Soul's Road: A Fiction Collection (11 page)

It’s one of those things that makes a difference in the long run.

***

Roman’s watching when they emerge, silhouettes against the lights of the restaurant. They move down the front steps as he climbs from his car. They settle into the front seat as he’s crossing the lot.

They exchange a few words before Aidan slips his key into the ignition. He does not start the car. The window explodes first, shards and blood and shards soon painted with blood spray toward him, cut his face, splash his face. He looks down in shock then looks up again at the hand clutching the black weapon.

He yells, somehow gets a hand on the ignition.

Another bullet explodes but passes in front of him shattering the driver’s window. Panic lets him get the motor started, gives him that juice to act without thinking.

His thoughts clear as he leaves the gunman behind.

***

She is dead before he reaches the emergency room.

The police are smart. After a little questioning, they figure out who to look for.

They find me at the county line, filling up with gas with one of my uncle’s credit cards.

I, Roman, cry when they take me. Not so tough any more. I break down in the interrogation room.

It’s a confession no pro bono attorney could hope to get thrown out. Sound, solid, backed by gunshot residue even though I pitched the weapon. We had a trial. I heard it all then, the innocent mistakes, the confusion. The misunderstandings. That’s why I could tell it or speculate on events with such clarity. Now.

I didn’t care when they sentenced me.

I read now, in the endless hours, books, magazines. I pour over transcripts, too, re-read testimony.

Words are all I have. Words, and time.

Now, now I am introspective. You’ve noted my big words, haven’t you?

Letters to Maddy return unopened. She’s moved on, married, had a child. I saw her last at the trial, when I heard all of the story from different perspectives.

I do not write to Aidan, but I keep up with him when I can use computers. I look at him in online photos and wonder if I can see residual terror in his eyes. I look at Rudy too, and wonder if I see something haunted in his eyes.

I wonder what forever is. I am taught daily.

And I try to envision Aislinn as he saw her, looking like angel or goddess.

I’ve learned oils in the class the priest supervises.

Sometimes I paint her as real.

Sometimes in triplicate, as each of the Fates, those incarnations of destiny randomly twisting and snipping their tangled skeins.

Sometimes I paint her as Blessed Angela of Foligno with glowing halo, hands beseeching an upright Christ. Not a perfect fit, but appropriate.

She is the patron saint of shame and confusion.

DEBORAH GRACE STALEY

That Girl

SHE LIVED ALONE, That Girl. Not by herself, but in herself.

I don’t want another kid.

You don’t have to have another kid. I’ll take care of her and you won’t have to worry yourself about it. She’ll be mine.

On the way to the Christmas parade, the drunk smashed into the side of the car and That Girl was born early; too small, blue, fragile. Her mother was not conscious of her birth; that was her first experience of alone. Cold hands moving her here and there in the sterile delivery room. She didn’t cry. Didn’t belong.

Sick, always sick, she required a lot of care. Breathing from the first breath was difficult and remained a challenge. Asthma, pneumonia, needles, doctors, nurses, colorless rooms, confining walls, a sister’s jealousy, a father’s indifference, a brother she called “daddy,” That Girl. No play, but all seriousness in life-threatening circumstance. No escape for That Girl. Her mother gave her sheltering smothering care, but four others needed mother, too. Maternal lifeline dependence and co-dependence cords formed.

Mommy? Are you asleep? Mommy?

The exhausted woman lay stretched out on the couch, pale as a corpse, while That Girl sat as close as she could in her miniature rocking chair, afraid. If Mommy were dead, she would die, too. She had no one else. No one to take her to the doctor that kept her alive.

Mommy?

I’m just resting my eyes.

So That Girl stayed close and rocked—the motion soothed while Captain Kangaroo talked to Mr. Green Jeans and Mr. Rogers took her to visit his make-believe neighborhood where owls talked and trains tooted. She glanced at Mommy often to make sure she was still breathing.

Her earliest memory was of the second hospital stay. That Girl was eighteen months old. The bed was draped in plastic. Mommy next to the bed, her face distorted by the clearish plastic wrinkles separating them. Mommy worked the zipper to feed That Girl breakfast, but breathing was painful and more important than bacon.

The next hospital stay was a little more than a year later. This time to fix That Girl’s other big problem. She peed all wrong; in bed, in her pants, in the car and never when she should. Infections of kidneys and bladder made it harder to go, so she tried not to go, That Girl. There’d be surgery to fix it so she could feel the pee process like a normal girl. She felt nothing, just the wetness on her legs when it came out.

The nurses dressed all in white wanted blood, but That Girl’s veins hid, not wanting to give. Needles punctured, prodded and probed, but she wouldn’t bleed. That Girl cried. They hurt her and she screamed. Why did they want to hurt her? They stabbed and she screamed, That Girl.

I’ll get it a man in a white coat said. Sit on her he instructed to one of the nurses.

And she did.

He grabbed That Girl’s leg and wrenched it, vice-gripped it between his arm and his chest.

That Girl’s screams quieted, hoarse and rasping now, hysterical elemental fear.

No you won’t.

The angel standing in the corner of the room intervened. She brushed the medical “care” staff out of her way and swept That Girl up into her arms. Coos and gentle hands soothed and dried tears. That Girl clung to her Mommy, her lifeline. The pain in her punctured legs, unbearable. Mommy sang a nameless tune until That Girl slept.

When That Girl woke, the room was dark, the movable bed too big for That Girl in the colorless room. Prayers spilled from Mommy’s lips and angels appeared. So beautiful as they floated and stood guard at the door. She slept again, That Girl, finally at peace.

When she woke, That Girl felt something unusual. Something she’d never felt before. Mommy! Mommy! I need to pee. I feel it! I need to pee!!!

Later, a man in a white coat spoke quietly, earnestly to Mommy. He didn’t understand. The deformity to be surgically repaired so That Girl could pee properly had already been fixed.

Mommy smiled and clapped, so happy. Tears wet her cheeks. A miracle! I prayed all night. A miracle . . .

That Girl knew that the pretty angels had performed that painless repair while she slept. Now she’d finally be able to pee right.

After that, there were no more hospital stays for a long time, and that suited That Girl just fine. Still, she was sick with asthma, colds, infections, tonsillitis, mumps and chicken pox. That Girl was allergic to everything and when she got near everything, she had terrible asthma attacks. Mommy would sit by her bed and watch her breathe in the menthol scented vaporized air, afraid in the dark of night that she’d take her last breath. The doctor said a dryer climate might be best, but moving would be hard for the family. Money was scarce because daddy didn’t make much driving the truck.

So Mommy kept That Girl inside. Everything outside made her sick—grass, trees, flowers. Inside, foods had to be chosen carefully—no milk, no chocolate, no nuts, no eggs. The list was very, very, very long. That Girl was tiny and so thin. Halloween came, but it was cold and Mommy wouldn’t let her trick-or-treat with her brothers and sister. That Girl cried. She wanted to wear the costume she’d chosen, the one with the clown mask. Wearing the mask, she could be another girl, one who didn’t breathe funny, one who could go out and play like other little girls.

You can dress up, but you have to stay in the car. Brother will carry your bag and collect your treats.

So she rode in the backseat of the long blue Chevrolet daddy drove to work, but Mommy drove this night. Brothers and sister went from door to door. They looked funny in their costumes.

They knocked on doors and cried Trick or Treat!

Ladies put candy in their bags and smiled.

This one’s for my sister. She’s sick and has to stay in the car.

The ladies would look at That Girl and wave. Oh, poor thing. Here . . . And then they’d drop extra treats in her bag.

That Girl’s bag became very heavy and brother complained. She gets more treats than we do because she’s sick. She’s always sick. It’s not fair!

Mommy chided her son while That Girl bounced in the backseat, excited to see what was inside the bulging bag.

Back at home, the two boys and two girls sat on the four corners of Mommy and daddy’s big bed as Mommy upended That Girl’s bag of treats. Then the sorting began. That Girl started to cry because she knew. All the things That Girl was allergic to were placed in a very large pile and divided between the brothers and sister.

But you took all the good stuff away! That Girl whimpered.

I’m sorry, but you can’t have those things. They’ll make you sick, Mommy explained.

Mommy, make her stop crying, Sister said. She’s always crying!

Leave her alone, was all Mommy said.

So That Girl found her rocking chair and she rocked and cried, rocked and cried, rocked and cried.

Then the snows came. Brothers and sister bundled in two pairs of pants and extra shirts, big coats, gloves and caps. Daddy got the sleds out of the crawl space and rubbed something on the blades to make them go fast. That Girl put on two pairs of pants and three shirts, too. When she asked Mommy where her coat was, she heard Where do you think you’re going?

I’m going out to sled, everybody is. I’m going, too.

No, honey. You can’t go.

Why not? That Girl cried.

You’ll catch pneumonia! It’s too cold for you.

But—

I said no. Now come on. We’ll make some hot chocolate.

As if That Girl cared. She wouldn’t be able to drink it. She pressed her face to the cold window and watched as they squealed with delight, rocketing down the steep hill behind the house time and time again. And That Girl cried, she always cried. Never able to play, inside or out. No sister or brother close enough in age, no friends or cousins or visits. Just church where she always had to behave. No time to be a kid. No time, so she turned in a little more, day by day, in.

It wasn’t all sadness and tears. There were people besides Mommy who made life a little less sad. The doctor she saw weekly who let her ride the horsie by crossing his legs and seating her on his foot as he kicked; his kind hands that she held tight were the reins. He had a huge glass jar with Dum Dum suckers inside and she’d always get one. Root beer was her favorite flavor, but she’d plead, I want a big sucker, Doctor. You should have those big, round pretty suckers. And he promised that one day, maybe she’d get one. And she did. It was huge to her little girl eyes, its bright colors so pretty. It didn’t taste as good as the Dum Dum, but it sure was pretty . . .

And there was the next-door neighbor; a kind older man whose birthday was on the same day as hers. He’d come by on occasion to say, Ma’am, can That Girl come out today? Walk to the store with me?

That Girl would jump up and down. Please, Mommy, please!

She’d smile her sweet Mommy smile and say, Okay, then she’d bundle That Girl up to pad and protect her from harm. The neighbor had big hands that carried soda bottles to trade for candy money. In the other, he held her tiny hand. All the way, That Girl imagined the big store at the end of the road. Inside, there stood a tall wooden case with curved glass in the front. Behind that shiny, clear glass was every kind of candy a little girl could hope to find. All the candy in the world was inside that curved box. The storekeeper would stand behind it and reach inside to place That Girl’s choices in a small, brown bag she believed was made just for treats.

What would you like? he’d say.

That Girl would look up at the kind neighbor, unsure. She did not want to ask for too much.

Tell him what you want, dear, he’d say and never limit her choices.

That Girl would choose bubble gum, and Now or Laters, and suckers, and licorice. No chocolate for That Girl. The storekeeper would fill the bag and hand over the treasure. She’d hold it close. Looking inside, she’d inhale the magical, sugary scent. Smiles wreathed her tiny face and the kind neighbor smiled too. They’d say their goodbyes to the shopkeeper and hand-in-hand, retrace their steps to her house.

That man died a few years later. His big heart gave out on top of the big hill behind the house. More tears flowed as That Girl pressed her face once again to the window.

And then there was Aunt, Mommy’s sister. They looked exactly alike, except Mommy was a little taller and Aunt a little more carefree. She had no children and treated Mommy’s children like they were her own. Since That Girl looked like Mommy, when Aunt took That Girl out, people assumed she was Mommy. That Girl liked that. That Girl loved Aunt so much.

Aunt was crazy. Crazy fun. She always came to visit on Saturday. When American Bandstand came on, she’d dance and make funny faces and everyone laughed while Mommy shook her head. Aunt was her little sister. That Girl figured that’s what big sister’s did—were embarrassed by little sisters. It was always a treat when Aunt came to visit. She knew how to play and make life a little lighter for a little while once a week.

The third hospital stay was to remove That Girl’s tonsils. Doctor said they were poisoning her system, so they had to come out. That Girl remembered the last time she’d been to the big hospital with white rooms and white coats and white dresses. She did not want to go. Mommy promised this time would be different. She would be there to make sure. They promised all the ice cream she could eat after, so That Girl agreed, but she was scared.