by Julie Frayn
A young man in army fatigues sat two rows back and across the aisle. Was he on his way home from war? She stared at his crew-cut hair and deep brown eyes until he glanced up at her and winked. She turned away and looked out the window, her cheeks burning hot.
A typical rural scene scrolled by – like a silent film reel of her tedious, insignificant life. Fields of wheat undulated in the wind like a golden sea. A baler crawled along shitting out blobs of hay that peppered the pasture. Cows everywhere nibbled contentedly, lifted their tails and shit out blobs of their own. Pickup truck after pickup truck traveled the gravel roads parallel to the highway, kicking up dust in their wake. Red barns, white barns, unpainted rotting barns stood near concrete silos full of fermenting, stinking, animal feed. That was a smell she wouldn’t miss. That and the pig shit.
The country scenery was as dull as her country life. She dug inside her backpack and pulled out a tattered copy of Judy Blume’s Forever. She found it in the used book store in town and bought it when her mother wasn’t looking. Her mother would kill her for reading a book with sex in it, even if it was about kids her age. Besides, the kids in the story were in love, so what was the big deal? She kicked off her Keds, curled up on the seat and imagined what it would be like to find true love. To find a boy worth loving at all.
The bus rounded a long bend and the city skyline came into view far off in the distance. It looked like tiny plastic buildings inside one of those snow globes Adaleen used to send from the city of the moment. Her aunt had freedom, adventure and luxury. That’s what August wanted, to see Rome and London. And to never, ever, slop those damn pigs again. First step, get the hell off the farm.
The grandmother seated in front of her stood and turned to the back of the bus. August stared, open-mouthed, at what turned out to be a man with a short beard. She leaned over the aisle seat and watched him retreat. She’d never seen anyone like him before.
His braid was held in place by a single plain elastic band, his beige corduroy suit as rumpled as his tan face. And he wore sandals with no socks. He clutched a newspaper, opened the bathroom door and, just before entering, looked right at her.
She pushed herself back into her seat. Damn it, caught staring again. The city would be full of things she’d never seen before. Better figure out how to avoid looking like some naive hick.
She rested her forehead against the window. The landscape morphed before her eyes into something unfamiliar and exciting. Cows were replaced by billboards imploring her to Eat here! Sleep here! Drink here! Shop here!
Her stomach growled – a loud reminder that she’d missed breakfast. From her backpack she pulled a pack of Twinkies she’d bought at the bus station. Her mother’s voice chimed in her head – don’t eat crap like that. She ripped open the cellophane and bit the end off one of the cakes before licking the frosting out of the center, sticking her tongue in as far as it would reach. She savored the rest, opting to squish the cake against the roof of her mouth instead of chewing. She ate the second cake the same way, the sweet gooiness of every bite like heaven in her mouth. She looked up to find the bouncing boy staring at her, and smiled at him.
He stuck out his tongue.
“Brat,” she said under her breath. She wiped her sticky fingers on her jeans and resumed her watch at the window.
Pickup trucks on country roads had transformed into sports cars on the highway. They were so close when they sped past she could see the hands and knees of their drivers, some in khakis, some in short skirts with legs bared. One convertible with the top down revealed the passenger with her head in the driver’s lap. Did all men want that? A few months back she’d ditched her morning classes to hang out with Randy. He was driving too fast and only had one hand on the wheel, the other around her shoulder. He grabbed her by the back of the head and pushed her face down into his lap, said if she wouldn’t fuck him, at least she could suck him. She clawed her way into her seat, scratching his arm bloody in the process. He had the nerve to be pissed at her. Why did he think the first time she did that would be in his truck? Or to him at all? “Asshole,” she whispered into the window.
A semi-trailer pulled up beside her and blared its air horn. She jumped back in her seat, leaving an oily smudge on the window where her forehead used to be. The trucker laughed and waved at her as he passed. She waved back, then polished her head print off the window with her sleeve.
The city loomed closer. No more silos, only skyscrapers. A thick brown haze hung over the skyline like an old, dirty bedspread. In her fantasies she’d imagined clear blue skies overhead. From this far away it looked heavy, suffocating.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
She flinched. The man with the braid leaned over the aisle seat, his weathered face just a foot from hers, his breath terrible.
“Yeah, I guess. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”
“And why are you going there?”
“I’m visiting a friend.” A warm flush spread over her face. She lied a lot lately. Why wouldn’t her face get used to it and quit tattling on her?
“I see.” The man picked up her backpack, handed it to her and sat down. “And do your parents know you’re visiting this friend?” He looked her in the eye.
“Of course.” She was certain he could hear her heart beating.
“Well then.” He pulled a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “In case you have any trouble, you know, with your friend” – he winked at her – “you just give me a call. I could show you some of the sights. There’s lots to see and lots to do.”
She hesitated, then accepted the piece of paper from this strange man and read the name on it. “Thank you, Mr. Patrick. But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He put his hand on the back of hers and patted it, then let it rest there a few seconds before he pulled away. “It’s Father Patrick. That’s the address to my street ministry. Keep it, just in case. Come for a visit. Bring your friend along. The more the merrier.”
*****
A squeal of brakes woke August from an awkward sleep. The bus came to a slow stop with an abrupt ending that pitched her forward. She steadied herself with one hand on the back of the seat in front of her, rolled her neck and rubbed the bumpy pattern on her cheek where it had rested on the sleeve of her hoodie.
The inside of the bus was cloaked in shadow. Cement walls of a huge bus terminal snuffed out the bright sun. Huge lights on the thirty foot tall ceiling cast a yellow pall. A dozen other buses were lined up, passengers loading and unloading, luggage everywhere.
She grabbed her backpack and made her way down the aisle with the other travelers, like cattle to the slaughter. She stepped off the bus into a swarm of humanity – more people in one place than she had ever seen.
Her fellow bus riders were swallowed by the crowd and she waded in after them, mouth ajar, eyes wide. She looked in every direction, taking everything in – the enormous snaking line of people waiting for the next bus, two grubby kids huddling near a garbage can sharing something to eat, bus drivers with too many keys jangling on their belts, cops with their teardrop sunglasses and their don’t-mess-with-me stance, mothers with their children in tow, alert to the dangers of the men in business suits, the men in army fatigues, the men in jogging pants, the old men with their hands in their pockets.
Voices echoed in the hollow space. Whistles blared, intercoms announced schedules, and a nasty odor – some vile concoction of parmesan cheese and piss – permeated everything. August fought her way to the exit, emerging into blinding late afternoon sunlight. Cars were everywhere, their drivers following none of the traffic laws her father had taught her. Horns blared, tires screeched, people yelled.
Outside were more people than lived in her whole county, let alone Hubble Falls. A teenage boy on a skateboard whizzed past so close she could smell the cigarette he must have just smoked. A homeless man, clothes stained and stinking of dirt and body odor held out his hand. “Spare change?” he muttered as he shuffled by.
/> She shook her head and turned away. After he passed she turned and watched him. He wore more than one shirt, at least two coats, and three hats stacked on top of each other. In this heat?
That heat bounced off the concrete and seemed to penetrate right to her bones, like she was one of the roast chickens in her mother’s clay baker. Despite it, her whole body shook, and her sugary breakfast sat like a lump in her gut. She clutched her backpack and hurried down the street, away from the homeless man who must be dangerous and criminal, away from the hordes of city dwellers she had envied for so long. They weren’t anything like she expected, no one seemed friendly. But this was just a bus terminal, like the crappy one in town. She needed to find the real city, the real people.
She walked with her head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone sharing the sidewalk. When she rounded the corner of the bus terminal, she stepped into shadow and the temperature dropped. Looking up, she saw concrete, glass, metal. Her gaze followed this jungle of dead grey up farther than she could crane her neck to see, the sunlight blocked out by massive buildings lined up one against another. She’d expected it to be nothing like home – but there were no wide open spaces, no horizon full of blue sky and eternal visibility. And almost no plants. Only short trees scattered along the sidewalk at sparse intervals, their scrawny trunks caged in by tiny fences.
She backed up toward the building behind her. With the world spinning around her, she reached out, found the icy slab of granite and leaned against it. Hugging her backpack, she sank down until her butt hit pavement.
She took off her ball cap and wiped her forehead, then rested her elbows on bent knees and lay her head down on her backpack.
Just breathe.
She’d wanted a change, to get the hell away from the country. Well here it was. Better get a grip.
Coins clinked together and she looked up to find two quarters in her princess cap.
An old lady was walking away, an aluminum cane bearing a significant load.
“Wait!” August called. “I wasn’t begging! Please take your money back!”
The lady turned and smiled. “Don’t be silly, dear. You go down the street and buy yourself an ice cream. And then maybe you should go on home before your parents get worried.”
August smiled. “Thanks. Ice cream sounds great.” She got to her feet and brushed dust from her jeans, dropping the coins into her back pocket. She sure as hell wasn’t ready to go home. Not yet.
Chapter 3
Caraleen sat at the kitchen table holding her coffee cup with both hands. The sweet, creamy liquid had quit steaming and now rested, ice-cold, in her white-knuckle grip.
“Sara and Bill are here.” Don laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She looked up at him and offered a wan smile.
He wandered to the kitchen sink and looked out the window, then lit a cigarette in the house. Any other day it would have pissed her off and she would have told him to butt it out or take it outside. Today, it just didn’t matter.
“Hi, Mrs. Bailey,” Sara mumbled and sat across the table from her.
“Sara, where is August?”
“I don’t know.” Sara’s cheeks flushed. “She missed the math final today. I was worried she’d fail and have to repeat.” The girl twisted a clump of long red hair around one finger, released it, and twisted it again.
“Sara, where the hell is my daughter? You are the only one she’d tell anything to. Tell me where she is and tell me now!” Caraleen slammed her fist on the table, shaking coffee onto the old tablecloth, staining the faded vinyl.
“Now cool it, Caraleen.” Sara’s father, Bill, placed his big hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “If she knew where August was, she’d tell you.”
The color rose higher in Sara’s cheeks and she looked down at her hands.
Caraleen took a sip of her cold coffee, wrinkled her nose and put down the cup. She wiped tears from her cheeks with one shaking hand. Worried didn’t begin to describe the panic building inside of her. Her daughter had disappeared and she couldn’t just snap her fingers and bring her back.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Bailey. I’m sure she’s fine.”
Caraleen looked from Sara to Bill and back again. “How do you know that she’s fine? Are you telling me the truth? Sara, if you know where she is you’d better say so now.”
Sara began to cry. “I don’t know, I just think she is. I want to believe that. I‘m sorry, Mrs. Bailey. If she calls me, I’ll tell you. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Caraleen stared at the girl and then reached over and patted Sara’s bony hand. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
Bill bent down over Caraleen’s shoulders and engulfed her in his massive embrace. “Maybe you ought to call the sheriff.”
“We did.” Don leaned against the counter and blew a lungful of smoke out the open kitchen window. His shaking hand freed the long ash and it dropped with a hiss into the untouched dishwater. “Apparently it’s nothing to worry about until she’s been gone twenty-four hours. Even if she is only sixteen and doesn’t know shit about the world except how to slop the damn pigs.”
Chapter 4
August sat on the curb outside the ice cream shop. That old lady must still be living in her youth – ice cream hadn’t been fifty cents in a long time. She turned her ball cap backwards, bit the end off of the cone, tipped her head back and sucked the sweet, melting butterscotch out the bottom. She started eating them that way years ago when Sara challenged her to a race - to see who could finish their cone first, from the bottom up. They did that just last week. August won. As usual. There were some things she just didn’t want to grow out of.
August crunched the last of the cone, licked her lips, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She pulled out her money and counted what was left.
“Shit.” Less than sixty dollars.
She grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. Not counting sleepovers at Sara’s, this would be her first night away from her family. Dusk was coming fast and the pending gloom of darkness pushed her faster down the street.
After several blocks she came across a hotel. With most of the sign’s lights burned out, the Royal Arms became “al Arm.” A homeless man was crouched next to the doorway, his unwashed body stinking even from ten feet away. Bits of food were stuck in his unkempt beard. At the grunt of his deep-sleep snore she skirted around him and darted through the doorway.
She inched up to the check-in counter. The grey laminate was worn through along the edge where thousands of people before her must have leaned. She didn’t touch anything, and resisted the urge to plug her nose against the dust and the earthy smell of mold.
Iron bars prevented her from attacking the middle-aged man behind the counter. If the bars didn’t work, the rifle resting against the desk next to him would have done the job. He looked down his nose through tiny reading glasses, absorbed in the thick newspaper in front of him, and reached between his legs to scratch himself.
“Excuse me, sir?” she mumbled.
The man didn’t hear her. Or ignored her, she wasn’t sure which. She smacked the top of a chrome bell, jumping at its shrill chime.
The man’s head snapped up and he glared at her. “Geez, I’m right here for God’s sake. Don’t ring that damn bell, gives me a headache.”
“Sorry, sir.” She watched him haul his ample backside out of the chair, his huge belly hanging over his low-slung pants, his mustard and sweat stained undershirt straining against his navel. “Can I get a room please?”
“Yeah, yeah, sign here. Its twenty-eight dollars for a full night, or four dollars an hour. How long you stayin’?”
An hour? Who would stay for an hour?
“I need a place to sleep tonight. Is it clean?”
“Clean? What’s more important, sleepin’, or sleepin’ in a clean room?” He leaned close to the bars and looked her up and down. “You sleepin’ alone, darlin’?”
“Yes!” She counted out the exact amount of money and signed the
register.
“All right, all right.” He smirked, showing crooked teeth stained darker than the mustard on his shirt. ”Room two-oh-four, one flight up, turn left. Check out is ten sharp, or I’ll charge you by the hour after that.”
She took the key he slid under the bars without looking up at him again.
At the second floor landing she turned into a dim hallway. Fewer than half the wall sconces had functioning bulbs and she could just make out the keyhole in the door handle. Once unlocked, the door swung open at the slightest encouragement, hitting the wall behind it with a dull thud. The room was drenched in darkness. She ran her hand along the wall until she found a switch and flicked it on. Harsh white light from a bare bulb filled the cramped entry.
She turned the deadbolt and drew the chain, then leaned against the door, surveying the tiny room.
A small bed, the dull grey of the metal frame peering from behind chipped white paint, rested uncomfortably against the wall, sagging so much in the middle that it looked more like a hammock. Its worn bedspread could have been white at one time but it, too, was dull grey, with large spots yellowed from age and stained with who knows what. A little window with no curtains let a gentle breeze blow over the bed, whiffs of garbage and dirt riding in on each current. Street sounds invaded the room through the open screen.
August dropped her backpack on the only chair in the room, and it creaked under the small weight.
At the entry to the bathroom she turned on the light just in time to see two cockroaches scurry into the drain on the floor. She didn’t flinch. Bugs were no big deal, but she didn’t want their company. Sleeping with the lights on would keep the crawly buggers at bay.
