by A. P. Fuchs
Extending her right arm behind her, Sharon motioned for her mother to keep back.
"How far do we have to go?" her mom asked.
"Shouldn't be too much farther, I don't think," she said. "Aunt Clora---" What could she say? That her mom's sister was waiting around the corner with a gun?
"Aunt Clora---?"
I have to tell her. She's gonna see her soon enough anyway, Sharon thought. "She's up ahead, Mom. She's got a gun and she's going to try and kill me. You, too, maybe."
"What are you talking about?" Her mother came to an abrupt halt, hands on hips. "I am not impressed."
Sharon slowed, turned around, and walked over to her. "It's true. I don't know why she's so upset or what happened that she's bent on killing me more times than I can count." She put her hands on her mother's shoulders. "We have to get past her."
Her mother's glare had the infamous look of, Sharon, you did something wrong again. I'm disappointed in you, young lady.
"Look, Mom, we have to get moving. We can talk about this after, 'kay?" In the distance, the speck of red was larger, now a red and tanned blur of the man in the jumpsuit.
"No, we talk about this now!"
The fellow picked up speed. In a few minutes he'll have caught up to them.
"Crap!Look, I'm going ahead. You can stay here if you wa---" But she needed her mom, didn't she? If her mom got killed, she'd have to do this all over again. It ended now even if she had to kill Clora in front of her mother, if only to end this. If she had to repeat running around trying to save her parents again, she'd do away with herself and hope that by doing so would end the cycle once and for all. But, it seemed, she had an equally good chance the cycle would begin again anyway and she'd forever be held prisoner to the hands of Repetitive Time.
Her mother's eyes were still fixated on hers.
"Turn around and you'll see that guy who almost killed you, Mom. You can stay here and wait for him or you can come with me and have a chance of getting out of here alive. It's up to you," Sharon said.
Mouthing the words, "I love you," she turned and jogged toward Aunt Clora's gun, soon to show at any moment. Her neck ached to turn and look back, to see if her mom was going to follow or not. Show her you're serious and she'll follow, she thought. I will not look back.
"Come on, Mom, let's go. Put your pride aside for once. You don't always need to have the last word," Sharon muttered to herself then added in a whisper, "Can't leave her here."
She glanced over her shoulder and was relieved when she saw her mom running behind her. She slowed down just enough for her to catch up before they continued on at full speed.
Less than a minute later, the stark white of Aunt Clora's dress appeared up ahead.
Maybe she won't take a shot at me since Mom's here? Sharon thought. Mom could talk to her, right? Find out what the heck's going on.
Doing her best to keep the sound of her footfalls to a minimum, she warned her mom to be ready to split up and for her mom to stay near the wall while she ran toward the railing in the hopes of distracting Clora long enough for her to get away.
"If she has a gun, I'm going to talk to her," her mother said.
"No, you can't. She might kill you."
"She's not going to---"
"Yes, she will!" Sharon didn't mean to scream, but couldn't control the suppressed frustration any longer. Behind them, Red gained even more ground, and quickly.
The white dress up ahead moved and was gone for a moment before returning to view. Clora must have heard them because she was moving toward them like a ghost, her feet gliding along the ground rather than stepping.
"'Kay, Mom, get ready," Sharon said.
"There's a guy following us," she said, seemingly surprised.
"Of course there is. He's going to kill you if Aunt Clora doesn't." Come on! She eyed the railing. "Okay, here's the plan---"
"But you already told me what you're going to do . . ."
"I know, but forget that. I have a better idea. Listen."
After sharing her plan, the two headed toward the railing. At first they kept in line with each other, Sharon in the lead. Aunt Clora moved toward them. Splitting up, Sharon and her mother ran opposite each other near then far, crisscrossing in a figure eight-like pattern. Clora moved first toward Sharon then to Sharon's mother.
Smoothly, Clora's baggy white sleeve moved upward, the black metallic pistol peeking out from the loose-fitting cuff.
Letting her aunt get closer, Sharon kept her zig-zagging pattern; her mother did the same. Suddenly Sharon stopped and, as planned, her mother ran past her far ahead. When Clora kept moving toward Sharon, her mother stopped along the railing and crossed over to the wall before running back.
To the left, Red charged toward them. She'd almost forgotten about him. At first it wasn't clear who he'd attack first---Sharon or her mother---but his intentions were made obvious when he pushed off the wall and cut in at an angle, heading toward her. Sharon wished they had taken Blue's pistol with them for protection. Neither of them had been thinking.
The man in the red jumpsuit and Aunt Clora closed in. Sharon stopped, gathered her breath and did her best not to panic.
Her mother was still a good twenty or so feet away. Not too close, but not too far either.
Sharon ran toward Red; Clora immediately adjusted her course. The crackling of lightning and the boom of thunder drowned out all sound. She couldn't hear herself breathe.
The man in red sped up his charge. Sharon stopped in front of him and prepared for impact. Within an instant he had his arms around her, bringing her to the ground. The back of her head smacked hard against the stone flooring; bursts of red, white and black grew to fuzzy stars before her eyes. The stars quickly blinked out in a flash of white when the man's bony fist landed between her eyes. Pain shot from somewhere in front, through her head and to somewhere far behind.
Thunder crashed.
She wasn't sure if the next flash of light was the lightning or another blow. All she cared about was the annoying buzzing in her ears and if it would stop.
"Sharon . . ." Her mother's voice was faint, coming from far away.
White fabric flowed along the floor over to the right.
Lightning flared up on all sides.
Aunt Clora's white dress was gone. Red's fist came crashing down again.
Thunder crashed like a shot from a gun.
* * * *
Soft leather wrapped around Sharon's feet and something harder rose beneath her soles. She couldn't see anything in the syrupy darkness around her.
Shoes?
Her shaking hands held tightly to iron railings on either side as she made her way toward the white slit up ahead. The bright, thin bar of light was ground level and with each step forward, the bar grew to the outline of a door.
The sound of her shoes clunking along a metallic grate was foreign. She expected to hear skin on marble, slapping down with each footfall. Knees aching, she had to stop to rest and was surprised that it took a few minutes to catch her breath.
I'm never going to try this again, she thought. I don't know why I talked myself into it. The guy by the door was clearly a freak. She couldn't remember the fellow's name, but only a face, skull-like with a clown's smile and a floppy orange hat with a bushy yellow feather sticking out of the headband.
Keeping one hand on the rail, she set the other out in front of her, pawing at the air, searching for the door. Once she found it, she felt along its bumpy, metal surface for a handle. It was about waist height, right side, like a van door. She jiggled it first to see which way it was supposed to turn, then pressed it all the way down, moving the handle from a horizontal to a vertical position. The latch clicked with a loud kla-clink!
She pulled the door open and was blinded by yellow light. Instinctively her hand went to her eyes, shielding them from the sun straight ahead. The railing and walkway continued from the door and wound down six feet before blending into the cracked, weathered concrete outsi
de.
Eyes slowly adjusting, she made her way down the ramp, the heat already causing her to sweat.
"What the---" she started. There really wasn't a word to describe it. She was in a compound of some sort, a---no, an old fairground. A rusted, long-forgotten Ferris wheel lay on its side some fifteen feet away, sand having blown in from the surrounding desert covering most of the crisscrossing bars at the bottom. At the far corner of the chain-linked fenced-in area, a wooden rollercoaster sat devoid of life, the white paint peeling and old, the absence of a rollercoaster car putting finality to what the coaster once stood for. An orange circus-like tent stood in the middle of the fairground, three of its posts still standing, one of the corners having collapsed inward who knew when.
As Sharon's eyes adjusted, more of the fairground became clear. She eyed the ramp she'd just been on, following its path up to the long white trailer she had just come out of. Plastered along the trailer's side in faded paint was the words spinning room, and below that a horror house made for you. The sign's red and blue lettering---lightened to a pink and pale blue with age---brought back memories of what happened the night she came to the fair. It had been Halloween, sixteen years old, her parents in their mid forties. She had wanted to go into the spinning room, the man with the face paint telling her that once she went in, there was no coming out, and if you did manage to escape, it would still take you a lifetime to do so. Of course, she didn't believe him. She handed the guy her ticket and . . . she began running.
How long has it been? she wondered. She moved to wipe her eyes and cried out when she saw her hands. Her fingertips were like raisins, the skin on her palms thin and paper-like.
"Oh no! What happened?" she said. Her breath caught in her throat at the sound of her own voice. It wasn't hers. It was no longer smooth and feminine, the kind of voice that drove the boys wild at school. She was speaking more from the back of her throat than up front by her tongue. Her voice reminded her of her grandmother's.
Misty-eyed, Sharon roamed the fairground for nearly an hour, stepping past old snack sheds and outhouses, a dried-up wading pool, a merry-go-round with small ceramic ponies with big teeth and wide grins. Some of their eyes were missing, lost somewhere to the ages.
The funhouse mirrors were all broken save one, the kind that made you look short and fat. Sharon took a good look at herself in the dirty, scratched-up surface, past the intended distortions and to the woman staring back at her.
Her hair was white, almost ankle-length, brittle-looking, and hanging over long, heavy breasts that appeared more like half-empty hot water bottles than the smooth firm breasts she was used to. Fine, wrinkly lines dented her skin, cheeks, arms, hands---everything. Legs giving way beneath her, she fell and screamed when her old bones landed hard against the wooden slat at the mirror's base.
She stayed there for a long while. When she finally gathered the strength to stand, a hard wind blew sand and litter at her feet. A yellowed piece of paper, crinkled and ripped, caught her eye.
It was her!
At least, it was her, how she looked when she was sixteen. Beneath her smiling face was one word---
missing.
* * * *
In the Rearview Mirror
Of course it had to happen. Nothing ever works out when you want it to.
The 1999 black Saturn came to halt along the shoulder of the Transcanada Highway just after 6 p.m. It was Friday night and Jimmy Griffith was going to be late for his getaway with his friends, Joey, Randall and Steve. It was snowing, the flakes coming down in clumps, but lightly enough so it didn't pose a road hazard. Not yet, anyway. It should ease up within the hour, Jimmy assumed, if not sooner.
The Saturn was on empty, but it was really impossible to tell with this car. Last year the fuel gauge began giving him trouble and its needle stayed at the three-quarter-tank mark after trips to the gas station, as if filling it hadn't made a difference. Some months passed and the needle began to dip until eventually it sat on E and it was impossible to tell how much fuel was actually in the car. Jimmy would watch the odometer, remembering on average how many kilometers he got to a full tank, but with work being hectic as of late, and trouble at home, he couldn't remember the number of kilometers on the odometer when he filled up last. Now, he was on empty. For real. Now, he was screwed.
The sky was already dark with deep gray clouds, evening having set in an hour ago.
He put the car in park, turned the key back in the ignition and popped the trunk.
There's a gas can in the back, he thought.
With a huff, he got out of the car, the fat flakes of cold landing on the tips of his ears and neck. He rounded to the rear of the vehicle and opened the trunk. There was a spare tire, some blankets, beer and hotdogs for the cabin trip this weekend, chips and some DVDs. But no gas can.
"Perfect," he said, remembering it was sitting in his garage at home. He had removed the clunky canister to make room for all the junk he was bringing to the cabin.
He glanced up and down the road. The white blanket of snow drifting down seemed thicker the further down the road he looked, the white flakes defined in clear white blotches in the yellow light of the street lamps of the highway. There were no cars coming.
Jimmy went back to the car and sat in the driver's seat, cursing himself for being unprepared.
"It's okay," he told himself. He wriggled his wrist, the cuff of his shirt sliding back, and checked his watch. "It's about ten after six. You don't have to be there until around eight. Plenty of time."
His head was so busy after a full day at the office looking over insurance policies that he forgot about his cell phone in his glove compartment. He snapped his fingers, remembering, and opened the glove compartment and removed his cell. The battery was down to one bar. He pulled out the antenna and dialed up Steve. He knew Steve was going to be leaving around 6:30. If Steve hadn't left early, and with a little luck, he might be able to catch him before he headed out and get some assistance. He dialed Steve's number and after four rings the phone cut out.
"Aw, come on." He pressed end and tried again. Same thing, this time there was only three rings before being cut off by a click and the line went dead.
Jimmy dug in the glove compartment for the cigarette lighter adapter and once he found it he plugged one end into the lighter, the other into the phone. He tried the number again. After five rings Steve picked up.
"Hello?"
"Steve, it's Jimmy. Got a little prob---" The phone cut out. "Oh, come on!" Jimmy shook the phone, as if it would help.
He tried Steve's number again. After only one ring it cut out.
Frustrated, he threw the phone against the dashboard. "Piece of junk." He crossed his arms, furrowed his brow, and thought of his options. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a voice, low and smooth, calm and reassuring, as if it knew something he didn't. The voice came from the back seat.
Hello, Jimmy, it said. You're in a bit of a rut, aren't you?
"Who's there?" Jimmy spun around, glancing into the back seat. No one was there, nothing except a few McDonald's wrappers and some papers from work.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned back around and tried the cell phone again. This time it didn't even ring. The snow started to come down heavier. His heartbeat picked up a bit, worried he wouldn't get to the cabin by eight.
A flush of heat came over him and he got out of the car for some air. He looked up and down the road. There was pair of headlights off in the distance, a good two kilometers away, if not more. He'd wait until the car came by, flag them down, and see if they had a phone so he could call a friend and a tow. Money wasn't an issue so a tow wouldn't be a problem. He just wanted to get to the cabin, away from the city, away from his job---just needed a break.
He stuck out his tongue and caught a few snowflakes, a habit since he was a kid. The flakes were cool and refreshing. Despite it snowing, it wasn't too cold and he didn't need his gloves. But, given Winnipeg winters, he knew
that come eight or nine o'clock, the temperature would drop considerably and he'd need a pair of gloves and a toque. He didn't have either.
The car down the road drew nearer. Jimmy took a few steps onto the road, ready to start waving his hands. Let's hope they stop.
When the car was about a hundred feet away, Jimmy began waving his arms back and forth in an X, high above his head. The car sped past, as if he wasn't there. He suddenly had the taste of smoke in his mouth. He spat and the taste went away as quickly as it came.
"Jerks," he muttered.
He checked up and down the road again. No one was coming. The snow was falling even thicker and the wind was picking up. "Just my luck this'll turn into a storm." He went back to the car.
Sitting down, he tried the ignition again, hoping that by some miracle the car had been mistaken it was out of gas and it would start. Of course, it didn't, and Jimmy put his head against the wheel. He had a slight headache.
He always spoke aloud when things got rough and he was alone. It was actually more of a mix of thoughts drifting into speech then drifting into thoughts again then drifting into speech . . .
"Okay," he said, Just think of your options . . . ". . . you're on the side of the road . . . alone . . ." . . . phone doesn't work . . . no gas in the . . . ". . . trunk . . ." He checked his watch. It was 6:23. "Steve's left by now . . ." . . . if he takes this route, I can wait and hope he passes by and sees me . . . ". . . then again, with the snow . . ." . . . he might not know it's me . . . "Crap."
Jimmy. The voice. It was back.
"I'm not hearing this," he said.
But I'm here, Jimmy. Where else would I be? I'm always here with you.
He knew who was speaking to him. Jamie. He'd known Jamie since he was a kid. Jamie first came to him when he was seven years old, one day in the playground at school. A kid had pushed Jimmy over the edge of the sandbox and he'd hit his head on the box's edge.
It's okay, Jimmy. I'm here, Jamie had said that day long ago.
