Route 12

by Marietta Miles

  The girl stares at the cartoon pig.

  “Talk to me, please.” Her mother reaches forward and holds her chilly hands. I know I’ve been cold and I know I’ve been tired. But, I don’t know how to live without your daddy. I’ve known him since I was a girl; he was my life, my entire world. And, as much as I love you, and I would surely die for you, I blame you. Sometimes, I think you’re drowning me, pulling me under.

  “I know I haven’t been there for you, the way I should’ve been.” She pulls her hands away, ashamed. “I need to be better.” Drifting, remembering, she looks across the highway, eyeing a broken down Ford with a FOR SALE sign in the window. “I haven’t got an excuse, honey. There’s no real good reason.”

  Kathryn sees her image in the plate glass window just behind Cheryl. She sees the dark circles under her eyes and the wisps of gray curling around her temple. She can’t remember what she looked like before her girl got sick, when things were not so tough.

  “I can’t make any promises, baby. I can say I’ll try. But, I’m scared, too. I wish I knew what I was doing.”

  A logging truck, stacked with yellow poplar and white oak, barrels by, honking at them. The backdraft sends napkins in the air, bags to the ground, and leaves the smell of gasoline behind.

  Cheryl reaches across and grasps her mother’s bony hands.

  THIRTEEN

  FEW OUTAGES REMAIN when evening comes to Belle Gap. Lights begin to twinkle throughout town, throwing weak light on the surrounding woods.

  The motor rattles and hums under the hood. The car vibrates each time Percy revs the engine, the radio turned low. He turns into the Prejean driveway.

  “Looks like the power’s back on. Maybe they’re home already.”

  “Home already?” Theresa looks at him. “Cheryl’s not home?”

  “Thought I told you that.” He grins and cocks his head, mocking, making her feel like some flighty kid.

  “She went with her momma to Lynchburg. Had something to do with the old dead woman.”

  “You probably did.” She has a tendency to drift or forget. Maybe he did tell her. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” He pulls up behind the house. “You’re fine.” Reaching between the seats, he slides the gear to park. He shifts in his seat, facing her. The leather creaks under his movement.

  “I don’t want to go in, yet.” He leans close, holding her face, resting his fingertips against her throat. His mouth covers hers.

  Bewildered, she weakly pulls back and turns her head. His hands keep her still. The leather groans again and he moves his other hand to her shoulder, nearly pulling her over the gearshift. His rough fingers let go, his wet, sticky mouth stops and he pulls away.

  Dropping the records, she touches her fingers to her lips. It could not have been a kiss. She is sure kisses don’t feel like that. Her eyes close.

  The driver’s door slams shut. Her lids snap open and he is gone. Mad. He’ll take me home. He’ll laugh at me. He’ll think I’m just a little girl.

  Her door squeaks open, makes her jump. He holds a hand out to her.

  “Come on.” The voice is soft, frosting on a cake. He helps her from the car. Opening the back door, he guides her into the rear seat. She doesn’t have time to move before he slides in next to her.

  Slamming the door, he takes her by the hips and yanks her back, setting her roughly on his lap. Left arm crosses over her chest, pushing, and she slips into the space between his legs and the car door. Struggling to sit up, she tries to gain her balance. He forces his cold hand into her shirt, making her jump, grab his wrist.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  “No. I really can’t.” She shakes her head.

  “Sure you can.” He leans into her. Resting his full weight on her, he makes her go still. One hand holds her down by the throat the other reaches under her skirt ripping her underwear down past her knees. He wedges his knees between her legs. Pulling and pushing he shoves himself inside her.

  “No, don’t. You’re hurting me.”

  “Shh, shh, it’s okay, you’ll see.” Hard, rough fingers, jagged nails, stab into her. Tiny, burning cracks open inside. He bucks, pushing against her chest, knocking the air out of her. He tears and scrapes against her insides. With each of his dry, vicious thrusts, every part of her wants to fly away.

  Be quiet. Don’t make a sound. He’ll just go away. She stops fighting and waits, staring out the window, making him angrier.

  Done, he opens the door and crawls over her legs. Pulling himself out of the car, he reaches in and pushes her underwear back to her hips. He pulls her out of the car, not looking her in the eye and not saying a word. He puts her in the front seat and walks to the driver’s side.

  With her forehead set against the window, she watches the road pass under the wheels. Trees rush past, the buildings blur by, and she searches for the sky, or the moon. Her head is pounding. She squeezes her legs together, muscles trembling.

  Percy aims the Riviera down Clover Lane, porch lights glow, and the street nearly echoes for the silence. The cold has settled and frost hangs in the air. He parks at the bottom of the hill. Not wanting the interior to cool down he lets the engine idle. Again, he helps her from the car. Huddled on the sidewalk, she shivers. He stands over her, holding her chin between his fingers.

  “You’re all mine now.”

  Theresa’s head bobs forward. She starts up Clover, nearly sleepwalking. Every step, every stride feels like sandpaper against her skin. The cold is painful, a burning hard edge, and no matter how tightly she draws her coat, she hurts. Her new denim skirt, so pretty in the catalog, damp with stains and ripped on the side.

  Just a little farther, you’ll be home soon. The few steps leading to the porch are agony. She steps inside, closes the door, checks the locks again and again. Tight as a drum. Safe at home.

  Her eyes are wide but she doesn’t see a thing. Not caring and paying no mind, she floats past Chuck and Delia’s room, past the smell of old people. She stands in the bathroom, hurting and sick, taking off her clothes, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

  When she was a girl, she had the flu. Her father, always so busy, could never find time from work. Her mother lay on their flowered couch, radio tuned to some country station, a cigarette burning in the ashtray balanced on her stomach. She nursed a never-empty glass with melting ice and whisky. Without help, Theresa had warmed a can of tomato soup and fought off her chills under blankets she found in the laundry. She had eased her sore muscles with warm baths.

  Wash it all away. She stands on the cold tiles drawing the hottest water old pipes allow. Like a breaking dam, the shame washes over her. Her shoulders curl over and she covers herself.

  Ease inside. The hot water startles her delicate, torn skin and she covers her mouth to stop a scream. Humidity sucks the breath from her lungs. Lightheaded, she sinks further in, closing her eyes, water covering her ears. The water turns cold, she shuts it off and takes her blue robe from the hook behind the door.

  She picks up her crumpled clothes from the floor, holds them under the light, turning them over. She shakes out her coat and hangs it on the hook. It smells like him, smoky and strange. Her white underclothes are now a dark, ugly red. She had been stupid and vain; smearing on her makeup, believing she was pretty, smiling at herself in the mirror.

  She hurries down the dark hallway and out the back door. She opens the nearest trashcan, pushes her clothes deep inside, pulls newspapers and cans over the pile, hides what she has done.

  FOURTEEN

  KATHRYN RATTLES THE ice in her empty cup. The bottle is dead as well. Can’t catch a break. Frustrated, she continues boxing up Mrs. Manson’s personals. With Cheryl in school, the boy upstairs God knows where and Mrs. Manson, well, gone, the house is dead. She thought she would enjoy the peace but now, she’s simply unnerved. A little drink to take off the edge.

  She labels the boxes with a black marker: clothes, pictures, papers. She expects the son will be calling so
on, asking for these things. They had briefly talked the night his mother passed. He seemed reserved, cool. Maybe he can pay for postage. Maybe he’ll offer her money. Maybe.

  She stands in the old woman’s doorway, sad at the emptiness. She considered moving into the room herself as the basement was proving to be cold rather than chilly. But, the idea of sleeping in a dead woman’s bed made her skin crawl. Besides, her own bad habits are getting out of hand and she doesn’t want Cheryl to see how much she has been drinking.

  If she moved to the attic though, she could be alone. And it’s warm up there. She would move back to the attic and Percy could take the room across from Cheryl. The bourbon made her head fuzzy. She stopped for a minute trying to think clearly. Something sounded off, wrong. She thought on it again, almost saying the words to the air. Percy could sleep across from her daughter.

  No matter how she tried to rearrange the words, they sounded awful and didn’t make sense. There’s a stranger living in my house. She’s stunned by the realization, then, slowly, by her own stupidity. Old drunk. She bitterly remembers a time when her own mother left her at church one Sunday.

  She stands at the attic steps, peeking through Cheryl’s window and makes sure his car is gone.

  “Hello?” Her voice sinks in the silence. Chills crawl up her legs and back. She stops midway.

  “Percy? You up here?”

  The room looks almost as it did before he moved in. The single bed is against the back wall, a small dresser next to that. She had packed up all the old toys, clothes, and pictures in trunks, moving them to the back of the attic. Not even a pile of dirty clothes.

  His black bag lies partially under the bed and when she checks it, she finds less than she would have expected. He has another pair of jeans, one pair of socks, and a pair of boxers. Tucked in the bottom of the bag is a wad of cash. She doesn’t count it, she already feels guilty, but it seems to be a healthy amount. In the front of the bag, the front zip pocket, are three pill bottles. Mr. George Perkins. The fill date was only three weeks ago.

  She returns the pills. She bends down, ready to look under the bed, under his pillow, anywhere. As she’s about to pull back his covers she hears the front door slam.

  “Mom!”

  Relief washes over her. She straightens the room, everything back in its place. She rushes down the wooden steps, her socked feet slip, and she rides down on her backside.

  “Mom?” Cheryl hollers and limps to the staircase.

  “It’s okay, baby. I’m fine. Just cleaning stuff up here and I fell.”

  “You need me?”

  “No, no. I’ll be down in a minute.” She scrambles up and straightens her clothes. Tip toeing, she closes Mrs. Manson’s door.

  “Check the fridge,” she hollers downstairs. “I made tuna.” She heads downstairs a moment later.

  “You eat?” Kathryn tries to look casual when she walks in.

  “Theresa wasn’t at school today. I was just calling to see if she’s okay.” Her daughter is on the phone. She hangs up, shrugging. “It just rings and rings.”

  ***

  Knock. Knock. Knock. It couldn’t be her grandparents. Even if they had forgotten their keys, which is impossible considering they drove to church and the house key and car key are on one ring, they would use their spare key hooked to the doorsill.

  Knock. Knock. Theresa peers out her window, smashing her nose against the glass, trying to see who might be calling. The porch portico blocks her view. She creeps down the stairs and into the hall, stays quiet, searching for the discomforting sound.

  “I see you.”

  Percy stands at the back door, hands in his pockets, his face blurry behind the white lace curtain.

  “You stayed home today.” She hears him through the thin glass.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I know things. You sick?”

  “Just a cold, I think.” Her voice is hushed. She glances sideways at him, afraid if she looks head on he will lull her, bend her, just as he did last night.

  “Oh, I think I know.” He looks at her, a curl on his lip, and nods. Her face burns red. She feels as if she’s standing wide open for him to see.

  “Next time, it won’t be so bad. I won’t hurt you again. I promise.”

  Next time.

  “I want to see you tonight.” His voice sounds dirty.

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s okay, honey. We don’t have to do that again.” He licks his lips. “Not yet. But, I do want to see my girl.”

  “I don’t think I can.” Behind her, keys jangle in the front door locks.

  “I swear to God idiot drivers are gonna kill us one day. God Damn STOP sign as big as a barn and they just drive right on.” On the front porch, Chuck rambles on, fussing and never giving up.

  “Hey, I got you something,” Percy says.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “’Cause I like you. It’s right out here.”

  “Hush up,” Delia hollers at the grouchy old man.

  “Oh, you have to go.” Theresa is nervously looking from the front door to Percy.

  “I guess I’ll leave this out here for you. You come and get it later.” He puts his hands to the glass, peering in on her, not making a move to leave.

  “Please. Please. If they catch you…”

  “You can come out tonight. You know you can. It’ll be okay. If you want, your little friend Cheryl can tag along.”

  “What?”

  “You want me to like her, right? She’s your best friend and all. I should like her.”

  Light breaks into the hallway as the door opens and her grandparents shuffle into the foyer.

  “Call her. We’ll meet you at the bottom of the hill again.”

  “Please, no.”

  “I’ll see you tonight.”

  The old woman is halfway down the hall. Oh God, please go. Whatever you want.

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “There you go, honey.”

  “Theresa! Where are you?” Delia walks into the kitchen. “Why are you in your pajamas? What’s wrong with you?”

  Before answering, she looks to the back door again. Nothing but the fluttering lace curtain.

  ***

  “Hey. Are you okay? God, today sucked. You can’t miss again.” Cheryl sits at the kitchen table, the phone to her ear and the long curly cord knotted on the floor. She has her chin propped on her palm.

  “What’s wrong, anyhow?”

  Theresa’s grandparents are clearing the table after dinner. “Listen, I need you.” She whispers into the phone, cups her hand over her mouth and the receiver.

  “Sure. What’s up? You sound kinda weird.”

  “Just tired. Listen, it’s, it’s something we probably shouldn’t do. But…”

  “What?”

  “Percy wants to see me tonight. I think, I think he might like me.” She stammers and shakes her head.

  “Wait. When did you see him?”

  “I met him Saturday morning. He was on the porch.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “I guess.” I think I should say yes.

  “What, Theresa? What’s going on?”

  “He wants me to see him after my grandparents are asleep. But, I don’t want to go by myself.”

  “Okay. But why does it have to be tonight? We could both get in big trouble.”

  “I know, I know but, please.” Her voice breaks. Squeezing her eyes tight, she can feel the tears again. I think this might be my fault.

  “Are you okay? Does he want something?” She pauses, hoping Theresa catches her meaning. “You know?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Her hand covers her mouth, muffling a sob. A single hot tear falls, trickles into her mouth.

  “Please, please just go with me.” Just tell me what to do.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go. Tell me why you’re crying.”

  “I can’t. Not now. Later. I promise.”

  “Promise?”

  �
��Uh huh.”

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll see you.”

  Theresa hangs up and remembers the gift he left for her. Her grandparents have moved to the living room, sitting next to each other on the couch, glasses on, reading the paper. She opens the door and looks outside.

  Just under the kitchen window is a portable record player, orange and white with speakers you can separate. On top of the case are the records she had borrowed from Cheryl.

  ***

  Percy parks in the dark at the end of the driveway sometime after midnight. He leans over, pops the glove compartment, and pulls out a green, long necked bottle of cologne. He unscrews the cap and splashes it across his neck. He puts the bottle to his mouth, he takes a generous swig and rinses it through his teeth, spitting it out through the open window. He takes the bottom of his shirt and rubs his teeth smooth. He had seen his mother do this a thousand times, before meeting a friend or after meeting a friend.

  He turns the engine off but keeps the lights off and rolls in front of the Prejean house. Soon enough the girl scuttles from around back and gets in the car. After they turn out of the drive, he turns on his lights.

  Their silence is like a wall in the warm interior.

  “Why tonight?”

  “What do you mean?” Percy says. “She’s pretty.”

  “Not that.”

  “Don’t you think a girl like her would go for me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No. But, why tonight? Why get us in trouble?”

  “I’m not meaning to get you in trouble. I probably won’t be around too much longer. Gonna have to go sooner or later, I think. And I just thought it would be fun. That’s all.” He turns on the blinker and the sound is like the rhythm of a song. They wind their way through town.

  “Hmm.”

  “I thought you’d like to come out.”

  “Sure, but…”

  “Sneaking out always feels fun, don’t it?” He stops the car under the same streetlight from the night before. The shine floods the car.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well this here’s your chance.” He opens the door and Cheryl moves to the back seat. He watches, laughing to himself.