the room. What was going on here?

  Pete saw that nearly everything had been toppled over and riffled through. A lampshade on the floor, a desk drawer pulled out, a CD tower on the ground, all the cases cracked and opened. Pete, he realized, had walked into a robbery.

  He left Lanny lying there and whispered Trina’s name fiercely as he walked through the house. “Trina,” he said. “You in here?” His adrenaline was up and he began sweating as he checked each room. He looked into the dining room to see an antique armoire, probably oak, probably Lanny’s parents’ at one time, maybe as old as the whole damn town, open and emptied. Broken china all over the floor, a set of opaque salt and pepper shakers sitting unmolested on the dining room table.

  Pete hurried down the hall and went to the first door he supposed was Trina’s, as it had a “No Trespassing: Violators Will Be Shot on Sight” sign nailed to the front of it. “Trina,” he said again, and opened the door.

  Pete knew this was her room immediately, not because anything in it signified that a teenage girl lived there but merely in the way the room existed in such stark contrast to the rest of the house. It was immaculate. The bed was made in almost military fashion, the school uniforms hung in perfect alignment in the closet. It looked like a picture of a room rather than an actual room any human being lived in and appeared to Pete, in a panic, like a room that nobody planned to return to. The only evidence of someone being there at all was an open laptop, set upon the desk at the far wall. Pete walked over to it, the screen still bright with a social media page that he did not know but believed to be Twitter as he recognized the little bird in the top corner of it. He stared at the screen for a moment, the feed full of #’s and @ signs, and realized he would not know how to read this document if he tried.

  The fact that the screen was still bright, though, meant to him that Trina had been here recently and, also, that she might have been the one he’d seen peeling out in his truck. He hoped this was true if it meant that she was safe.

  Pete then noticed the top shelf of Trina’s desk, empty and clean, almost ­dusted-­looking, except for two small piles of rocks set next to each other. The one on the left was made of at least a hundred small stones, none much bigger than a quarter, none much different than the gravel of Lanny’s own driveway, all piled together neatly into the shape of a pyramid. Conversely, the pile on the right was not much of a pile at all, but instead consisted of one lone rock, a reddish one that had the flat and smooth look of a worrying stone. Taped beneath these two piles were individual index cards, which Pete lifted with his fingers to read. The one on the left, beneath the hundred stones, read only the word Yes. It was written so carefully by hand, Pete could tell, so thoughtfully. He looked at the card beneath the lone red stone. It read, simply, No.

  Pete then turned to see a man so hostile behind him that he had the brief and terrifying notion that perhaps his God was not the real one at all. That perhaps the ancient pagans had it right all along and that, while Pete wasn’t looking, the slobbering dog outside had
simply shifted into human shape and loosed its collar and drug its ­pain-­racked body up the stairs and into the house to finally do what it had wanted so badly to accomplish outside.

  Pete did not get the chance to ask this dog anything, though, as it ran toward him, lifted the pistol in its hand, and struck Pete across the head.

  Pete fell to the floor and the light that dawned upon him was not the one of heaven for which he so desperately wanted to witness but instead merely one of the many complicated illuminations of our own world. It was blinding bright and white and served only to usher forward a pain of similar color. Pete could still hear and feel the room around him but could not see nor move his body and, as such, soon heard the sound of a woman’s voice that was not angelic or ethereal at all but instead panicked and short of breath.

  “Goddamn, Ricky!” she said. “What’d you do now? Kill a priest?”

  “Shut up, Tessa,” the man said. “I didn’t know who he was.”

  “Well,” she said. “Check his pockets for money, I guess.”

  Pete felt the weight of the man set upon him as he began to grab around in his pockets, his hands hard and painful against Pete’s thighs, his fingernails sharp as claws on his skin.

  “No money,” the man said. “Goddamn priests don’t have no money. What the fuck is he doing here?”

  “Well, what’s that blue thing, then?” the woman asked him. “Is that a credit card? Let’s take it and go.”

  The man picked something off the ground beside him. “Just some sort of ID,” he said. “Just says ‘Father’ on it. Where’d that damn girl go? And where’s that shotgun you said he had? I didn’t come out here just for two lousy grams of shit.”

  “She’s gone,” the woman said. “Leave her be. She won’t say anything. She can’t stand Lanny, either. Does he have a phone at least?”