by Julie Frayn
At the end of the aisle was a sale bin brimming with old videotapes, like the one at the discount store in town. Last spring, she’d gone into town with her mother and they had stopped into ‘Bin There Done That’ to get some summer clothes. She begged and begged until her mother agreed they could find some “new” old movies to watch. That was the extent of their television fare – that and whatever the old rabbit ears might happen to pick up. Most of the time it was just static and snow. Cable didn’t reach their farm and her parents couldn’t afford a satellite dish. They wouldn’t even crack open their bank account to buy a cheap DVD player, so old VHS tapes were all they got. She had scanned the titles, their covers yellowed with age and tattered from years of the cassettes sliding in and out.
“August, look!” Her mother held up a movie then began singing in that off-pitch voice of hers – “The hills are alive with the sound of music.” She drew out the syllables of “music” to sound like a bad impression of a singing cow and crossed her eyes.
“God, Mother.” She rolled her eyes. “You are so embarrassing. Can’t we get something from this century? Here, Spider-Man.” She tossed the video across the bin toward her mother.
Her mother took the movie, scanned it for one second and put it back in the bin. Her right eyebrow – the judgmental one – arced in familiar disapproval. Picking up another, her mother cooed, “Ooh, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I’ve always wanted to see this.”
And that was that. They had left with just one old movie, two three-dollar tank tops, and one pair of someone else’s cut-off denim shorts.
August looked up. The guy at the video store counter was watching her. It was now or never. She approached him, chewing on her bottom lip and focusing on his nametag. Paul.
“Can I apply for the job?” She stared at his nametag.
“Sure, fill this out.” He slid a form across the counter and handed her a pencil. One letter on each of the four fingers of his right hand announced F U C K in faded black ink.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Well shit, you should have said so. You have to be eighteen to work here. You know, because of the porn.”
A lump formed in her throat, but she refused to give in to tears. “Really? There’s no way you can hire me? I’ll be seventeen in less than two months. I can pass for eighteen.”
Paul looked around the empty store. “Well, I’ll tell you what. You come in the back room and maybe if you do me a favor we can work something out.”
“What kind of favor?”
“You’re real cute.” He leaned his elbows on the counter, his face just a foot from hers and tugged on a strand of her hair. He looked up at her with just his eyes, the smell of burned rope emanated from his hair. “How about a little head?”
She stared at him. All she could think of was Randy trying to shove her head into his crotch and all she could say was, “Head?”
“Yeah, you dumb bitch. You know, a blow job?”
Bells chimed and a customer walked in.
Paul straightened up and smiled at the man. “Good morning.” He looked back at her and raised one eyebrow in a question mark.
She took a step backwards, then turned and walked out of the store. Unbelievable. Is that all they wanted from her? There had to be one boy out there who wasn’t a complete jackass.
A couple of blocks away she passed a door propped open with a small chair. A wonderful, familiar aroma wafted out to meet her. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent deep into her lungs. She could almost feel a big fluffy towel wrap around her, her hair wet, her fingers wrinkled like prunes. Oatmeal cookies. Her mother made them every Saturday night. When she was younger, Caraleen would bring her one – sweet, hot, chewy – right out of the oven. She would nibble on it, the butterscotch chips and double vanilla distracting her while her mother combed the tangles from her freshly washed hair. Now her little sisters got most of the cookies and August combed out her own hair.
She looked in the door to find a tiny bakery. Ignoring the fact her money was dwindling, she bought two huge cookies and took them across the street to a sprawling park. Sitting on a bench under the shade of an elm tree, she ate them both, licking every crumb from her fingertips. They tasted like home.
While August sat, the sun stole the elm tree’s shade, so she basked in the heat. A circus of people passed her by, like some kind of travelling menagerie. Wild colors that didn’t match, three-piece suits in the sweltering heat. More than one mother jogged along pushing huge strollers with giant wheels, and a gaggle of nurses in pastel scrubs and weird rubber sling-back shoes hustled by, cramming hot dogs down their gullets as fast as they could. These city people were some kind of weird.
The longer she sat, the more she fidgeted – her childish reaction to a filling bladder. How frustrating that this simple bodily function – one of those things she’d never paid any attention to, never planned ahead for - might undo her quest for freedom and adventure. It was easy to just squat in a field on the farm where no prying eyes could see your naked butt. Not so simple in the middle of a bustling park or on a city street crawling with humanity.
Across the road, an old fashioned wooden sign creaked on its hinges above the door to a deli. Through the window people sat at small tables, eating sandwiches and sausage and pickles. There had to be a bathroom in there somewhere. She jaywalked across the street and went in.
Chapter 7
Reese shifted his weight, then leaned against the massive elm that shaded him from the bright morning sun. Wisps of blue smoke rose from the tip of the cigarette that hung from his mouth, and seeped through the curtain of long, dirty bangs. The smoke filtered his vision of the blonde girl on the bench, its swirling stench dirtying her fresh face and naïve-looking charm. It gave her a grimy appeal, made her look like one of them. When he waved the smoke clear and flicked his head, forcing his hair out of his line of sight, she looked too clean. Too shiny. Like a brand spanking new dime that had never been spent. Never been touched.
He had seen her sitting on the patio outside Starbucks, with her purple shoes and ridiculous neon green backpack. She was fresh. She stared like an idiot at every person who walked by, was in awe of everything. She gobbled a simple muffin like it was her last meal. With nothing better to do, he had followed her.
He’d waited down the block from the video store. When she came out, her face was beet red and she stomped away. He fell into step behind her, stayed back half a block. When he passed the video store window, he glanced in. That loser with the lame finger ink who always hassled the girls caught sight of him and flipped him off. No wonder she stormed out. Asshole probably hit on her too.
Now she was sitting there on that bench, eating cookies. She must have one hell of a sweet tooth. Or parents that didn’t let her eat the good shit at home.
He inched closer, going from shade tree to shade tree, and stopped about ten feet behind her. He stood beside another elm, trying to look like he wasn’t staring at her. Or stalking her.
She never turned around, just watched the people who passed in front of her. Then she shifted in her seat and bounced up and down like a distracted little kid. When she turned her head fully sideways and looked down the street, a breeze caught her long blonde hair and blew it aside, revealing a clear-skinned, freckled cheek and perfect button ear.
His heart flipped and a small pang of arousal grabbed his stomach.
What the fuck was that? Had to shake that off. Don’t want to complicate things, to deal with any girl shit right now.
He slid behind the tree and finished his cigarette, staring across the park’s expanse to the wide river far beyond.
He butted his cigarette against the tree, dropped the filter on the ground, then peered around the trunk at the bench.
She was still there, fidgeting and leaning forward, watching something across the street. Then she jumped up and jaywalked, hesitated, and stepped into the deli.
So she needed a bathroom. That’s what all that
twitching was about. She’d better buy something or shit would hit the fan.
He jogged across the street and headed for the alley.
Chapter 8
Caraleen leaned her forehead against the cool, smooth window of the pickup truck and stared at the familiar scene rolling by. Brick and clapboard houses on the edge of the town, old but meticulously maintained, flicked past her eyes. Their neat little gardens, heavy with pink and white peonies, perfectly trimmed hedgerows, and bushes dripping bleeding hearts were unimpressive on this particular morning. The garden ornaments – gnomes with red cone hats, plastic deer pretending to nibble real grass, wooden bird silhouettes with legs that spun in the breeze – didn’t even catch the attention of June and April. Any other day, they would squeal with delight and beg her to fill their yard with similar silly kitsch.
Don turned the truck onto the paved access road into Hubble Falls. In the side view mirror a plume of gravel dust kicked up behind the truck and dissipated into the still morning air.
On Main Street, the shops and cafes that still survived were readying themselves for another day of scant business. Nestled between the discount store and the barber shop/beauty salon was one of many old establishments that sat idle. Windows that once showcased house wares and bolts of cloth for sale were now boarded shut, the store abandoned. When the six-lane divided highway opened a few years back, travelers were no longer forced through town. They sped past, unaware of the struggling hamlet just two miles to the east. Just one gas station remained and the only motel stood just off the old highway, a specter of the abundance of old.
Don angled into a parking spot between two police cruisers. He jumped out and rounded the front of the truck, opening the door for Caraleen. Without saying a word, he lifted his daughters from the rear of the crew cab, took their hands and led them all into the station.
Sheriff Stone came out of his office to meet them and grasped Don’s hand in a firm shake. “Morning folks. Please sit.” The sheriff pointed to two wooden chairs beside a desk, then motioned to a young officer across the room. “Deputy, can you show these young ladies the lunch room? There’s some paper and crayons in the second drawer.”
“It’s been almost twenty-four hours, Sheriff.” Caraleen’s attempt at firm composure failed. Her voice quavered, hands trembled. “Surely we can look for August now?”
“I’m sorry about having to tell you that.” The sheriff took his hat off and tossed it on the desk, then rubbed a hand over his thinning grey hair. “But there are procedures.” The man rested one ass cheek on the corner of the desk and balanced on one steel-toed, polished black boot. He shifted his belt around his barrel-shaped middle, his gun holster clanging against the metal furniture. “But to be honest, I ignored them.”
“What do you mean, ignored them?” Don pulled a chair aside and guided Caraleen into it.
“Folks, me and my deputy took two cars out after you called yesterday and we went searching. We covered as much ground as we could before nightfall, but we didn’t find any sign of her.” He shook his head and looked from one to the other of them. “Then this morning we started calling around town.”
Don reached over and grabbed Caraleen’s shaking hands, patting them between his own. He looked up to the sheriff. “So, what’s next?”
Hinges squeaked and a deep voice filled the room. “Caraleen? Don?”
She turned to see Bill Tugman walking into the station guiding Sara by the shoulder.
“I think Sara has something to tell you.”
Caraleen rose and approached Sara. She put her arms around her daughter’s friend, giving the trembling girl a reassuring hug.
Sara broke down in tears. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bailey. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Just tell me.” She guided Sara to the chair, easing her to its seat.
“I promised her I wouldn’t tell. She made me pinky swear!” Sara’s eyes were swollen and red rimmed. She wiped snot from her upper lip onto her sleeve. “She said she would call when she got there. But she didn’t call, Mrs. Bailey! Oh God, what if she’s hurt?” Her voice rose in pitch, her face contorted.
“Sara. Honey. Where did she go?”
“To Charlesworth. On the bus.” She looked down at her hands. “To be like Holly Golightly,” she whispered.
Caraleen felt the color drain from her face. She grabbed for Don’s hand.
The sheriff touched her shoulder. “Sara told Bill this morning and he called me. I’ve already called police headquarters there. They’ve put August on the missing children’s list. Do you have a picture of her?”
Don pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slid out a photo. He glanced at it before handing it to the sheriff, his eyes tearing up. “It’s her eleventh grade school picture from last fall. It’d be the most recent.”
“I’ll send this over. I need you to fill out some forms and give as much information as you can. Any distinguishing marks? Scars, tattoos?”
Caraleen sat staring at the sheriff. All she could say was, “No tattoos.”
August had run away. On purpose. Chose to leave home, leave the family. And it was Caraleen’s fault.
Chapter 9
August stepped into the deli and peered around. The air was thick and pungent with garlic. A sign at the end of a hall announced a toilet was available, but for customers only. She lingered at the food display eyeing the meats, cheeses, sandwiches and salads behind the glass. She tried to appear nonchalant while she inched toward the bathroom, but quick sideways glances tattled on her intentions.
Another door opened before she got to the end of the hall and a large man with a stained white apron and a hairy neck emerged and grabbed her by the arm.
“What can I do for you, little girl?”
“I just need to use the bathroom!” she squealed, her arm smarting from his grasp.
He smelled of sour meat and body odor and his hand was leaving cheese prints on the sleeve of her hoodie. He pulled her to a door at the end of the hall, just inches from the bathroom she was desperate for, and pushed her out into the alley.
She landed hard on her hands and knees next to a garbage bin.
“Get lost, street scum! Go piss in the gutter! My bathrooms are only for paying customers!” The door slammed shut.
She pushed herself back, sat with her head resting on her knees and let the tears come.
“Ignore him. He’s a fucking asshole. He won’t let any of us use the bathroom.” A teenage boy peered at her from behind the Dumpster.
A shock of blue eyes, like polar ice, shone from behind long, dirty blonde bangs. His hair hung to just below his shoulders in sun-kissed waves. He emerged from behind the bin, the full length of him unfolding like one of those highway road maps her father liked to study – what for she never knew. He didn’t ever go anywhere.
“C’mon.” The boy bent down in front of her and took her hands. His long lanky arms pulled her to her feet with ease. “I know a place you can go. I’m Reese.”
She rubbed her sore hands down the front of her jeans and eyed his filthy clothes. He was a skinny giant, towering over her, a full head taller. A grey shirt hung below the hem of his denim jacket, his jeans torn at one knee. He looked like he had just helped the neighbors give their barn a new coat of red paint and used his pants as a drop cloth.
“I’m August.”
“Cool name.”
“I hate it. My mom named me that because I was born in August.” She pushed stray hair behind her ear and looked up at him, squinting into the sun. “My sisters were born in June and April. Guess what their names are?”
“October and November?” Reese smiled at her and poked her shoulder. “Let’s go find you a potty place.” He picked up her backpack and slung it over his shoulder, then led her to the same park she’d sat in to eat the cookies. They walked the long, winding path for some time and then veered off into a copse of leafy bushes.
“I’ll whistle if anyone comes.” Reese stood guard whil
e she waded into the shrubbery.
Surrounded by thick scrub nestled up against a wrought-iron fence, she looked in all directions, hoping no one would see her as she dropped her pants. Despite the summer heat, a slight breeze cooled her skin where urine dampened it. She stayed squatting after she finished so her panties didn’t get wet. Drip-dry, her mother called it when they were out in the pasture.
Reese whistled.
She stood and yanked up her panties and pants at the same time. Her underwear bunched up inside her jeans. She pushed aside the branches, sidestepped a used condom, and emerged from behind the bush. Her left ass cheek itched from a long scratch a thorny bush had inflicted in its silent protest against being used for a toilet. Her stomach churned from the sight of the condom, its milky cargo dried into a hard yellow lump. It looked a lot different in real life than in health class after being removed from a cucumber during an awkward demonstration by a red-faced substitute.
“Well. That was delightful.”
“You get used to it.” Reese nodded a silent greeting to the elderly gentleman that had caused the alarm. “So how long you been here?”
Oh, God. Was she that obvious? “Since yesterday.” She looked at her feet while they walked. “I stayed at a hotel last night. It was gross. Not at all what I thought a hotel would be like.”
“You’ve never stayed in a hotel before? What planet do you come from?”
Her head snapped up and she glared at him. Was he going to be mean to her too?
He gazed at her through those long bangs and then winked.
“Ha, ha. Very funny. I’m from planet Hicksville. I live on a farm about three million miles from here.”
“Like a real farm? Horses, pigs, cows – all that shit?”
“Yeah. All that shit.”
“That’s cool. And you’re staying in a hotel. Are you rich or something?”
She laughed. “No, definitely not rich. I don’t have enough money for another night. I don’t know where I’m going to go.” She turned her head away and blinked back tears.
