by Casey Morgan
Normally I would argue with him, but the words that been scrawled in paint read: Get the fuck out!
I wanted all of it gone, just as much as he did. To make matters worse, the sprayed letters were huge and largely embellished with their corners and loops spilling on to the brick façade. Getting paint off brick required a lot of scrubbing. It was going to be a long morning.
I took a deep breath and relaxed into the idea of getting to work.
“Oh no!” my mother hissed.
Father and I turned sharply to face her.
She pointed up, higher than the graffiti, to the curved wooden trim that visually separated the first floor from the second. “The sign’s gone.”
“Aha, no!” My father dropped his head and rubbed his temples. “Let us hope they just knocked it down and it’s around here somewhere, in the snow. Celeste, look.”
I started searching the area immediately, while my mother and father filled buckets with water and began washing the windows. The missing sign was one of my father’s most prized possessions. It was delicately carved wood with the name of the bakery and a picture of a crescent moon at the end.
Dad had brought it with him when he immigrated to America. His families’ bakeries had been called The Crescent Moon Bakery for hundreds of years. That sign had been made by his great grandfather. It had hung over three stores.
I searched snow pile after snow pile, my hands in thin mittens digging in the snow. They were all empty. I checked around the block and in dumpsters. I even walked all the way down to the nearby high school and checked the grounds there.
There was a shed—that was never locked—that Mary and I used to hide in and read excerpts from our journals to each other when we went to that school. It wasn’t there, either. The sign wasn’t anywhere. Whoever desecrated the walls last night must have taken it.
My search had taken me hours and when I got back, Mary was already at work. She was handing Dad a cup of coffee and a muffin when I stomped around the corner. At my approach, she raised her head and gave me a small smile. She knew what was going on and was hopeful.
I shook my head. Her whole body dropped into itself. Mary isn’t a big person and her anxiety tends to make her act even smaller. Her eyes flickered nervously to my father. I knew she didn’t want to be out here when I told him. His reactions made her nervous.
“Let me take those, Mary,” I told her, coming up to her side.
I was only three inches taller than her, but it always seemed like more.
“Could you get me a cup of coffee as well?”
“Sure!” she gave me a grateful glance and hurried inside.
After another few minutes of Dad rubbing at the paint and me standing there holding his breakfast, he stopped, dropped the rag in the bucket, and turned to me. Taking the coffee, he looked at me with hope in his green eyes.
“It’s gone, Dad. I looked everywhere I could.”
His eyes dropped, and he let out a breath, but he didn’t yell. I stood by him, unsure if I should hug him or get my mother or what.
Dad was largely calm and stoic, but when he did get upset, it was bad. That sign had meant a lot to him. I knew that it was a way that he connected his new life to the one he grew up with.
He handed me the coffee cup.
“Go take a shower, Celeste. Your skirt is soaked through. You need to warm your bones.”
“But Dad, the sign…”
“It’s gone, Celeste. You are here. Go warm up before you get sick.”
He turned back to his work and didn’t look at me again.
So, I went inside and did as I was told.
The second loud crash came after I had rinsed the conditioner out of my hair. This one was followed by screams. I could hear both my mother and Mary yelling at someone, but I couldn’t quite figure out what was going on.
I toweled off as quickly as I could and dressed in the same clothes I had just taken off. I didn’t have time to find new, dry ones. I tumbled down the stairs, pulling on my winter boots and taking the steps two at a time.
When I reached the ground floor, the bakery was empty. Everyone was out front.
I glanced out the widows—the parts that had been cleaned—and saw five men outside. They were ringed around my father. I recognized Big Dog, who was standing closest to the front doors. He was grinning like this was all a great joke.
He also didn’t see me approaching the doors. So, I flung them both open with all my might. The left one caught the short man in the side of the face, slamming into his cheek. I had calculated the distance well. He raised his hand to his face and cussed up a storm.
The door frame had caused a bruise with a small cut and little drops of blood were dripping down his round chin. The sight was pleasing.
“What the fuck, bitch!”
My father, cornered as he was, hissed.
“Mr. Dog, you will not address my daughter in such a way!”
There was a sharp laugh from the man who was at the head of the circle. I turned to look at him. He was taller than the rest, but still not as tall as my father. He was broad, like Big Dog, and had his black hair in a ponytail. His full lips were pulled back into a sneer.
“Old man,” he laughed again. “We will call your bitch daughter whatever the fuck we want.”
The new man reached behind his back and pulled out a gun. My mother, pushed to the side of the street, shrieked a bit, but quickly put her hands to her mouth. Mary was huddled beside her. They were both being held by two of the other gang members.
“Mr. Dominic.” My father held up his frail arms, his hands empty. “I have your money. I can assure you that such a show of force is not necessary. Please, put the gun away.”
The gangster sneered.
“Your money is late, old man, and you tell my boy here—” he used the gun in his hand to briefly point to Big Dog— “You tell him that instead of paying what I ask, you’ll offer pastries instead. Pastries! Do I look like some fat fuck? Do my men?”
My father dropped his head. I knew he was trying to come up with a good way to get out of this, but there wasn’t one. I found my feet moving. I pushed through the two closest gang members and stood in front of my father.
“Leave us alone,” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “You have no rights over us. This is our shop. You are no one!”
Dominic blinked his big brown eyes at me. He looked around at his men and when his eyes found mine again, he laughed.
“I’m no one? Look, bitch, I’m the man with the fucking gun!”
I balled my hands into fists and imagined punching him in the face. My eyes darted down to a nearby pile of trash and eyed a broken bottle. If I could just slip to the side, I could throw it at him. Its jagged edges could do some damage.
“Carlos. Ace. Move this chick.”
Dominic motioned with his gun again. Then he gave me another glance.
“Men are talking, sweetheart. I will pay attention to you later.”
Two men, clad in black denim and leather, came from the opposite side of the street. Both had their heads shaved close like Big Dog. It seemed that only Dominic was allowed to wear a pony tail.
The taller of the two men reached for my shoulder. I slapped him in the face. Hard.
He blinked at me in surprise and all his cohorts laughed. The shocked look on his face melted into a lopsided smile.
“The bitch has claws,” he said.
He grabbed me by both shoulders and pulled me close. I had to put my hands up to keep from slamming into his chest. His chapped lips were inches from my face.
“Do it again, girl.”
His eyes dropped down to my breasts. He eyed them with lust.
“I like it rough.”
My father had inched our way, his concern making his face white. The second man pushed him back into the middle of the circle. My captor dragged me to the edge. I fought him every step, but his arms just got tighter.
“Keep fighting,” he whispered in my ear. “I
t just rubs your body up against mine.”
I froze then and tried to move as little as possible.
“Mr. Dominic, we can work this out,” my father pleaded.
He held his hands up like he was praying.
“I will pay whatever you want. Just don’t hurt my daughter.”
Dominic huffed and stepped forward. His left arm swung out. His hand arched and slammed my father full in the face. The hit was so hard that it caused my dad to step back.
“It’s not enough, old man,” the gang leader hissed. “You continue to try to argue with me and I’m done with that. Your offer of pastries— that is going to get you hurt. You need to learn a lesson.”
I started struggling again. This asshole could not kill my father. I wouldn’t allow it. Even if it caused me to lose my own life, then I would get that gun out of Dominic’s hands.
The gang leader slapped my father again. The next hit was a punch. It slammed right into my father’s nose. Dad fell to his knees, gripping his face. His hands came away bloody.
My mother screamed. I turned towards her and saw the man who was holding her clamp his hand over her mouth. The gang members who held Mary and me followed his example. I bit the fingers that tried to cover my mouth.
“Fuck!” my captor swore.
As my father trembled on the ground, Dominic kicked him. His boot slammed into my father’s thin frame, hitting him in the side. Dad fell; his body crashed into the ground. He cringed and covered his ribs on the cold concrete mixed with dirty snow.
Big Dog joined in. He kicked Dad in the stomach. Dad’s leg shot out behind him as he twisted to put his stomach to the ground. Dominic brought his boot down on his calf. It crunched and my father screamed.
The head gangster looked over the damage and spat on my father.
“Lesson over, old man. I want my money tomorrow and make it double.” His eyes roamed the circle and looked at each of us. “Any of you women put a hand to one of mine and I will shoot you. Clear?”
I felt myself nod. The man who held me kissed my cheek and slapped me on the ass when he let me go. I hardly noticed.
I didn’t see the gangsters leave. All I could see was my dad, injured and bleeding into the snow.
Chapter Six
Celeste
Mom fell to her knees next to my father. He was breathing in gasps and pants. It wasn’t good, but I was happy he was still breathing.
He rolled over to his back and looked up at Mom and me. Blood coated his nose and mouth. He tried to smile and put a reassuring hand on my mother’s shoulder. She just sobbed next to him.
“Hush, Martha. Just help me up and let’s get inside,” he whispered.
I knelt and put my shoulder under his armpit.
“Dad, you need to go to the hospital,” I told him. “You might have internal bleeding and a broken leg.”
He hissed. I lifted him with my mother’s help, and we stumbled towards the bakery. Mary pulled the front door open for us.
“I’m not going to some devil-cursed hospital, Celeste,” Dad snapped. “God will provide. He will heal me.”
“God will fix your broken leg?” I asked, in my most snarky tone.
“Celeste,” my mother barked. “You will hold your tongue. That comment is not helpful.”
“Sorry, Mom,” I said, but I didn’t feel sorry. I just felt angry.
We pulled Dad up the stairs and down the hallway to the upstairs bathroom. Mom and I gently sat him on the toilet and she shoed me out of the room so that she could wash his wounds. I closed the door behind me and stared at the wood surface.
This stops today. Now.
We couldn’t live like this. I balled and unballed my hands several times. My fingernails bit into my palms. I wanted to break something. I wanted to destroy something to ease my rage, but there was nothing close.
I stomped down the steps and fled into the kitchen. Mary was checking the ovens. The cinnamon rolls had burned. Another tragedy in a morning of too many.
My best friend pulled the smoking tray from the oven and slid it onto the counter. She waved one of the white kitchen towels over it to distribute the smoke.
“He won’t go to the hospital!” I yelled.
She turned towards my outburst, her blue eyes wide.
“Of course not, Celeste.” She shrugged. “You know the Church of the Path of God prohibits that. You shouldn’t even bother to suggest it,” Mary murmured.
“We can’t go on like this!”
She put the towel down gently and moved to my side. Her small hand closed over one of mine. Mary pulled me to the kitchen table that sat at the back wall. She tried to get me to sit in one of the wooden chairs, but I couldn’t. My body was too rigid with rage.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Mary murmured. “Just try to relax.”
I didn’t look at her. My mind was wondering and working. There had to be someone in Gray Acres who could help us. Someone had to strike back at the Southland gang.
An idea came to me. There was a motorcycle gang that ran a bar called The Grinder that was just down the street. My father had always lectured me to give the place a wide berth, even though it was on the way to the high school.
I had avoided it until now, because the gang members were big, scary, and mean looking men. Now we needed that. They would help us. I would convince them to help us.
I turned and walked towards the front of the bakery. Mary followed, trying to keep hold of my hand. When she lost her grip, she grabbed onto the sleeve of my sweater.
“Celeste! Where are you going?” she begged.
“There’s more than one gang in town,” I told her, marching through the door.
I headed down the street, with Mary pulling me back the whole way.
Down five blocks and on a side street was the destination I sought: The Grinder. Who could fight a bunch of thugs better than another bunch of thugs?
I had always found the bar slightly fascinating. Every time I got close, my eyes would always fixate on the old, paint-faded red door and the sign above it with the silver gears on it.
I supposed at one time the sign was meant to give the place an industrial feel, but now it was splitting and ill kept. I didn’t think anyone cared, however.
I never had an excuse to go into the place before. I had wanted to, even though Dad had always said to stay away. I couldn’t seem to help but be drawn to things that were supposed to be prohibited to me.
Now I did have an excuse. I needed help. I needed protection and something in my heart told me that this was where I could get it.
The red door to The Grinder opened slightly when I pushed at it and a wave of stale, beer-smelling air hit us directly in the face. Mary grabbed my arm just above my wrist and pulled me back towards her again, letting the door close in front of us.
“Seriously, Celeste,” she whined. “Don’t go in there. It’s dangerous. Someone might kidnap you or worse.”
I tried to shake off her grip, but she held me fast. There was something about the place that had me enchanted. Maybe the danger level was causing my brain to hype up on endorphins—who knows, but there was something in my whole body that urged me to go inside.
The place called to me. I was transfixed.
“Go back to the bakery,” I hissed at her. “I can do this myself. I don’t need you tagging along like…like some sort of chaperone. I’ll be fine. Just don’t tell my mother where I am.”
Mary looked shocked at my admonishment. Keeping one hand on my arm, her other hand rose to her chest and pulled together the sides of her old ratty sweatshirt. The zipper didn’t work anymore, but her parents were too poor to buy her another.
She frowned and looked like she was about to cry.
“Celeste, I’m scared. Please, let’s both go back and call the police.”
A single tear ran down her cheek.
I let out a deep breath and turned to my friend.
“Look. We both know the police don’t give a damn about
us. I’m going in here to get help. You can come with me or go back to the Crescent Moon.”
Mary gathered her thoughts for a few seconds and then looked down at her hand that was grasping my arm. It was like she wanted to let go, but she couldn’t. Her loyalty wouldn’t let me walk into danger alone and in that moment, I loved her for it.
She nodded towards the red door with the cracking paint and whipped her eyes.
“Let’s go in.”
I smiled and nodded back at her. I put my hand to the door again and pushed inside. The interior of the bar was dark, and it took our eyes a few seconds to adjust from being outside in the noonday sun.
When I could see, I noticed that the bar was larger than I was expecting. The low building’s exterior gave the impression of being one small room, but once we were through the door, I realized that the space was larger than I thought.
There were at least three rooms, maybe more. It must have connected to some of the buildings that flanked it.
Amazed, I stood in the doorway and took in the band posters on the black walls, the dart board, and the large, dusty, red pool tables. Several booths with cracking red vinyl were on the far wall; above them hung a faded American flag.
The bar itself was large and made of wood. Several people occupied its bar stools and many more were sitting at round wooden tables, eating their lunches.
Mary clung to the sleeve of my sweater and huddled close to my back.
“Celeste,” she whined, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. “I don’t think we are safe in here.”
As if to prove her point, several large men clad in leather vests and ratty jeans pushed the door open behind us. Taking little notice of our smaller bodies, they shoved past us and knocked us both into the wall.
“Out of the way, bitches,” one of them said in a semi-joking manner.
Mary hissed in a breath. I held up a hand to keep her from whining again and started towards the bar. I assumed the bartender could point me in the right direction of who to talk to.
As we moved more into the room, a few of the patrons took notice. The fellas who were playing pool stopped their game and stared. Others swerved in their seats and made jokes under their breath. I ignored them all.
