The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  "Don't send them my way until sunup," she said, gritting her yellowed teeth. "Not until then. I mean it!"

  She turned to leave the meeting, and then barged through the crowd, nearly knocking people to the ground as she marched toward her two-story, red-roofed, beige house all by her lonesome.

  "I guess that's it for now," Doolie said, chuckling as her form disappeared over the hill. "They'll stay with me tonight. And we'll meet back here in the morning for some breakfast."

  With that, everyone began returning to their homes to take advantage of the remaining precious hours of sleep.

  "How come Momma didn't show?" Emma asked as her neighbors filed out from the hall. "Huh?"

  "Hell, I was afraid to wake her back up."

  "I'd be, too." She smiled, hugging his side. "Anything else you need from me?"

  "Naw," he replied as he gave her a peck on the head. "Y'all go on."

  Nodding in response, Emma helped the girls from the bar, bid him goodnight, and began ushering Lizzie and Claire toward their cabin.

  "Night!" Doolie shouted after her. "See you tomorrow!"

  "See ya!" the girls and Emma called.

  During their climb, Stella stayed close behind the three. To hurry Emma along, the dog nudged the back of her owner's legs with her snout. Like Emma and the girls, Stella seemed ready to be indoors, but Emma knew if she didn't wash the blood from the pit bull's face, Carol, the "cat lady" who lived next door, would accuse Stella of devouring one of her many children.

  Arriving at the porch, Stella rushed forward, nearly knocking Lizzie to the ground. "Stella," Emma scolded. "Easy!"

  "She must be sleepy, too." Lizzie smiled and got up to meet Stella, who sat before the door. "C'mon Claire," she said, motioning for her sister to follow. "C'mon."

  "Y'all go on in," Emma said as she led Claire up the porch steps. "But don't let the stinker in," she added, grasping Stella by the collar. "Go on, hurry. I got her."

  Giggling, the two girls disappeared inside, promptly shutting the door behind them.

  "All right, Stella," Emma groaned. "Lemme clean you up a bit." Keeping a firm grip on the dog's collar, Emma guided her toward the blue barrel.

  Doolie had had the bright idea of placing two barrels on every neighbor's porch and rigging them to catch rainwater. For easy access, he had attached a spigot to each one. Standing before it, Emma tightened her grip on Stella's collar and turned the handle of the spigot, releasing a stream of water that sent Stella squirming.

  "Stop it," Emma grunted, struggling to keep Stella from bolting. "Quit. Stop."

  She cupped the freezing water in her free hand, splashed Stella's face, and diligently began to scrub. It was obvious Emma would need a bath herself afterward.

  "You need this. You know you do!" she exclaimed as Stella snapped at her fingers. "You look like a serial killer! We've talked about this," she said as she finished up the job. "There, look." Emma sighed as she dried Stella's ears. "Magnifico!"

  Tucking her tail between her legs, Stella bolted toward the back door, and then whipped her snout back at Emma.

  "It's not the end of the world," Emma said, joining her at the door. "Believe me," she said as she paused to turn the knob, "that's not the worst thing that could happen."

  They entered Emma's house, and it was only when she found the girls fast asleep in her only bedroom, that Emma realized Jane hadn't attended the meeting. Her absence meant only one thing. She's with that boy, Ian. Emma was simply too exhausted to go to his house searching for Jane's disobeying, unappreciative ass.

  At the age of fourteen, Jane had more experience with men than her twenty-six-year-old caregiver. Emma wasn't a saint by any means, but her experience with men had been limited because of how dedicated she'd been to her banking career and her love for solitude. Another reason was her lack of self-esteem when it came to conversing with the opposite sex.

  The two of them had been close once—inseparable, actually. Jane's attitude had seemed to take a downward spiral when her parents began leaving her in charge of her sisters. Emma assumed that Jane thought she hadn't had a life then, and she wouldn't have one now. Emma didn't blame her, and understood Jane's frustrations as perfectly as she did her own. When the flare hit, Emma had felt the exact same way: What kind of life can I possibly have now?

  Stella jumped on the couch, twirled around on the cushion at the end, which was her favorite spot, and curled into her usual ball. Lying down, Emma stretched to kiss Stella's head, propped herself up on the armrest, and then decided to use her dog's stocky form as a pillow. Emma sensed Stella was angry with her, but the pit bull licked the top of her head all the same. They were one, and nothing—not even the threat of a cold bath—could separate the bond they shared.

  From that angle, Emma had the perfect view of her favorite painting hanging on the wall. Nearly sixteen years ago, the original image had been captured with one of those throwaway cameras. Emma's Aunt Pam had been so inspired by the picture that she'd used her superb sketching skills and brilliant brushstrokes to capture the rugged, mossy landscape of their cherished creek. It was a stunning masterpiece she'd gifted to Emma on her fifteenth birthday, and Emma had been thrilled to receive it.

  The day that memory had been sealed in Emma's mind, her mother had requested that her children jump from the creek bank all at the same time. Back in the day, they'd worn their most pitiful-looking clothes consisting of old tie-dyed shirts and baggy gym shorts, and they'd always been barefoot, of course. Their faces weren't in the picture, but as they leaped toward the murky water, the joy expressed through their body language couldn't be missed. Just as they always did, they'd been holding hands, covering their noses, and thrusting their muddied feet into the muggy air. They were happy.

  Griffin was his name, and he was only two years younger than Emma. Instead of green eyes, like hers, his eyes were baby blue. His hair possessed more of an orange hue than hers, which was coppery, and Emma's skin was freckled, while his was not. Other than those differences, they could have been twins. Tom's and Cooper's arrival marked the sixth month since the Clerys had had any communication with Griffin, and they'd counted him among the long list of loved ones they'd lost.

  After the flare had hit, a series of horrible storms had followed, some even electrical, and when they arrived, everyone was forced to take cover. Leaving to fetch Griffin couldn't be done easily.

  If Doolie and Mrs. Maples hadn't constructed a portable cover for each of their massive gardens, Back Wood's food supply would have been considerably damaged after each storm. Lately, though, the severity of the storms had been dwindling, and weren't as frequent. The fences and posts they'd built to secure the road from outsiders had done their job. But with the new arrivals, Emma was certain Doolie was more paranoid than ever, and she feared he would never want to leave to find Griffin.

  Putting aside those worrisome thoughts, Emma fell back to sleep, and dreamed of Griffin's return. The joyous sounds of her family's laughter, her mother's cries being ceased—the day their prayers were answered. Emma longed for Griffin's comical ways, and the inappropriateness of his jokes. There was no denying it . . . Emma missed her little brother.

  Chapter 4:

  Tom & Cooper

  In the dark, Doolie led them past what looked like (with nothing but the moon's light) a pen full of animals. The brothers weren't sure what kind of creatures were resting in the enclosure, but there were many, and all of them lay close together, using each other's body heat for warmth—much like Tom and Cooper had been forced to do on the road.

  The leader of Back Wood ushered them through the carport and up the steps of his porch, where Cooper noticed a sign hanging above the threshold. There was only one word burned into the cedar: "Clery."

  As they passed under the sign, snarling barks erupted from within the house, causing the brothers to pause.

  "That'll be Rambler," Doolie said, cutting his eyes toward them. "Don't be trying any shit with her around. She'll take you dow
n."

  "We won't," Tom replied. "We don't want to be thrown back out there. So I assure you, sir, we won't."

  "Good. That's good," he said. "'Cause I hate to be proven wrong. 'Specially by that ol' bitch I'm leaving y'all with."

  "Is she really that mean?" Cooper asked, nervous.

  "Son," he said. "Just if you're me. And you ain't nothing like me, are you?"

  "No, sir," Cooper answered. "I don't think so."

  "Good, 'cause then you'd have a problem." He smiled, winking.

  It seemed to Tom and Cooper like Doolie was moving in slow motion as he opened the door. Surprising themselves, the brothers weren't at all concerned with the threat of the beast on the other side. Mostly the anxiety they felt was aimed toward their sleeping arrangements for the night. Surely, they figured, wherever they'd find themselves would be a massive improvement from what they were used to. Even a carpet or sofa would do, as long as it wasn't the prickly, hard ground.

  As the door banged against the opposite wall, the widest, most animated, big-headed brute of a dog came barreling around the corner of the adjacent room, and nearly tackled Tom to the floor. While trying to keep his cool, he dodged the movements of her intrusive, elongated, and drool-ridden tongue, and pried her massive paws from his chest. Just before he dropped her back to the floor, Tom wiped the spittle from his wrist, and patted her firmly on the head.

  It hadn't taken long for them to realize that Rambler wasn't the rabid, freakish creature her master had hinted at her being a few moments earlier. She was just extremely upbeat when welcoming visitors to her home. Her main colors were brown and white, but she had a spotted belly and black patches over her eyes.

  "That's a good girl, Rambler," Doolie said, praising her as he patted her side. "Can you believe she came from Stella?"

  "Really?" Cooper asked. "The white dog?"

  "Isn't she a pit?" Tom asked.

  "Stella is," Doolie replied, "but Rambler's daddy was a boxer."

  "Makes sense," Tom said. "She's huge. I like the patches."

  "Yeah," Cooper added. "Makes her look like a bandit."

  Doolie laughed. "Never thought of it that way. That would've been a good name. Bandit."

  As they conversed, Tom took the levity between them as a good sign. The more comfortable Doolie was with them, the better the odds were that he would allow them to stay.

  "We better be quiet," Doolie whispered, situating the pillows on the couches that lined either side of the living room. "My wife, Shirley, she's asleep back there. And waking her up again wouldn't be giving the best first impression."

  "Is this where we're sleeping?" Cooper asked.

  "Yeah," he answered, fetching a couple of blankets from the china hutch located across from the dining table. "This okay?"

  "Oh yes," they both replied, relieved. "Yes, sir."

  "Georgia's got a room for y'all," he said. "Her boys were ki—" He paused, shaking his head. "I won't get into that. Anyhow, there'll be two beds waiting on y'all when y'all head that way tomorrow."

  "Thank you," Tom said. He nudged his brother's shoulder. "Say thank you," he mouthed.

  "Yeah, thank you."

  "Welcome," Doolie said, eyeing their baggy clothing. "Got some jerky left. Would y'all like some before we call it a night?"

  "We'd hate to put you out," Tom replied. "Really, you've done enough already."

  "No, really," Doolie insisted. "Nobody else will eat it. You'd be me doing me a favor. Shirley's sick of looking at it. And I'd hate for it to go to waste."

  "In that case, sure." Tom shrugged, looking to his brother. "We could eat."

  Doolie bid them goodnight, allowing the brothers to devour their late-night snacks in peace, but he didn't quite trust them enough to leave them unattended, so he left Rambler to guard them. They were grateful for the food, and weren't concerned with the massive heap of muscle watching their every move. They even handed her a slice of the overseasoned dried meat as a peace offering, but she declined by dipping her snout and catching them off guard when she felt a sudden urge to lick herself.

  "I guess that's a no." Tom chuckled, lying down on one of the couches.

  "Looks like it." Cooper smiled, doing the same as his brother. "Hey." He stared up at the ceiling. "Tom?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You remember that redhead from school?"

  "I do," he replied. "But I don't think I was very nice to her. In fact," he said, and paused, baffled by Emma having vouched for him. "I know I wasn't."

  "Why'd she do it then?"

  "Who knows," he said, turning over on his side. "Maybe I'll ask her tomorrow."

  ***

  The sun was just beginning to rise, when Cooper woke to find that Rambler had been observing him while he slept. She was panting, and the question of how long she'd been sitting there was answered by the layer of condensation he felt on his cheeks.

  "Tom," he whispered. "Psst, Tom. Psst."

  "Wha-what is it?" He groaned as he rolled over on his side.

  "Call the dog to you."

  "What for?"

  "Her breath stinks." Cooper grimaced, fanning the funk away from his nose. "And she won't move."

  "How is that my problem?"

  "Pleeease," he begged, pushing the dog against her chest.

  Seeing that she refused to budge, Tom sat up on the couch.

  "Fine." he grumbled. He began coaxing her toward him. "Come here, girl. Come—"

  He stopped at the sight of a woman gawking at them.

  "Doolie!" she shrieked. "Doolie! There's people in our living room! People!" she screamed as she frantically disappeared back into the room. "People in the living room!"

  The alarmed woman couldn't have been more than five feet tall. Her blond, disheveled hair was down to her shoulders and had begun graying at the roots. What stuck out the most to Tom was the striking resemblance between her and Emma. They had the same sculpted cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and expressive, arched brows. All Emma had seemed to inherit from the man of the house was her height, and possibly the ginger gene.

  "What do we do?" Cooper asked, confused but relieved that Rambler had followed the woman into the other room.

  "Just sit tight," he replied. "It'll be fine. She didn't know we were here, remember?"

  From where they sat, the brothers waited in anticipation as the muffled sounds of their new acquaintances' argument increased in volume.

  "I know!" Doolie exclaimed. "I should've told you. I'm sorry!"

  "I could've walked out there naked. And then what? Huh?" she said angrily. "You would've had to kill them."

  "Shirley, calm down," Doolie said. "We ain't killing anybody. Not yet."

  "Did you hear him?" Cooper whispered to Tom. "He said, 'Not yet.'"

  Unnerved by Doolie's comment, the elder brother rose to his feet and motioned for Cooper to follow.

  "Let's give them space," he said as he opened the front door. "We can wait for them out here."

  The brothers came out to the porch to find Emma climbing the steps after they'd managed to exit without the Clerys becoming aware. Trailing behind her were three little blond girls and Stella, who was pushing to get through. They recognized the two younger girls from the night before, but they hadn't seen the older one before. Tom assumed by the way the girl pouted and the solemn, hunched way she carried herself, that she'd recently been at the receiving end of a lashing out.

  "Morning," Emma said, reaching the top step. "They fighting?"

  "Yeah," Tom replied, "I—"

  "'Bout you two, I reckon," she said, cutting him off.

  When he'd first seen Emma at school, Tom hadn't really seen her—just the pile of books she was carrying. The girl Tom remembered having bullied in school had been chubby, had never known what clothes to wear, and had never bothered fixing her hair. Back then her vibrant curls had either been fastened into a sturdy bun on top of her head or were clinging to her oily scalp. The woman who stood before him now wasn't even close to that girl,
and, to him, the freckles they'd teased her about were the most beautiful thing about her now. Over the years, in spite of how he and his buddies had mistreated her, Emma had sculpted herself into a fine piece of art. By the way she avoided his gaze, however, Tom was certain she didn't feel the same about herself.

  "How long they been in there?" she asked as she passed by them to reach the door. "Huh?"

  "Not long," he replied. "We nearly gave your mom a heart attack."

  "She scares real easy." Emma rolled her eyes. "You can forget about Halloween." She opened the door, peeked inside, and yelled, "Ripley! C'mere, Rip! C'mere, girl!"

  "I thought her name was Rambler?" Cooper asked.

  Emma sighed, and made sure she was clear of Ripley's path.

  "Daddy and me could never agree on a name for her, so he calls her Rambler, and I call her Ripley. It gets exhausting."

  "Sounds like it." Tom chuckled as Ripley came barreling through the doorway.

  "Doesn't sound like it'll be letting up anytime soon," she said, listening to her parents fight. "Y'all want to head that way to the dance hall?"

  As they made their way down the steps, Emma glanced back at them, and said, "Oh, the sulky one on the end there is Jane." Patting the tops of the other girls' heads, she added, "These two are Lizzie and Claire. Say hi, girls."

  "Hello," the two younger sisters whispered. They erupted into childish giggles.

  "It's been a while since they've met anyone new," Emma explained after seeing the confused expressions plastered across Tom's and Cooper's faces. "It's not you. It's them."

  ***

  Arriving at the dance hall, Tom spotted the three men who had subdued them earlier that morning. Four juicy slices of bacon were on their plates, and Tom was enticed by the grease staining their fingers. Just as Tom's mouth began to water, his attention was directed toward the tallest of the three men who was motioning for them to join.