I scrambled for my clothes, slipping them on fast as Bambi got to her feet and rushed out of my bedroom. I thought she was chasing after Chuck, but moments later, she returned with a shotgun, waving it at my chest.
“I should kill you!” she screamed.
I stared at the cold, hard steel. Images of my mother flashed before me, bullets ripping through her tender flesh as she cradled me in her arms.
But there was no one to shield me now. Bambi pumped the shotgun and aimed it at my head.
I closed my eyes and waited to die.
Chuck’s motorcycle roared to life, then the engine hesitated, and cut out. Through my thin bedroom walls, I heard him start it up again—revving the motor hard, winding it high to keep it running. The engine sputtered and threatened to die again. I opened my mouth to scream for help, to tell him Bambi had a gun, that she was going to kill me. But if I made one sound, one move, she’d shoot me for sure.
I stared at the gun barrel. My legs turned to rubber as I imagined myself lying in a pool of blood, gasping for my last breath as Bambi stood over me, her hot pink toenails glaring in my face as she shot me full of holes.
Outside, the bike sputtered again. Bambi’s eyes went wide. Somewhere in that broken, drunken mind, she must have finally realized Chuck was leaving for good. Bambi jerked her head to the left, listening to the sound, glancing back at me, eyes narrowed into slits of hate.
“I’ll teach him for walking out on me.” Bambi tore from the room and headed for the front door. “I’m gonna punch his time clock!”
My mouth went dry. Was she going to shoot Chuck? I had to stop her! I followed behind, keeping at a safe distance.
Bambi whipped open the front door. “Oh no you don’t, mister!” she screamed. “Only place you’re going is the bone yard!” Bambi stumbled onto the porch, shotgun raised. Her spindly legs wobbled, she fought to stay upright. She was so drunk she couldn’t even walk down the steps before tripping, catching the railing before she fell down. Bambi paused, turned, and for a second I was afraid she was going to shoot me, but instead she staggered toward her car. What was she thinking? She was too drunk to drive.
Near the front gates, Chuck’s taillights flashed, but then the bike hesitated and died. Under the dim glow of the entrance lights, I saw him fight to start it again. He’d been working on the bike, trying to fix something to do with the gas line for weeks. A bad filter, connection, or something. He said it should be a simple fix but he never could figure out why it wouldn’t run right.
Bambi opened the car door, climbed behind the wheel, and switched on the engine. She floored it, showering me with gravel as she took off after Chuck, her big Lincoln skewing sideways. I stood on the porch as Bambi roared toward Chuck, coming at him faster and faster. A scream ripped from my throat—my heart punched into my rib cage as she slammed into his motorcycle.
Time seemed to stop. My throat constricted, like a drawstring jerked tight. The only man who’d ever been a father to me flung into the air like an empty trash bag and landed on the ground in a heap.
Bambi’s taillights flickered. My shattered mind raced—NO! GOD NO! Bambi was backing up, aiming for another run at him! The car stopped for a moment, then suddenly lurched forward as Bambi accelerated and ran over Chuck’s motionless body.
My feet froze to the ground. Blood slid through my veins like cold needles as my body detached from my brain. I should have done something. I should have stopped her. I should have….
My knees buckled and darkness swallowed all.
Someone was screaming. Flashlight in my eyes. Men in uniform shouting, asking me if I was hurt, asking if I could hear them. Hands touching me, moving over my body—searching for wounds.
“Are you hurt?” someone asked.
“She’s in shock,” another one said.
I jerked upright, pushed them away. “Where’s Chuck?”
Someone said they were sorry. Why would they be sorry? Gentle hands carried me into the house, sat me on the couch. I struggled to tell them this was wrong—I couldn’t sit here. This was Chuck’s spot. This was where he sat with his boots propped up on the table, grinning at me, eating Cheetos and telling me about the stars. I shouldn’t be here. Chuck should be here. I sit in the chair with the saggy springs across from him. That’s how it was supposed to be. Why were these people putting me in Chuck’s spot?
Red and blue lights flashed outside the dingy trailer, reflecting in the dirty glass. Cop lights. Ambulance. It all came rushing horribly back—Bambi had killed Chuck and now they were taking her away. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. Too many people leaning over me, too many hands. A smothering cloud of concerned faces pressing down on me.
Air. I needed air. I gasped like a fish flung on a foreign shore, gills filled with sand. Someone tried to give me oxygen from a pink mask, but I pushed them away. I needed to get to my room and lie down.
I started to get up when I heard Bambi screaming outside, raging out of control—the sound sliced into my throbbing head. I froze as someone shouted something about Bambi having a gun. Another voice called for backup.
The focus shifted. I was left alone as they rushed outside. I hurried to my room, grabbed my backpack with the peace signs on the front and stuffed it full of clothes. I pulled on my sweatshirt, searching my room for the last time. I’d take everything I needed. I couldn’t let them take me away.
That’s when I spotted the envelope Chuck had given me sitting where I'd left it on the bed. Pain. So much pain. How was it possible to hurt this bad and yet go on living? I’d never care about anyone again. I’d never take the chance of ever feeling this much agony.
My hands shook as I picked up the letter.
I didn’t have time to read the letter now. Somehow I had to escape before my caseworker arrived. She’d never let me stay here alone, not in a place where someone had just been killed. A crowd had gathered outside. I could slip away, invisible. Just as I slid the bedroom window open I heard a knock on my bedroom door.
“Natasha? It’s Jane. May I come in?”
Too late. My caseworker was already here. Ready to haul me off. I’d never get away in time. They’d catch me. Maybe it was better if I tried to convince her to let me stay until morning.
I closed the window and kicked my bag under the bed. “Come in.”
Jane entered my room, her face somber. “Are you all right?” I looked into her eyes. She was the type of woman who had no spark, cold and uninteresting in a boring brown suit. Jane Jones was as plain as her name. A woman who had been middle-aged since birth.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay.”
“I know you’ve had quite a shock. I think it would be best if you’d let the paramedics take another look at you.”
“No. I’m just tired.”
“Would you like to talk about it?” She lowered her voice. “Did you know the man she killed?”
Her words cut into my insides like a saw. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about Chuck’s death. Especially with her. I shook my head and turned away, my voice cracking, threatening to betray me. “Just another one of Bambi’s boyfriends—she has plenty of them.”
“They are taking her in for questioning. That means….”
“I know…I just want an hour or so to get ready and pack my things. Can you give me that?”
She thought about it a moment, then nodded. “The police will be here for at least that long doing their investigation. There’s a female officer here who works with my department. Her name is Linda. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask her. She’ll keep an eye out until I return.”
Jane placed a hand on my shoulder. I pulled away—I just wanted her to leave.
“I’m sorry, Natasha,” she said. “I know that up to this point this was a successful placement. You’ve expressed your feelings about living at the group home, but I'm afraid there's little choice. Unless...”
"Unless what?"
"I'll head to the office and make some calls. We'l
l find a temporary placement for the night, but then...” She hesitated. “There is a woman just north of here who might consider taking you in long-term. She’s a foster mom with a lot of younger kids, so she’ll expect you to help out around the house. But she’s very kind. I think you’ll like her. I’ll send her a copy of your file and we'll see what she says.”
My stomach churned. I despised the idea of anyone reading about me. Prying into my business—and Jane Jones was good at prying. She was writing a book about her work with troubled kids. A year ago she'd invited me into her home, introduced me to her cat, tried to get me to trust her. She took advantage of my hunger, jotting down all my secrets in exchange for a juicy hamburger and ice cream. She studied me like a lab rat, recording every painful word I spoke, sitting across from me as impassive as a brick.
Jane thought she knew it all—what it was like to be a foster kid. She didn’t know anything. Jane Jones had never eaten dry macaroni for breakfast, never begged for a blanket or lived with a murderous drunk. I was nothing to her but material in a manuscript—a building block in the palace she was erecting. She knew I didn’t want to go back to the group home, and suddenly it occurred to me that all I had to do was roll up my sleeves, bare my scars, and she’d do whatever it took to place me, make me happy, just for more material for her book.
I hated and needed her at the same time.
Jane turned to leave and hesitated. She frowned, searching my face. Did she know I would run? Could she see it in my eyes? “Pack only what you need. We’ll gather the rest of your things later.” She pressed her lips together into a thin line. “I’ll be back soon.”
Jane left. I added a few more things to my bag, stuffed the letter into my shirt pocket, and slipped a hoodie over my sweatshirt. The window was a bad idea. I went to the back of the trailer, to the door no one used because there weren’t any steps. If I could slip out, I could duck between trailers and head to the highway before being noticed.
I went into Bambi’s room. It reeked of unwashed sheets, booze, and stale perfume. I caught a whiff of something else, something that smelled earthy, cedar and leaves—Chuck’s smell. My mouth went dry, tasted metallic. I tried not to cry, but it felt as if someone were squeezing my throat, crushing my windpipe, forcing tears out of my eyes.
Bambi’s jewelry box rested on top of her dresser. The pink box glared under the light with its gaudy gold lid—one of her favorite bingo prizes. I flipped open the top, ignored a spinning ballerina pirouetting in tight circles, and stuck my hand inside.
Beneath a picture of a hideous wedding gown was a pile of cash. I grabbed the thick wad of bills and tossed the box aside. Apparently, Bambi had been saving for a wedding dress. I gritted my teeth, seething with mounting rage. It served her right that I was taking the money. She had killed my dreams and now I’d steal hers. She must have been saving for months, skimping on groceries, bumming off Chuck and me so she could save up for her selfish, over-the-top dress.
Stuffing the money into my pocket, I went into the laundry room and peered out the backdoor, watching out the little plastic window to make sure no one was around. I turned the knob, bit by bit until the door opened. I jumped to the ground. The gravel made loud crunching sounds as I landed.
I paused, leaning against the cold metal siding of the trailer. Holding my breath, I waited, but no one came. Since there weren’t any lights on this side of the trailer, the darkness would conceal me. Voices echoed in the night, coming from the driveway, cops laughing and asking whose turn it was to buy coffee. How could they laugh and talk about coffee when Chuck was dead? Footsteps drew near, a flashlight cut into the darkness. I had to escape, and fast.
My mind scattered into a million worried thoughts, I had to focus. I wouldn’t be able to take my usual path out of the trailer park because of the two guard dogs near the entrance—their barking would give me away. Keeping to the shadows, I crept from one beat-up trailer to the next, trespassing through an obstacle course of junk: bald tires, a discarded wash machine, furniture missing its stuffing. I kept traveling until I was free, ducking into a back alley where I started running, legs pumping, breath sawing in and out. I didn’t stop until I reached the industrial end of the city. They’d never find me now with all the dark nooks, warehouses, and dimly lit streets.
Somewhere in the distance a train rolled down the tracks, its iron wheels making a lonesome rumble into the night. The sound stirred a mixture of emotions. Panic. Loneliness. Desperation. If only I could be aboard, tucked away, lulled by the train’s rhythmic percussion. I’d ride the rails farther and farther away, until all my worries were soothed by distance.
I worked my way deep into the heart of the city. I glanced at the time on my cell phone. I still had about ten minutes before my caseworker would return to the trailer and find me missing—if the cop she put in charge of me hadn’t already.
I rested near a bus stop, hidden under my dark hood. Beneath a pale street light, I pulled Chuck’s letter from my pocket, hugged it to my chest, feeling his spirit hover near me. I studied his handwriting scrolled across the front.
For Natasha.
I traced each word, then flipped it over and worked my finger under the flap, careful not to tear the last thing on earth that Chuck had given to me—had held in his hands before he died.
I sucked in my breath as I read each word.
Natasha,
Take this letter to Flora at the bike shop—she’ll give you what you need.
Chuck
That was it? Who was Flora? I thought hard. It had to be the blonde sitting next to Chuck the day Bambi and I found him. What did the letter mean? I walked back through town, more frustrated than ever. Why all the secrets? Why couldn’t people just say what they meant, instead of making things so complicated?
A cop car passed me. I ducked around the corner and into the next block, my face hidden in the folds of my hoodie just in case. I heard the patrol car turn around, swinging a wide loop. Lights flipped on, a siren wailed. I nearly fell to my knees as it whizzed past me, screaming into the early dawn.
Rays of weak sunlight strained to penetrate dark clouds gathering in the morning sky as I drifted down empty alleys, dodging homeless people huddled against walls and begging for spare change. Rain wept and then poured. Water filled my shoes, squishing beneath my feet with each step. By the time I reached the bike shop, my clothes were soaked. I pounded on the door. Nothing. I pounded again.
The rain stopped and the sun fought for a place in the sky. But the clouds smothered its attempt, casting dark shadows at my back. Across the street, a billboard advertised a sunny Florida vacation. I thought about how warm it must be in Florida, oranges ripe and ready to harvest. Or the Caribbean where people smiled all the time. That’s where I would go with Bambi’s money, someplace warm and inviting. I’d cut my hair and dye it as black as my mood, wear oversized sunglasses. I’d eat lobster and coconuts, wear flip-flops on the beach, drink soda pop for breakfast and forget about being alone, about all that had happened. I felt the small lump of cash in my pocket. I wouldn’t get as far as California before the money ran out, or before someone caught me.
This realization hit me hard. I was floating. Weightless. Helpless. I’d give anything if Chuck were alive, grounding me, holding me down to earth like a string on a balloon. But the string had broken, Chuck was dead and I was airborne, drifting away from everything I had ever known.
I leaned against the building. I needed something concrete, something stable to hold on to. A solid reality in a shifting world. Deep in the belly of the building, a dog barked, footsteps shuffled, and there came the continuous rattle of a smoker’s cough. The door cracked open, somewhere in the background a television blared. In the shadows, I saw the hard-faced blonde who'd been sitting next to Chuck the day he told me he was coming home again, giving Bambi another chance—if only I could have warned him.
“Are you Flora?” I asked.
Lines deepened in the creases of her forehead. Blue
eye shadow, caked on her eyelids from the night before, crept toward her eyebrows. “Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Natasha,” I stammered. “Chuck gave me something for you.” She eyed me for a moment, like she knew me from somewhere and couldn’t quite place me. She’d only seen me once but I hoped for some glimmer of recognition.
I handed her the letter and Flora’s gaze darted over the words. She glanced at me, then behind me to see if I was alone, and motioned for me to come in. I followed her to a dingy room through a door at the back of the shop. A boxy television the size of Texas blared away on a countertop of a cluttered kitchen. In the dark recess of the small apartment, I made out a saggy double bed, end table, and bookcase. She motioned me to a ratty kitchen chair.
“Got some identification?”
I handed her my student ID. She studied it and then handed it back. “Did Chuck skip town?”
I nodded. If I told her Chuck was dead, she might change her mind.
“Figures,” she said. “He had his fill of that woman he was shacked up with.” She walked to the wall and selected a key from a pile hanging on a hook, one with a topless hula dancer on the keychain. “This is for Chuck’s locker. It’s the one in the middle.” She handed me the key. "Lockers are next to the workbench near the back of the shop.”
“Thanks.” I hurried from the depressing living quarters to the main body of the shop.
I wove between disassembled bikes, dodged oil spills and grease spots to a row of dingy lockers. The middle one stood out from the rest, painted a cobalt blue with a cartoon character of a bulldog riding a motorcycle. I slipped the key inside the lock and pulled on the handle. The door rattled open. Resting on the bottom shelf was a thick manila envelope. I flipped it over and tore it open. A passport and ID was enclosed along with some foreign money.
Moonflower Page 5
