by Sandra Moran
“I’ll be right back,” I said to Grace and Natalie as I climbed back onto my bike and began to ride through the intersection toward the station. As I pedaled, I heard Mr. Holmes start the rumbling engine of his truck. I looked up just as he threw it into gear and stomped on the accelerator. The truck lurched forward.
“—asshole!” Mr. Holmes yelled as he flipped Randy Jenkins the bird and then gunned the truck, not stopping at the four-way stop. Our eyes met for a long moment—his furious and mine, I’m sure, scared. His eyes widened as he cranked the steering wheel at the last minute to avoid hitting me. I wobbled on my bike, thrown off balance by fright and surprise, and then fell onto the pavement. From the corner of my eye, I saw my grandfather run toward me. I had never seen him run and in different circumstances, his short-legged gait might have been funny. From the other side of the street, Grace and Natalie rushed forward. Though they were farther away, they reached me first.
“I’ll kill that goddamned son of a bitch,” my grandfather puffed as he panted to a halt. The tails of his shirt had come untucked from his pants and I caught a glimpse of his round, fish-white belly.
“Birdie, are you okay?” Grace asked.
I nodded and looked down at my left knee. It was bloody and raw. So were my elbow and hand. Even though it hadn’t yet begun to hurt, I started to cry.
“That’s enough of that,” my grandfather said gruffly.
Natalie and Grace helped me to my feet while my grandfather righted my bike and began to push it in the direction of the station. By the time we reached the small, grungy office, my grandfather was on the phone to my mother.
“—better get down here,” he said. “I’ll explain later.” As he spoke, his black eyes blazed with barely contained fury. I found out what happened only later that night, when my father came home for dinner. My grandfather had called him at work.
“Apparently,” my father said that night at dinner as he helped himself to a second helping of fried potatoes and onions, “Anthony Holmes came into town to fill up a couple of gas cans. Slim was across the street getting a couple of sandwiches for lunch. Dad was in the back and Randy was manning the pumps. Randy made a comment about the smell. Anthony got angry and started yelling. Randy yelled back. Anthony jumped in the truck and—well, you know the rest.”
Within hours, different versions of the story (all from people who “had it on good authority”) had circulated around town and that evening, our phone rang off the hook with people calling to glean additional details—all under the cover of calling to “see how Birdie was doing.” I listened to my mother later that night as she talked on the phone to Natalie’s mother. Like Natalie and I, they had been friends since childhood. They talked about everything and this was no exception.
“I know,” my mother said into the receiver and then laughed. She was in the kitchen perched on the stool next to the rotary wall phone. Though it was unlikely my father could hear her over the noise of the baseball game on television, she spoke in a low tone. From my hiding place around the corner, I had to strain to hear her words.
She listened intently to whatever Mary Jane was saying.
“Well, honestly, I don’t blame him,” she said. “I would have . . . exactly.”
Blame who, I wondered? And what would she have done?
“Okay, well . . . yeah, just tell Nate that we’re not going to make a stink about this,” my mother said and then laughed. “No, it wasn’t a Freudian slip . . . yeah.” She laughed again and then became serious.
“There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. It’s not only about today, but it really made me think about how much the girls run around town on their own.” She paused. “I know. I think that’s a good idea, but I’m not sure what kind of reaction you’ll get from Brenda. Half the time I’m not even sure if she remembers she has a daughter.”
They were talking about Grace’s mother.
“Well, have you seen that new boyfriend?” my mother asked. “He looks like he’s nothing but trouble. I know Brenda’s hurting, but she really needs to pay attention to Grace.” My mother sighed and I peeked around the corner to see her coiling the phone cord around her finger. She seemed to be wrapping up the conversation.
“Okay, well call me if you . . . okay. Yeah. Bye.”
She hung up the phone. I shrank back into the shadows.
“I know you’re listening,” she said.
I didn’t move.
“Birdie,” she said. “Come here.”
Slowly, I stepped into the triangle of light that shone out of the kitchen into the dark hallway. She smiled.
“You okay?” she asked.
I nodded.
“How are your war wounds?” she asked and inclined her head toward my knees and arm. I raised my hand and the faint odor of Band-Aids and Bactine wafted upward.
“Okay,” I said and shrugged. “What did Natalie’s mom say?”
My mother stared at me for several seconds, wondering, I’m sure, how much she should say. “She was telling me about what Mr. Holmes said happened,” she said finally. “Why he got so angry.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Jenkins said some things that were mean.”
“Did he call him a nigger?”
My mother blinked and sucked in her breath. Her expression was furious as she looked around the kitchen, though her eyes landed on nothing long enough to actually see it. She exhaled slowly.
“Did you hear that word down at the station?”
I nodded.
“I want you to listen to me, Birdie,” she said. “That is not a word you should be using. It’s a bad word. It’s a . . .” she paused. “You need to promise me you won’t use that word—no matter how many other people you hear use it. Understand?”
I nodded solemnly and she studied me for several seconds. “Good.” She kissed me on the forehead and then looked over my head at the oven clock. “Now, go tell Tara it’s time for her to take a bath and get ready for bed. And do me a favor . . . keep an eye on her, okay? I need to talk to your father.”
Chapter 5
I woke up early the next morning, eager to meet up with Grace and Natalie to discuss the events of the previous day. I knew that Natalie would tell me what her mother said on the phone the night before and I was curious to know what people around town were saying. It was kind of fun to know that I was the subject of so much discussion—or at least part of the subject.
I sniffed the air. My mother was frying eggs and cooking bacon. My stomach growled at the aroma and I jumped out of bed, pulling my faded Strawberry Shortcake nightgown off in one swift movement. I reached for my clothes from the day before—cut-off jean shorts and a striped tank top—and held them to my nose. They smelled sweaty and were a little dirty from our adventure in the Montgomery house, but I didn’t care.
“Morning,” I announced as I wandered into the kitchen.
My mother stood in front of the stove, a spatula in one hand and a dish towel in the other. Tara sat on the stool under the wall phone. Her round face was still flushed from sleep and her blond curls were tousled. She smiled, her blue eyes picking up the navy of her Wonder Woman pajamas.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Guess what? We’re having eggs.”
“We always have eggs, stupid,” I said.
Our mother spun around and glared at me.
“Don’t call your sister, ‘stupid,’” she said and jerked her head in Tara’s direction. “Apologize.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled in Tara’s direction, though I didn’t look at her.
My mother eyed me critically and pressed her lips together.
“Didn’t you wear those clothes yesterday?” she asked after several seconds. “And, when was the last time you brushed your hair?”
“Yesterday,” I lied. Her eyes narrowed and I could tell she wasn’t buying it. “Or maybe the day before,” I amended.
She sighed.
“Birdie, I can tell from here that you haven’t to
uched it since at least last week,” she said.
I groaned. Ever since I had let the underside of my long hair become so matted and knotted that it had taken my mother two hours with a rat tail comb to untangle it, she had become much more critical of my hygiene.
“But, Mom—” I began, and stopped when she held up the spatula. Grease from the bacon fat flew off and splattered onto the linoleum. She scowled and quickly bent to dab at it with the dish towel.
“Dammit,” she muttered.
When she stood, her gaze again fell on me.
“So, I’ve talked to your Dad,” she said. “And we both agree there need to be some changes.”
“I’ll go brush my hair,” I sighed and started to move toward the doorway.
“That’s not what I mean,” she said and then added, “Although, I expect you to brush your hair after breakfast.”
“So, what do you mean, ‘changes’?” I asked.
“What happened yesterday could have ended very badly,” she said as she turned back to the skillet and slid a greasy egg onto each of the plates on the counter. “It made us both realize that too much of the time we don’t know where you are or what you’re doing.” She looked sideways at me, her eyes narrowed. “Or, if you’re doing things you know you’re not supposed to. For example, what were you girls doing yesterday morning—before you went to the Mercantile?”
“Huh?” I asked, buying time.
“Mrs. Granger said she saw the three of you out near the Montgomery house. You know the rules. You are not supposed to go outside of town.”
“We . . .” I said and then looked at the floor and shrugged. “We were just riding around. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Birdie, look at me.”
I raised my head and she studied my face for several seconds before shaking her head. “You’re a horrible liar. What were you doing out near the Montgomery house?”
I glanced up and then shifted my gaze to Tara, who was watching the conversation with interest. My mother turned back to the bacon, putting two slices on each of the plates before popping two pieces of bread in the toaster.
“Birdie?” she said, as she turned once again to face me. “I asked you a question.”
“We just . . .” I began and then stopped. Lying about being there would only make the situation worse. I sighed and then said, “We just rode out there to see what was going on.”
“Even though you knew you weren’t supposed to be there.”
“Geez, Mom,” I groaned. “I’m almost a teenager. Why can’t I ride over there? Other kids’ parents don’t care if they do.”
“I’m not ‘other kids parents’,” she said. “I’m your parent and what I say goes. And when I tell you that you can only go down to the Mercantile or your tree house, I mean it. You’ve got to learn to do what I say.”
I sighed dramatically and glanced at Tara, who stuck out her tongue, clearly enjoying my discomfort. I waited for the toaster to eject the toast and for my mother to turn back to the counter before I pointed at Tara to let her know I would get her back.
“Either way, I’ve talked to your dad . . .” She pointed at me with her index finger. “And he agrees, so don’t try to play us off each other—and we both think you should stay around the house from now on.”
“But that’s not fair,” I whined. “There’s nothing to do here.”
She shrugged, turned back to the counter, and began to scrape Parkay onto the slices of toast. “You can play Atari or we can set up the Slip’N Slide.”
“Slip’N Slide is for babies,” I said sullenly.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “But this is not up for negotiation.” She shook her head as she extended her arm for more margarine. “I don’t make these rules just to be mean, Birdie. There’s a reason. What if something happens to you and you’re not where you’re supposed to be? How am I going to find you? There are men out there that would think nothing of waiting until one of you is off by yourself and then kidnapping you and murdering you.”
“I know, I know,” I groaned. “Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t get in their cars. You’ve told me a million times.”
She sighed, set the knife on the counter with a thud, turned, and came to where I stood. I stepped back a half-step, sure I had pushed her to her limit already. She crouched and put her hand on my shoulder. Her tone was gentle. “Not everyone who wants to hurt you is a stranger, Birdie. What would you do if someone you knew came up to you and tried to grab you or tried to get you to go with them?”
The look in her eyes scared me more than the thought of abduction.
“I wouldn’t go.”
“That’s right,” she said. “You say ‘no.’ And if someone, even someone you know offers you a ride, you don’t take it. Do you understand?”
Her grip on my arm tightened and I nodded. She turned and beckoned to Tara, who slid off the stool and padded over to where we stood. Our mother wrapped her other arm around her and the three of us stood, three points of a triangle. We nodded. Tara’s eyes were wide. I am sure mine were, too. I felt my throat constrict when I tried to swallow. “Mom, you’re scaring us.”
She closed her eyes and pulled both of us close. I inhaled her scent—a mixture of baby oil, bacon, and something that wholly belonged to her. “Sometimes being scared isn’t a bad thing,” she murmured. “It makes you cautious.” I felt her kiss the tops of our heads before standing and returning to the counter and the half-buttered toast. “But back to the new rules. First and foremost, you’re getting too old to run around without a shirt on, Birdie. You’re not a little girl anymore.”
“Me, too?” Tara asked.
My mother seemed to consider this before nodding. “Yes, both of you. And, Birdie, I don’t want you going out by yourself any more. You need to be with at least one, if not two, of your friends. And this business of going out into the woods near the creek . . . I would really prefer it if when you girls get together, you do it at our house or Natalie’s.”
“What about Grace’s house?”
“Grace can come here. But I would prefer you not go over there.”
“But, what about the Nest? Can we go there?”
She again paused, as if considering. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think you girls need to be out there by yourselves. It’s too private. Someone could easily find you and there wouldn’t be anyone that could help you.”
I thought again about being in the Montgomery house and of Don Wan’s drawings. I thought about the drawing of my face and imagined what could have happened if he had walked in and caught us going through his things. Would he have killed us? If we had escaped, would he have come to the Nest and kidnapped us? What would have happened then? I knew from Natalie’s vivid descriptions of crimes her father investigated that there was rape and torture. I forced myself to imagine Don with his greasy hair and his bad breath. I thought about his hands on me, undressing me. Would he rape me? Not at first, I thought. More likely he would make me pose so he could draw me. Or maybe he would make me spread my legs or touch myself so he could draw me like he did those other women.
I imagined being trapped in the house with him—in the back bedroom where his things were. It was dark except for a candle which he had set close to me. Even though I knew Don was there, I couldn’t see him, only a hunched, dark form. All I could hear were the terrified puffs of my own breath and the soft scratch of his pencil on the paper. And I could smell him, the spicy, sour odor of his sweat. I thought, too late, about my mother’s warning and tried not to let him see my fear. The room, still hot from the afternoon sun, was thick and moist. I tried not to move, despite the trickle of sweat running down my back.
How would he kill me, I wondered? Would he strangle me? I imagined him putting down his notebook and coming toward me, his hands suddenly around my throat, tightening—
“Birdie?” My mother’s voice broke into my thoughts. She had been talking and I hadn’t heard a word. I blinked, still ca
ught somewhere between the present and my imagination. “This isn’t a punishment. I just don’t want anything to ever happen to you. I love you too much. Do you understand?”
My stomach tightened and I knew right then and there I should tell her about the drawings—about how one of them was of me. But, I thought, if I told her the truth, I would also have to tell her how and where we found them. And then I would be grounded—as would Natalie and probably Grace. It was better to pretend as if none of it had ever happened. We hadn’t gotten caught and we were all back safe where we belonged.
“I understand,” I mumbled.
“Good,” she said with a sigh and thrust one of the plates toward me and the other at Tara, who still stood next to me. “Now eat before your breakfast gets cold.”
We took our plates and walked to the tall wooden stools that ringed the outer edge of the bar. “Can I go over to Natalie’s after I eat?”
She turned and shook her head. “Why don’t you play here today?”
“You said we could go over to each other’s houses.” I sighed dramatically. “Besides, there’s nothing to do here.”
“Of course there is. Play with Tara. Read a book. Dig a hole to China. I don’t care, just don’t test me on this.”
“Okay.” I said the word with as much disdain as I could manage and, even though I was no longer hungry, took the fork, stabbed the yolk of the fried egg, and watched as it ran over the white. I was reminded of the day Natalie, Grace, and I tried unsuccessfully to fry eggs on the sidewalk. I glanced over at Tara, who was dipping the corner of the toast into her own yolk. She looked up and grinned. There was no way I was going to play with her. She was still just a baby.
“May I be excused?” I asked. “I’m not hungry.”
“Finish your breakfast.” My mother spoke the words without turning from the sink where she was washing the dishes.
I looked over at Tara and considered sliding my egg onto her plate, but decided it was too risky and then I would also owe her. A sandwich would be the fastest way to finish, so I put the strips of bacon on one triangle of toast, folded the egg on top, and then stuck the other triangle of toast on top of that. I shoved one corner into my mouth in an enormous bite. I chewed a couple of times, swallowed quickly, and took another bite. I was finished in less than a minute.
