Dream Smashers

by Angela Carlie

  “I called and you didn’t answer or call me back,” I say as a matter-of-fact. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of making me feel guilty. “Well? Are you going to continue or what?”

  “Forget it.” She turns to walk off.

  “What? No you did not just turn your back on me!” I take several long strides to step in front of her, stopping her. “Tell me. Why did Mommy and Daddy let you stay home yesterday? Are you sick?” I say this last part with an oh-poor-me-whine, immediately knowing it is too much, but too proud to admit it.

  She doesn’t say a word. Instead she brushes past me and lets out what sounds like a growl.

  “Rainy!” I yell after her. “Rainy! I’m sorry. God! A little sensitive aren’t you? I thought you were Miss Tough-girl. You, the one with the answers to everything all the time is actually walking away? I guess you aren’t so tough after all. Are you feeling a little sorry for yourself?” I stick my bottom lip out in a pout, not knowing why, because she faces the other direction.

  She stops and turns around.

  “I’m waiting,” I say.

  Nothing.

  If I were tough, I’d kick her. But I’ve never been in a fight my entire life. In fact, I’ve never stood up to a single person outside my mother just lately. This is the first fight that Rainy and I have ever had. It feels more like a break-up than a fight though.

  “Are you going to tell me, or what?” I demand. “Or are you just too good for me?”

  Sadness disappears from her eyes, replaced by rage, scorn, hate. She stomps through the forest refuse toward me. For an instant, I want to run, but I don’t. I stand my ground, waiting for her calm explanation that never comes in words. Instead it comes in the form of a fist, straight for my face, hard and fast. It hits my right jaw.

  The blow forces me back a couple of steps. I stumble. Stunned and hurt, I don’t move any further. She quivers. I cry, but not a loud cry, a silent one, and not on purpose. If I could help it, tears would never leave my body, but they do, and she keeps hers intact, deep within her eye sockets.

  “For your information,” she forces her words. “Mommy and Daddy let me stay home,” she mimics my tone, “…because my brother is dead.” She goes monotone. “Ace killed him. Stabbed him with that stupid fucking Rambo knife.” Then, a few escape. Tears. Before they can slip past the cheek bone, she wipes them clean with a rough hand. “And to make sure he did the job right, he stabbed him a few more times and dumped him in the street.” She turns to stomp off.

  I don’t stop her this time. I can’t. What she said paralyzes me. Like she injected me with anesthesia drug, but I’m still awake during open heart surgery. But the anesthesia doesn’t work. I feel the pain. And I can’t move.

  James doesn’t lie in the street, bleeding to death. I do. My heart slows, but never really stops. It beats, rhythmically, in my ears.

  Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  ***

  For most of the time I knew him, James had always just been my best friend’s big brother. Nothing more. With as much time as I spent at his house, one would think that there should be more of a bond between us, a friendship at the least, but there wasn’t. He rarely spoke more than a few words to me, to anyone for that matter, until he returned from rehab just recently. Then, he was a different guy. A nicer guy.

  He even saved me from his killer.

  I met him on a Saturday. He sat on the floor of his bedroom, his back propped up against the bed, and a handheld video game that seemed glued to his fingers owned his attention. After Rainy introduced me, he said, “Hey,” without removing his eyes from the game.

  Rainy skipped down the hall to her own room. I lingered a moment longer in the doorway to James’ room, his world, to see if he would move.

  He seemed all alone. I had been too shy to say anything to him, so I watched him play his game. When he finally looked up at me, his eyes startled me. They were iron bar doors, holding back all kinds of fierceness, and in between the gaps oozed emptiness. They forced me to look away. Or so that’s how I remember it.

  We spent plenty of time together, at family events, play dates, holidays, dinners, anytime I went to Rainy’s house, there he was. I had a secret crush on him from first to sixth grade. I used to fantasize about him asking me to the sock-hop or Valentine’s dance.

  He never did.

  We had one year of junior high together. He had been in ninth grade when Rainy and I were in seventh. Rainy stayed home one day with the flu. The thought of enduring choir without her sickened me, so I skipped class and hung out behind the bleachers on the far side of the track. That’s where I found him.

  His denim jacket couldn’t have been warm enough. His nose and cheeks had turned pink against the cold air, and he rubbed his bare hands together.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hey.” He nodded his head then reached into his inside pocket to pull out a pocket knife.

  I sat next to him. “It’s cold today.”

  “Yep.” He carved a small hole with his knife into an empty soda can.

  I thought he had artistic skills until he brought out a small plastic baggie with dry, green bud in it. I’d never seen marijuana before that day.

  I think he knew or maybe he sensed my nervousness about him smoking it, because he rubbed my arm, as if to tell me it was okay. He didn’t offer me any, and for that I felt thankful.

  Rainy used to tell me stories about him. She once told me that he rescued a dog from a kid with a baseball bat. The kid hit the dog once and that’s when James went berserk. He actually grabbed the bat and hit the kid with it. That kid never walked down our street again.

  Another time, when Rainy got in trouble with her parents, James stood up for her. He took the blame for the missing five dollars Rainy had swiped from her mom’s purse. He took the beating too.

  After hearing these stories about how heroic he had become, I sometimes wished that James would rescue me from all the dream smashers.

  And then, that day at the dance club, he did.

  Now I wish I could have rescued him.

  ***

  I’m not sure how long I’ve stood here. The light has disappeared. The rain continues to fall. And James is still dead. No one jumped out from behind a tree to announce a hidden camera or to point a finger and laugh at me. James died, murdered, and I treated Rainy like crap. And here I am, still sorry for myself when in fact I should console my friend.

  But I can’t. So I run instead.

  I run through the forest in the dark until it blurs into a meadow with the rain beating me down, giving me everything I deserve and less some. Breathing becomes caustic, melting my lungs. If I could, I’d quit and allow the liquefied lungs to drain out of me into the rain.

  In the far field ahead, elk startle from my trampling. An entire herd runs away from me. If I wasn’t so empty I’d be moved by their beauty. But it doesn’t evoke a single feeling, other than intensifying my pain.

  Finally, from exhaustion, or lack of air, or lack of lungs for all I know, I fall. Muddy ground cakes my head and hands and arms and legs and feet and face like thick frosting. The tears stop flowing while I lie in the mud, allowing the rain to hit my face. Cool and prickly against my skin. When I tilt my head just right, the drops go down my nose and throat. I hold my breath, counting to see how long I can go without air. Sixty-two. Yep, my lungs have liquefied.

  The rain stops. Sounds of the field fill the air: ribbits and swooshes and caws and hoots, even a few grunts and slops. The slops sound too close so I exhume out of the mud. Two stray elk stand several yards away.

  A warm breeze pulls goose bumps out from my wet skin. I fall back to my knees, only natural to do so. Mud softens the landing like pillows beneath me. I look up to the sky. The clouds relent and so do I. And then, I do something I’ve never done before.

  “Dear Jesus. I know you’re there, so if you have a minute, can you
hear me out? Please forgive me. I’ve got, like, a million sins and stuff. I’ve been a horrible friend and daughter and granddaughter.” My throat catches on tonsils or acid or whatever it is that burns throats just before tears flow. “I’ve hurt so many,” I blubber. “So, uh, please, please, please help me be better.”

  I try to remember what Evan said, but can’t remember exactly. Something about giving my burdens to Jesus or something like that. I want to give them to someone, to anyone. I can’t handle them anymore. “I don’t quite understand what it all means, but I know that I need you. Please.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Evan’s late. Only by five minutes, but five minutes late means five minutes less he has to spend with Autumn. People living in the Northwest should know how to drive in the rain. Many prove that theory wrong whenever they get a downpour—braking inappropriately, not signaling, driving too fast, running red lights. The weather becomes a switch that turns safe drivers into crazy drivers. Thus, the frustrations of being late ensue.

  He pulls up to Autumn’s house, shades drawn and lights out.

  Knock, knock.

  No one answers the front door.

  Ding dong.

  No Answer.

  His mind races—back, remember. They agreed to meet today. Maybe she forgot.

  Sometimes in life, panic sets in for no apparent reason. Panic of being stood-up, panic that a watch isn’t correct, panic that one has the wrong day, panic that maybe she’s hurt, panic that maybe he’s overreacting and she’s just running late. All of these reasons cross his mind, but none of them ease the questioning and none of them are justified. It’s only five minutes.

  He’ll wait. But not in the rain.

  He picks up the Runners’ Magazine sitting in the back seat and flips through the pages to pass the time.

  Pressure builds in his chest. Worry seeps through his ribs even though he blocks it away with articles on how to increase speed and where to buy proper foot wear. He wipes steam from the window. The windshield wipers can’t keep up with the clear liquid clogging the vision through the glass. Not a person in sight.

  Fifteen minutes late.

  Twenty minutes.

  Thirty.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  My entire body tingles. Weird. And I cry for no particular reason. Weirder. Not a sad cry, but a joyful one with deep, long laughter. I’ve never laugh-cried before. It feels awesome. The weight has been lifted off my heart, my shoulders, my entire body becomes lighter—free.

  Like a bird taking flight for the first time, I skip through the field to get back home to tell Grams the good news, oh, and the sad news too. The good news, that Jesus will save me. The bad news, that James died. A horrible, sad death. James. My friend. And poor Rainy.

  I must find Rainy to apologize and be there for her. And Angel. I wonder if she knows

  The moon gifts enough light for me to see my way through the field. When I step into the forest, though, I can’t see anything in the dark. My eyes adjust to the change. Beams of moonlight pierce through the tree branches every few feet. Eerie. Like a movie or a dream or a painting, all around me—almost mystical. If not for the mud slopping beneath my feet and the cool breath billowing from my nose, I’d have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not in the movie, dream or painting.

  I near the school in no time. The moonlight disappears and the pitter-patter of rain bounces off the trees again before I get to the end of the trail. Rainy and I had carved a short-cut out of the brush directly to the street so we wouldn’t have to go on school grounds if we didn’t want to. It proves useful now.

  A small stream rolls down the trail. Thunder cracks above and then a flash briefly illuminates the forest. The street must be near. I pick up the pace to a slow jog through the sloppy ground.

  I step out of the forest onto the black asphalt. Rain beats down so hard that it hurts my head, like marbles falling from the sky.

  A horn blasts from the side of me.

  I zip around to get oriented and two beams of light zoom straight for me. And then they are gone. Everything—gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Stupid bartender. What the hell does he know? Jacinda could drink that asshole under the table if she wanted to. “You’ve had enough,” he had said. She cried bullshit. He doesn’t know. Her limit is far above any he’d ever seen. She’s super-drinker of the fucking world.

  “Rain, rain, go away.” Jacinda’s voice bounces off the brick walls of the alley where she parked Darla’s car earlier tonight. Not Darla’s super-fucking-awesome convertible roadster. She wouldn’t even let Jacinda sit in the back seat of that car, like it’s her baby or something. Hey, Jacinda had a baby once. She knows how to care for ‘em. Darla made her drive this hunk of junk Ford thingy.

  The road slips under Jacinda’s heels. Darla said she could pick up a real man in ‘em, a man who’d take care of her, like Darla’s got. She was wrong. Only creeps spoke to her. Creeps that she’d already fucked. Yeah, they liked the heels, but she don’t fuckin’ care what they like.

  She kicks the black glittery heels off, one at a time, and walk through the puddles on the road. Lots of cute puddles, ten, eleven, thirteen, with little wormies slithering in them. She bends down to pick one up that has squirmed itself between her toes. “Hello lil wormy. You better be a moving, else you get squished.”

  “Where the fuck’s the car?” She swears it’s here somewhere. Garbage can, garbage can, garbage can, dead cat, ew. Fresh too ‘cause it ain’t got no maggots or crap on it. It’s got a trickle of blood on its nose. Poor kitty. Probably some brat’s gonna miss it. Old pile of tires, garbage can, truck with garbage in it, old ugly Ford car. Fuck a duck. Finally.

  Locked. What the— Oh yeah. Jacinda feels around in her purse for the key. Key, lipstick, wallet, dollar, mace, smokes, lighter, pipe…where’s the fuckin’ key? Everything gets dumped out onto the hood of the car and instantly the key appears.

  It’s hard to put key to lock. Stupid lock. But once the door finally opens and ignition turns on, the car lurches out of the alley. Lipstick bashes the window and freaks the shit out of her. She slams on the brakes and crawls out of the car.

  “Shit.”

  All the crap she left on the hood blew off except for the one thing she needs at this very moment. Smokes. Nice. She takes one into her mouth, sits back down in the car and pushes the car lighter into the dash.

  She sings and she waits. “Happy birthday…happy birthday to me.”

  “Aw, fuck.” Stupid tears. She wipes them away before they can smear her mascara, grabs the un-popped thing and attempts to light the cigarette with the shaky lighter. There, better.

  Smoke fills every crevice of her being, burning away all evidence of sorrow.

  Time to go.

  Faster, faster, faster the car drives. “Steady now.” Jacinda’s words, but not her voice. Or some shit like that. Maybe backwards. Her voice ain’t listening to her mind right now. Neither is her body. But that’s just the way shit rolls.

  Life rules over her. Life or something else, alcohol, crank, or whatever’s on hand at the time. Deep down, or maybe up and out. She’s here, she watches, knowing what shit’s goin’ on. Even if her body ain’t listening to her mind or spirit, or something, she knows what it should be doing. People think she’s fuckin’ stupid, but she knows. And now she knows her body ain’t doing what it should be doing. It’s driving this car down a tiny road toward a neighborhood. It’s weaving in and out of the lane. Believe it or not, danger ain’t nothin’ she strives for. She tells her foot to ease up from the gas, but it doesn’t listen either.

  A dog or something runs into her lane. In slow motion, the car swerves to miss it. But then, suddenly there’s a loud thud. The car jumps, like hitting the curb, but softer.

  “Oh fuck!” The car skids to a stop. She opens the door and falls out. Beer and mushy pretzels pour from her mouth and nose. Her stomach pushes the rest of the poison out. “Oh fuckin’ stupid all hell.” She gu
rgles again and crawls to the front of the car to help the doggy woggy. Nothing. Only road. It must’ve crawled away. Poor dog.

  Or maybe she did hit a curb. Maybe she didn’t hit a stupid dog after all. Relief. “Thank you Jesus.” She stumbles back into the car and takes off to Darla’s house. Darla would have had a shit-fit if she hurt her fuckin’ fugly car.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The neighbors don’t know where she went. Grams drove to the police station to file a missing person’s report. Rainy said she left her in the woods near the school. Evan found Autumn’s backpack and some candy wrappers in the woods. Nothing else.

  The setting sun only makes things worse.

  Evan trips over a rock, stumbles and then catches himself against the car door. His soaked-through clothes feel like heavy tarps on his body. The battery in the flashlight dies, making it good only for thumping the mud from his shoes before he opens the car door.

  He climbs in the car and slumps into the seat. It’s time to head back to Grams’ house. Maybe Autumn made it home and all these bad thoughts and time have been spent unnecessarily. For this he prays.

  The rain makes it hard to see, even with the wipers on full-blast. On a hunch, he turns the corner onto the one-lane road that leads to nowhere behind the forest. No street lights live on this road so he lets up the gas pedal. The car crawls. He rolls down the windows in an attempt to get a better view into the forest so black that only the tree branches in the forefront are visible—giants standing guard to a world of leaves and pines.

  The car shakes and veers onto the grassy margin demanding his attention back to the road. He jerks the wheel. The headlights grab sight of a heap on the side of the road.

  Blood surges into his foot. He slams the brakes, and the car stops. An odd shape lies in the road, like a torso with no head or legs. There are times, like now, when darkness plays tricks on the mind. When you see a dead animal in the ditch but as you get closer, you discover it’s only a bag of garbage. Or when as a kid, your Pinocchio night-light turns into a vicious monster. You hide under the blanket until morning when Pinocchio turns back into his true form. Upon further staring, the torso is only a large bag of leaves strewn in the center of the road. Evan’s body relaxes and he breathes again.