Angel Fire (2 page)

The tiniest wave of uncertainty ran through me as we passed a road sign:
Welcome to Middleton, AZ. (pop. 2628)

Starting over was good and all, and my social reintegration counselor at the prison had encouraged me to repair my relationships with my family, rather than relocate to a new town and start over.

“Running away is merely avoiding the problems in your life,” he told me. “The only way to resolve the issues in your past is to address them in the present.”

That wave of uncertainty turned into a deep-seated feeling of unease. I had some pretty big issues to resolve. For one thing, my uncle, Edward, hadn’t spoken more than two words in a row to me in the past ten years.

The bus driver slowed the bus as we approached the dusty parking lot of the Lazy Z Motel—a one-level, sprawling old building set at an angle to the highway.

The bus wheeled into the lot and unexpectedly lurched to a stop at the last moment, throwing me into the back of the seat in front of me. Someone’s knapsack fell off the overhead rack, giving one passenger an unpleasant start; and a half-full can of soda toppled, spilling liquid over a young woman’s sneakers.

After muscling the door release open, the driver, ignoring the grumbling from his passengers, grabbed a clipboard and pen and logged his progress.

“Middleton,” he announced in a disinterested voice as he un-wedged himself from his seat and ambled down the steps.

I was the only one to stand up. Everyone else, it seemed, was moving on to Flagstaff or beyond.

Ignoring the glares from the two old biddies, I made my way up the aisle. As I neared the exit, I took a deep breath. For a short time, the bus had been a safe haven. Now, like a newborn chick leaving the nest for the first time, I had to muster all the bravery I could and make that leap into the wide world to test my wings.

At the top of the stairs, I faltered. There was no safety net, no one to catch me if I fell. If I took one more step, I would be completely on my own.

Behind me, the blue-haired old woman rolled her eyes and let out an impatient cough.

Outside, the driver unceremoniously dropped my duffel bag on the gravel, sending up a small plume of dust.

“Your stop?”

I nodded and took my first real step into freedom; but one single step was all I could bring myself to take.

Drawing in a deep breath, I centered myself. I had to gather my courage and face the present. “Can you speed it up, lady?” said the driver.

I flashed a weak smile and took another step away from the bus, giving him enough room to maneuver his bulk back inside. The door closed with the sound of permanence. There was no going back.

Long after the bus pulled away, I remained standing at the shoulder of the road, my bag at my feet and my heart in my throat.

* * *

The Lazy Z Motel was exactly as I remembered it, and its familiarity was just enough to get me moving. I hefted my duffel bag and walked into the front office.

Bracing myself for the worst, I was thrown off by the unexpected: there was no one there.

The office, however, was a total disaster. Papers were scattered all over the counter, binders were piled on top of directories and magazines. An old style rotary telephone was smudged with the dirt of a thousand oily fingers, and a musty guestbook was open at a page that had more coffee stains than signatures. Beside an old computer monitor a rack of outdated maps awaited a purchase that would never happen. A buzzing fly circled a bowl of unwrapped candies as if wary of a possible trap.

The office itself was small and cramped, and half of it was dedicated as a customers’ lounge. Two long benches were pressed up against either wall, the orange cushions tattered and dusty. A folding table served as a coffee station—the only area that looked tended to and clean. An ancient picture of an abandoned barn hung over the coffee machine.

I approached the desk, dropped my bag on the floor, and rang the silver bell.

A deep voice preceded the man who stepped out of the back room: “Be with you in a—”

Uncle Edward was taller than he appeared. Like many people who towered over others, his shoulders had developed a slouch in an attempt to seem less imposing. Weathered skin hung loose from his lean face. He was in his late fifties but could easily have passed for someone a decade older. His short-cropped hair, once a dark brown, had turned gray and had receded in a widow’s peak.

Not the most personable man in Middleton, Uncle Edward nevertheless had been in business for years and had learned to put on an air of quiet professionalism when it came to his customers, whether they were one-time patrons passing through on their way to destinations unknown, or if it was someone like Wild Will Tyler, kicked out of his house every other weekend by his shrill wife for having one too many drinks down at The Trough after a seven-day stint at the dog food factory.

That professional demeanor evaporated the moment he saw me, and the smile melted from his lips.

I held my breath and waited for him to speak.

“Darcy.” His voice was monotone, tinged with a hint of disappointment and annoyance. “When did you get out?”

“Nice to see you, too, Uncle Edward.”

Elastic silence stretched between us until it reached the breaking point.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” he growled. His words felt like a punch in the stomach.

I suddenly wanted to run from the room and never look back. It was a horrible mistake to think I could ever come home again. My counselor was wrong: it was much easier to run away and start all over again in a place where no one knew my past, the terrible things I’d done, or the misery I’d caused.

“I tried to call, but all I got was the machine. I left a message.” With every ounce of courage I could muster, I made my voice affable.

Uncle Edward didn’t budge. “Don’t remember any message.”

“I said I was getting out today.”

“Yeah…?”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry.

“I was … hoping you could put me up for a while. Just until I can sort some things out.”

Uncle Edward leveled his eyes at me, drew his lips tighter. “How long?”

The lump in my throat prevented me from breathing.

Just then, a hurricane in blue sweatpants and a yellow flower-print shirt burst through the door.

Where Uncle Edward was tall and lean, Aunt Martha was short and heavyset—‘happy fat’ was how she described herself.

Aunt Martha ripped off her yellow rubber gloves and, with a broad smile, threw her arms around me, nearly bowling both of us over in her enthusiasm.

“Darcy! You should have told me you were coming today. I thought you said they might not let you out until next week.”

Casting a disapproving glance at my uncle, who pursed his lips, I said, “Thought I’d surprise you.”

“Oh my Lord, you did! I just about peed myself when I saw you. We missed you so much around here. It’s been too quiet. I’m so glad to see you. So you’re here to stay?”

Uncle Edward’s frown deepened. I pretended not to notice.

“If it’s not too much trouble. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

Aunt Martha clucked her tongue. “Pish-posh.” She flicked her hand at her husband. “Edward. Quit being a bump. Grab her bags.” She beamed at me. “We’ll put you in room fourteen on the end.”

“Thank you, Aunt Martha.”

“Not at all. Go get yourself cleaned up. I have a million questions, but we can catch up over lunch. I have to get out of these smelly work clothes. I’m not dressed for company.”

But she wasn’t going to let me go that easily. Grinning from ear to ear, she held my hands out and gave me a good once-over. With a cluck of mock-disapproval, she pinched the skin on my slender waist and winked at me.

“Yep, nothing a good home-cooked meal can’t cure.”

I smiled so hard I thought I would cry.

Giving me a nod, Aunt Martha left with as much excitement and energy as when she entered.

She called back over her shoulder. “Give me half an hour and I’ll have a feast fit for a queen ready for you.”

“Oh, Aunt Martha, don’t trouble yourself,” I said.

My words fell on deaf ears; she was already gone, a whirlwind of a woman.

Uncle Edward grumbled as he stepped out from behind the counter and lifted my duffel bag.

“Well, come on, then.” Clearly, he was not pleased with the turn of events.

He didn’t say a word as he led me out of the office and down the long walkway. When we arrived at my room, he dropped my bag on the ground and pressed the key into my palm, never once looking me in the eye.

Without fanfare, or so much as curse, he spun on his heel and strode back to the office.

I stared at his back and chewed my lip. Aunt Martha and Uncle Edward were polar opposites in almost every way, and they always would be.

Kyra, one of my cellmates, often said, “You can never go home again.” I’d also heard her say, “There’s no place like home.” I guess she was right on both accounts.

For the first time in ten years, and despite the obvious friction from Uncle Edward, I felt there might be a glimmer of hope that I could find some acceptance here; perhaps, if I was very lucky, I might even find some measure of forgiveness, if not from others, then maybe from myself.

I unlocked the door to my motel room, my new home, and stepped inside.

Chapter Four

Separated by an
alley barely wide enough to squeeze through, the small one-bedroom bungalow directly behind the Lazy Z served as the Johnsons’ permanent home.

Back in the day, the small dwelling was occupied by a foreman when the motel was little more than a large barracks for seasonal farm workers. Over the years, it had been converted to a cozy bungalow.

Tiny and cramped by most standards, my aunt and uncle had lived there since they inherited the motel from Uncle Edward’s parents over two decades before. Uncle Edward and Aunt Martha were never able to have children, so the two of them had no need of anything larger.

The inside was cluttered with old rickety furniture Aunt Martha swore was antique. Assorted knick-knacks decorated every available flat surface, and piles of books and magazines were stacked in every corner. At one point early in her life, Aunt Martha had fancied herself a painter and produced dozens of ghastly landscapes, still lifes, and other questionable works of art no one in their right mind would ever buy; she had them all framed and hung throughout the house, blind to anyone else’s opinion or taste.

The kitchen, obviously the central hub of activity in the house, had a large table overflowing with a buffet: corn on the cob, potato salad, pickles, bread and a large ham with all the fixings.

I popped a dill pickle in my mouth while I filled my plate with one of everything.

Uncle Edward glowered, and I felt a flush of embarrassment.

I gently bit down on the pickle. The crunch was horrendously loud. Silently cursing, I finished chewing and sat down on the chair. All eyes watched me until I finally swallowed and offered a guilty smile.

“Sorry.”

I folded my hands together as Aunt Martha recited the blessing.

“Bless us, O Lord, for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord, amen; and thank you for returning our niece to us after so many years. Amen.”

I replied “Amen” with Uncle Edward, and hesitated only a moment before scooping up a forkful of potato salad, the mayonnaise smearing the corner of my lips. In between mouthfuls, I flashed a grateful smile to my aunt.

“Can’t tell you how great this is, Aunt Martha. Haven’t had real food in years.”

I barely finished chewing what was in my mouth before pushing in a still steaming hot bread roll. I grunted with pleasure as the sweet bread melted on my tongue.

“Make sure you get some of that homemade apple sauce.” Aunt Martha was in her element. I could have kissed her for the feast she’d created for me.

Not everyone was in a celebratory mood. Uncle Edward hadn’t touched his plate.

“Was it a prison, or a stable?” He sounded like he’d just swallowed a cup of vinegar.

“Edward!” Aunt Martha said.

Trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks, I quickly finished chewing and swallowed. “Sorry. I guess I’m going to have to get used to civilization again.”

“Pish-posh. You just help yourself, dear.” Aunt Martha glared at her husband. “We’re just glad you’re here. Aren’t we, Edward?”

Uncle Edward slapped his fork on the table. “You’re glad she’s here? What an act! When’s the last time you went down there for a visit?”

Aunt Martha blanched. “I may not have gone there, but I phoned every week and I sent a care package every single month.”

She then stared down at her lap and rubbed her hands together nervously. When she looked up at me, her eyes were misted over.

“I hope you aren’t too upset,” she said to me. “I couldn’t abide that place; seeing you in there. I would have visited more, but with all the work here…” She shot daggers at Uncle Edward. “She’s your sister’s child, and you treat her like a disease.”

I put my hand on her arm. “I don’t care that you didn’t visit, Aunt Martha. Besides, I didn’t want anyone to see me there anyway. Your packages were more than enough for me.”

Aunt Martha turned back to me and wiped a tear from her eye. She forced a smile and shook her head.

“But that’s all yesterday.” She reached out and took my hand. “Today we have our niece back. She’s family, and she’s here to stay.” She gave a single nod as if that would seal the deal.

“No!” Uncle Edward pushed his chair back so hard, it tipped over and crashed against the tile floor with a resounding crack. He stood straight as a rod, face flushed with anger.

Aunt Martha said, “Edward!”

He stopped her before she could protest further. “I sat there in the courtroom day after day. I heard every word of testimony.”

“Edward, no!” Aunt Martha barked.

He slapped his hand down on the table like a judge pounding his gavel against the sound block to restore order to the court, then pointed a finger at me.

“You never gave them a good explanation. You never told anyone what really happened. That’s why they sent you away. No, they couldn’t prove murder, but they could prove manslaughter.”