There Was a Little Girl

by Cynthia Luhrs

  With a click, I snap a picture of the article and save it on my phone. Then I create an album called “decorating ideas” and move it there. Just in case Jackson looks at my phone. He will never look at decorating ideas, and I’m careful to keep the screen locked at work. Not that I have any sexy pictures of Jackson, but it’s the principle of the information on my phone being private.

  Finished with cleaning up the mess, I put the glass in the dishwasher and wash my hands. Staring out at a butterfly resting on the edge of the fountain, I have to wonder. What is the universe trying to tell me?

  “Come on. You said you would give Bubbles to me. You’re only keeping her to spite me.”

  Grayson stood in the entryway of the McMansion. He had to admit, his ex-wife looked good. She stood there, arms crossed, glaring at him. The house was easily five thousand square feet. She’d definitely traded up.

  “Bubbles is happy here. She has room to play and a huge screened-in porch and yard. You live in a tiny apartment. There’s not enough room for her with you.”

  “She doesn’t need much room. We agreed.” He hated the pleading tone that always crept into his voice when dealing with her.

  “You see animals every day. There are tons of them needing a home. Isn’t that what you always told me? Just go get another one.”

  As if the cat was nothing more than a pair of shoes or a sweatshirt. Throw out one and buy another. Bubbles was part of a hoarding case he’d worked a few years back. The woman’s husband died, and what started out as five cats quickly turned into one hundred and twenty-five. Grayson had worked with her. Lots of education and follow-up visits.

  The woman agreed to give up all but three cats. Once they were brought in, checked out, and socialized, he’d picked the cat in question. Bubbles. Because she loved to bat at soap bubbles. The beast was kind of cranky and didn’t really like anyone, but for some reason she liked him. She was a calico cat. A polydactyl. With seven toes on her left front paw and six on the right. That cat looked so goofy with its tiny body and huge, misshapen feet, Grayson knew no one would want her. So he adopted her and she quickly took over.

  His ex didn’t even care that much about animals before he’d married her. Though Bubbles decided to accept her, and she fell in love too. Too bad she didn’t stay in love.

  Stephen came jogging down the stairs. Both men pretended to like each other, but they both knew they despised each other.

  “How are you, Grayson?”

  He nodded. “I thought you were allergic to cats?”

  The guy looked sheepish. “I thought I was, but it turned out to be a gluten intolerance.” He shrugged. “Go figure. Look, Grayson, Bubbles is happy here. We’d like her to stay.”

  This wasn’t going to go anywhere. Grayson decided to back down. Let the ex win this round.

  Stephen’s hand went to his pocket. “Let me make a donation to the shelter. I know they could use the funds.”

  Grayson wanted nothing more than to tell Stephen where he could shove his check, but he was right—the shelter was always in need and there never seemed to be enough money in the budget for everything. And while Stephen might be a prick, he was a generous prick.

  “I appreciate it. We certainly could use it.”

  Stephen scribbled off the check and handed it over. As he did, Grayson was drawn to something sparkling across the foyer. Before he thought better of it, he reached for Nikki’s hand.

  “Wow. What is that, three carats?”

  Stephen smirked. “Four, actually. Got it in the diamond district on my last trip to New York.”

  Nikki had the grace to look embarrassed. “I was going to tell you…”

  Instead of puking all over their marble floors, Grayson said, “Congratulations to you both. When’s the big day?”

  Now she really looked nervous. And he knew. Nikki had been waiting for the divorce to be final so she could go ahead and marry the guy.

  Stephen put a hand to her cheek. “We’re getting married over Memorial weekend. In Rome. We’d love for you to be there.”

  “I appreciate it, but I’m working. Make sure you send pictures.”

  Yeah, right. Like Grayson wanted to see a picture of his ex-wife married to someone else. That woman had crushed his heart and cheated on him, but a small part of him still loved her.

  “Take good care of Bubbles.”

  Grudgingly, Grayson had to admit, there were lots of animals that needed homes. This time he’d get a dog. They were loyal.

  CHAPTER 10

  AM I REALLY DOING THIS? Work dragged, as it usually does on a Monday. People eager to chat about their weekends and no one wants to be in the office. At the end of the day, I sit in the parking garage and pull the coupon out of my purse. Just because I bought it, doesn’t mean I’ll do anything with it. That’s what I tell myself as I roll down the windows, letting the air blow through my hair. The eighties station on satellite radio always erases the worries of the day.

  The store is huge. There in the back is the section I need.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  “I need some ammo.”

  The older man smiles. “I’m headed that way. Follow me.”

  He leads me to the hunting section at the back of the store. They have everything. If the world ever ended, I’d better make this my second stop after the grocery. The man stops in front of a long row where I can see box after box of ammunition.

  “What kind do you need?”

  I think for a moment. Hope I’m right, but if not, I’ll just buy another box. “It’s for a .38.”

  He leads me to the next aisle over and points. “This whole aisle. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  But he’s already leaving, going to wait on a burly-looking man looking at crossbows.

  Is there a certain brand I need? The boxes are all reds and whites and blacks and greens. Not a pastel in sight. The bullets themselves are probably all the same. It’s more a matter of brand loyalty. Like Pepsi versus Coke drinkers. So I pick a box with lethal-looking red and black colors and a strong font.

  At the checkout line, I make sure I have cash on me. A few weeks ago I rarely had more than ten or twenty dollars on me. But now…now, I keep a couple of hundred. There’s a sign next to the register stating anyone who purchases ammunition will be asked to show ID. Good thing I have Catherine Pope in my bag. I dig out the coupon and put it under the box.

  The guy chuckles. “Sorry. You can’t use coupons on ammo.”

  My cheeks feel hot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Well, it sure would be nice if you could, wouldn’t it?”

  “Then you’d probably have crazy Black Friday sales and chaos like at other stores. I can picture men lined up to get to the bargain-priced gun or bow.”

  We laugh as he rings up the purchase. I’ve handed over the cash and turned to go when he calls out, “Excuse me. Do you want a bag?”

  My heart slows back down to normal. “No, I’ll just throw it in my purse, thanks.”

  On the way home, I can’t find any music to settle my nerves. Restlessness flows through me. My hands are sweaty, my stomach sour. One more stop then I’ll be home.

  The first thing I do when I get home is change clothes. Get out of my work clothes and into something comfy. Usually it helps me switch over from work to relaxation. Not today. Not for the past week or so.

  While the pizza heats up, I pour a glass of wine. My gram only drank beer when she had pizza or a hot dog. Otherwise it was wine or an Old Fashioned before dinner. Cocktail hour was from five to six and dinner at six sharp. Heaven help you if you were late to dinner.

  The white pizza is delicious and totally worth the trip to Venero’s out in Clayton. The crust has sesame seeds sprinkled on it, and I always have them add spinach. I avoid looking at my purse sitting on the counter.

  After dinner and another glass of wine, I try to catch up on one of the shows I’ve recorded,
but my attention keeps straying to dark places. A bubble bath doesn’t help either. So I light a bunch of candles and turn off the lights. Wearing one of Jackson’s t-shirts, I kneel in front of the chest at the foot of the bed.

  Gramps made it for Mama when she married. The scent of cedar fills my head as I lift the lid. Sweaters come out, followed by cozy crocheted scarves. Faded color takes up the rest of the space. The quilt Gram made her to start a new life with my daddy. I pull it out, sit down cross-legged, and run my hands over the lines. Seeing the worn fabrics brings forth a picture of Gram sewing. I can smell the caramel candies she always had nearby. See the chipped pitcher full of fresh flowers on the windowsill surrounded by red and white gingham curtains. And her perfume. White Shoulders. The scent fills the air around me. A lump forms in my throat. When I shake the quilt out, a fabric-wrapped bundle falls to the floor.

  Black gleams in the candlelight. What is it about candlelight? It makes everything look soft around the edges. Being an orphan makes me feel off balance. Disjointed. Whenever my coworkers talk about their parents, I picture my grandparents. The house in Kansas. Images of my mama are kept in a locked room. And my daddy? Knowing he’s gone fills me with relief. Home was supposed to be a refuge from the world. He took that from me.

  A few years ago, Gramps died of lung cancer. He smoked two packs a day since he was twelve. I worry about Gram. How much she’s aged over the past year. She says life is so uninteresting without him. I wish I knew what a love like that feels like. With Jackson, I think I love him, but it’s not what my grandparents had together. My parents didn’t love each other; not that I could tell. To me, love is something portrayed on TV and in movies and books. Some ideal state that no one in real life ever seems to achieve.

  I pad across the cream-colored carpet, out to the kitchen, where my purse sits spotlighted under the pendant lights. The box of ammo feels heavy in my hands as I sit back down, the revolvers in front of me. Five in one and five in the other. Now all I have to do is go through with it.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE APPLE STORE IS HOPPING for a Thursday night. A friendly salesperson approaches.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m just looking. Thinking about a new iPad but I can’t buy until I get paid, so don’t mind me.”

  Another customer waits for help and the salesperson turns to go, leaving me to browse on my own. Just like I want.

  The computers and other devices are connected to the Internet, making it easy to set up a fake email account. There is no reason for me to create the account, other than an uneasy feeling telling me I need it. I’m good at lying to myself.

  For the past couple of weeks an idea has been swirling around in my head, taking up every spare moment. Can I go through with what the voice in my head keeps whispering? I’m not sure but I’m super organized, so I decide to set up the account in case I can get up enough nerve to follow through.

  With my email set up, I look around the store. They’ve gotten busier. The guy on my left is huddled over a Mac with a friend, and behind me people are absorbed in the various devices.

  A quick Google search shows me how to clean a gun. Without warning, the memory comes crashing down.

  “Katherine? Come here, sweet pea.”

  Doesn’t matter how old I get, he’s always called me sweet pea, ever since I came to live with them. Gramps is in the bedroom digging through stuff in the closet. He pushes boxes aside, taking some out and setting them on the worn hardwood floor. Muttering to himself, he reaches way in the back and comes out with a wooden box. It’s covered in dust. When he blows it off, the dust shimmers in the sunlight coming through the windows, looking like faeries dancing in the air.

  “Gram is going to fuss at you.” She cleaned yesterday. The floors gleam, the bed is made up with one of her handmade quilts, and there’s a vase of roses on the dresser. The cut glass vase sparkling. Their room always smells like peppermint and lavender. As long as I can remember, he’s always had a pocket full of candies and one in his mouth. Gram loves to use lavender sachets in all the drawers. All her clothes smell faintly of lavender. She and Gramps carry real cloth handkerchiefs embroidered with their initials or tiny flowers or fruits. No one else I’ve met here in Kansas carries a handkerchief. They always have tissues.

  My feet dangle off the side of the bed, my legs tan from days spent by the pool. Every square in the quilt tells a story. The fabric is soft under my fingers as I trace the shadows and light the sun casts across the sleigh bed.

  “You’ll be leaving for college soon. I think you’re ready for these.”

  Sitting cross-legged, my curiosity gets the better of me as I lean forward. Gramps opens the case. Burnished wood and black metal glows.

  My insides turn to ice. I recognize the guns. They belonged to my daddy. Gramps sees something in my face that makes him reach out to me.

  “Now look here. Just because these guns were your daddy’s doesn’t mean they’re evil. It’s the person wielding the weapon, not the weapon itself.”

  He takes the matching guns out, and the scent of oil fills the room. And something cold and deadly. The scents are at odds with the smell of roses carried on the breeze through the open windows.

  “Smith & Wesson .38 Model 50. They’re like the model .36, but see here? These have sights. Not many were made. Your daddy won them in a poker game.”

  The fluttering of the lace curtains makes me gaze outside. The swing in the backyard sways gently in the breeze. The swing is empty. Much like me on the inside.

  “What happened to your mother…”

  “And to Max. Don’t you forget Max.” The sound of my voice surprises me. It sounds like a wounded child. Not the adult I’ve worked so hard to become. Is it all an illusion? Do I naively believe I’ve gotten past what happened only to find out in reality it’s there waiting, lurking in the dark, ready to devour me?

  Gramps places his hand over mine, the skin soft as velvet, full of wrinkles. He’s perpetually tan from being outside all the time, and I notice the sunspots on the back of his hand. Anguish wells up in my throat, making it hard to speak. When did he get so old?

  “Your daddy…he had some mental problems. Your grandma and I, we found it in our hearts to forgive him. I worry about you, Katherine. We both do. In all the years you’ve lived with us, you’ve never said a single word about what happened. Don’t you think it’s time to talk about it?”

  Seeing how uncomfortable he is, is the only thing that makes this conversation easier to bear.

  “No. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m glad you and Gram can forgive him. I will never forgive him. You weren’t there. All those years how he treated us. That day—you don’t have those images seared into your brain. Don’t have to shut out the awful sounds…” My voice trails away. I turn my eyes downward, counting the flowers in one of the blocks on the quilt. A single drop lands on the center of a pink flower without making a sound.

  It’s quiet in the room except for the sound of the clock on the mantel and a bird singing out in the yard. Gramps clears his throat.

  “I was there when your daddy brought these home.” Gramps scratches his head. He still has a full head of hair, though it’s turned almost completely silver.

  “You weren’t even born yet. It must’ve been around 1965 or ’67.”

  I hate reminiscing. Never talk about the past. The only reason I can think of for Gramps to bring this up is he’s feeling sad I’m going off to college. Otherwise why would he dredge it up? They both know I don’t ever talk about before.

  “Neither gun is registered. Now, some folks don’t care about that, but I think it’s a good thing. The way this country’s going, there may come a day when the government looks for everybody who has registered guns. So you keep this. And Katherine, you know what I say.”

  “It’s always better to have it and not need it, than not have a gun and need it.” He means well. I hug him tight. “Of course I remember. I remember everything
you and Gram ever told me. You know, I can live at home. I don’t have to live in the dorm.”

  He pulls back, turning his head like he’s listening for Gram. But I catch him wiping his eye. When he turns back to me, his eyes are bright.

  “No. We wouldn’t hear of it. It’ll do you good to live in the dorm, be around kids your own age. You spend too much time with us and our friends.” He touches my cheek. “It isn’t good to be alone so much.”

  I trace a finger down the barrel of one of the guns. It’s cold to the touch in the warm room.

  “I’ll take you target shooting. We haven’t gone since you were a little squirt. You need to know how to use it and how to clean it. And Katherine? Don’t ever point a gun at someone unless you’re prepared to pull the trigger. Don’t ever shoot to wound. If you’re in a situation where you’re pointing a gun in the first place, you shoot to kill. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand.”

  He slides the wooden box across the quilt. The intricate design on the top of the case is in stark contrast to the faded florals and ginghams of the quilt. Only the ghost of color remains. Just like me. The ghost of a real girl.

  “Miss? Did you need some help?” The voice pulls me out of the memory and back to the present. The soft, faded sunlight coming through the window of my grandparents’ bedroom is replaced by the bright lights and sounds of the store. A guy about my age stands there looking at me, a perplexed look on his face.

  I quickly shake my head. “No, I guess I was daydreaming about a new Mac. Now I need to think about what I want.”

  He nods, dismissing me and looking to the next customer. Not that anyone would pay attention, but I always clean up after myself. So I clear the history of my searches. As I leave the store, I run through my mental list of preparations. Next stop, a store people either love or hate. Walmart.