Frozen Footprints

by Therese Heckenkamp

  Clay made a face—quite horrid, considering his face was already disfigured—and trudged away to the tune of Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.”

  The only meat I could find was a hunk of frozen venison wrapped in plastic. I set the reddish-brown chunk in a bowl of warm water, then returned to the problem of no lasagna noodles. I couldn’t make them, not without eggs. Determined to find a solution, I recalled a time I’d made a Mexican Lasagna, which actually used flour tortillas instead of noodles. Tortillas use simple ingredients. Flour, salt, water, oil . . . Yes, this just might work.

  I mixed a crumbly dough, then worked it into a dense, flexible ball, which I then divided into six smaller balls. I flattened them between my palms, then found a rolling pin to finish the job. It didn’t take me long to fry each tortilla in a skillet.

  While the radio trilled on with “Love of a Lifetime,” I poked the blob of meat and found it sufficiently thawed. Since it wasn’t ground, I’d have to chop it finely. I plopped it on a cutting board and pressed a butcher knife into it. The oozing red juices made me think of blood. I couldn’t help imagining getting my finger cut off. I swallowed. The venison’s fleshy smell gagged me, and suddenly, I knew I was about to heave.

  “I don’t feel good.” I retreated to the bathroom just in time to wretch over the toilet. Not that I had anything in my stomach to throw up.

  Eventually I managed to close the door and lock it, then prop myself over the sink. I stared at my pale face in the mirror, wishing I could stay in the bathroom forever, or at least until I figured out a plan. My freckles stood out like cinnamon on cream. My hair was matted tangles.

  I opened the medicine cabinet, more so that I wouldn’t have to see my reflection than to look for something to ease my sickness. My eyes roamed the shelves. A bright pink bottle of Pepto-Bismol stood out from the white and orange plastic medicine containers. I rinsed a little cup—trying not to think about what it may have contained at one time, because that would only feed my sickness—poured the thick liquid, and gulped it down, scattering droplets into the sink in the process.

  I closed my eyes and realized my head was pounding. But my heart was pounding harder. Shoving the medicine bottles back into the cabinet, I knocked over a couple. What do they need all these for? Oh yeah, to dull pain after Abner mutilates someone. Wonder how strong this stuff is?

  I peered closer, studying the different labels and searching my mind for information from health or chemistry textbooks that might give me an edge. Besides the typical aspirin, Tylenol, and cough syrup, I found some stuff that, from the cautionary description, looked promising. I tore a sheet of toilet paper and dumped several tablets into it, barely catching one before it rolled onto the floor. After wadding up my little package, I shoved it into my jeans pocket.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the bathroom door, stepped out, and was instantly confronted with Abner. “What were you doing in there for so long?”

  “I was sick. I threw up. Would you rather I did it in the lasagna pan?”

  “I heard you in the medicine cabinet.”

  “I took some Pepto-Bismol. Go see for yourself—I spilled some in the sink.” Silently, I thanked God that I hadn’t rinsed it down.

  Abner’s eyes searched mine. With my shoulders thrust back and my head lifted, I stared back defiantly, telling him I had nothing to hide. The dark skin of his face stretched tight as rubber over his skull, except for under his eyes, where it hung in two purple pouches. He looked like he never got any sleep. “Get back to work.” He grabbed a fistful of my sweatshirt and he hauled me back to the kitchen.

  Once he was resettled in his rocking chair, I held my breath and finished dicing the venison. Then I dumped it into a fry pan and let it sizzle till it was brown. But my mind was no longer on the lasagna. Thankful for the kitchen counter, which hid my lower half from view, I drew the tablets from my pocket and set them on the Formica. I used the rolling pin to crush them into a fairly fine powder, which I brushed carefully into a small measuring cup. My heart beat loudly, above the sound of the radio saxophone. I drew out plates and silverware and, choosing carefully, white frosted glasses. With my back shielding my actions, I poured the powder into two glasses.

  After sliding the lasagna into the oven and setting my watch for forty-five minutes, I opened a couple cans of fruit and mixed a fruit salad for dessert. Then I set the table with plates and silverware. But I still had forty minutes to kill. I walked into the living room to face Abner. “The lasagna has to cook for a while.”

  “Then sit down and wait.”

  I eyed the bookshelf. “Can I at least read a book?”

  “No. You can sit and listen to the music.”

  I thought Clay was sleeping, but as I was about to sink to the wood floor, he opened his one good eye. “You don’t have to sit on the floor.” He stood slowly, offering his seat.

  “That’s okay,” I resisted. “I can grab one of the folding chairs.”

  “No, don’t do that. I’ll use one of those.” Which he promptly did. I wondered if he was remembering being tied to it, as I recalled very vividly, and I sank gladly into his abandoned chair, which was soft and warm.

  I stared into the fire for what felt like eternity, feeling more awkward than frightened, with the incongruous love songs still playing. In another time and place, I could have enjoyed sitting by crackling flames and listening to slow music, but not in this company. Each song was out of place, and I was too aware of Abner’s steely eyes on me, as well as the sinister single eye of his gun.

  “Hey, Charlene?” Clay’s voice obscured the current heart-tugging lyrics.

  “Yeah?” I met his eye and waited.

  He tapped his fingers on his jeans. “I just wanted to apologize for some of the things I said, you know, earlier, in the hole. I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I’m sorry.”

  Did he expect an apology in return? All I said was, “Okay.” I doubted I’d hear him apologize to Max. Mostly, I was surprised he’d spoken in front of Abner, whom I expected to start berating him. Instead, Abner remained silent. The radio now played “Glory of Love” by Peter Cetera. The strange way Abner kept looking back and forth at me and Clay, like he was plotting something, made my skin crawl. Clay didn’t seem to notice.

  It was one of the longest forty minutes of my life. Thanks to Abner, an entire batch of love songs was destroyed, and I never wanted to hear them again. In fact, if I ever escaped this kidnapping situation and lived to get married, I decided I’d ban music at my wedding.

  On the first beep of my watch, I scrambled up to pull the lasagna out of the oven. I set the steaming pan on a hot pad on the table, then returned to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “I’m assuming you want beer with dinner?” I said, sounding slightly annoyed as I lifted a can. Abner gave a gruff acknowledgement, so I popped the tab and poured the beer into the two waiting glasses. I panicked a moment as the powder floated and swirled obviously, but then it subsided and the foam on the beer and the frost of the glass camouflaged it. I poured myself a glass of water.

  At last, Abner turned off the radio. I set the glasses and fruit salad on the table, and sat down.

  “Smells good,” Clay said as he practically hobbled to the table.

  Abner said nothing, merely tucked his gun in his pants and ambled over.

  While Abner and Clay began serving themselves, I made the sign of the cross and bowed my head briefly.

  When I looked back up, Abner’s eyes bore into me like black worms. “What a reverent expression of faith.” He elbowed Clay, making him wince. “Try it, boy, and the truth will set you free. Maybe it’ll even heal your wounds. See how well it works for Little Miss Saint Girl? See how free she is, sitting here with us, a couple of wicked sinners?” Abner let out a harsh guffaw and raised his beer.

  Drink it, drink it, drink it.

  He didn’t drink it. He paused with the glass almost to his lips. “Why’d you put it in glasses?”

  I shrugged
and met his eyes bravely. “I just thought this would be a little more civilized, that’s all.”

  “That’s what you thought, is it?” His upper lip curled. “I think you thought a whole lot more than that. In fact, I think your little brain is trying to be clever again. Don’t you know that gets you into trouble?”

  He slid his glass to me, sloshing beer over the rim. “Drink it.”

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s not a request.”

  I pressed my lips together and shook my head. Clay, who had been watching us uncertainly, eyed his own beer warily.

  “That’s right, Clay. Don’t drink it. She’s up to her tricks again.”

  “What are you talking about?” I tried not to sound flustered. “You think I tampered with your beer? What could I have possibly done? And how? You saw me pour it into the glasses.” I lifted my nose. “I just don’t like beer, and I won’t drink it.”

  “I could force you to,” Abner said, “but I have a better idea. I know someone who’s probably dying for a drink.” He turned to Clay. “Get her brother up here.”

  With a helpless expression, Clay rose from the table, returning two minutes later with Max by his side.

  “Join us for a New Year’s Eve feast,” Abner said congenially, motioning to a kitchen chair with his gun. “Your sister made it.”

  Max didn’t need to be asked twice; his stomach ruled him. My heart fluttered. I should warn him about the beer—but that would be as good as admitting my guilt. I willed him to tune into my thoughts, but he sat readily, his eyes feasting on the lasagna.

  “Have a beer.” Abner shoved the glass toward him. Max seized it and drank readily. He shoveled in lasagna, then started on the fruit salad, his spoon clanking against the bowl, jarring my nerves.

  There was hardly room for all of us to eat at the small round table without bumping elbows. Cozy as this could have been if we were a family, the seating arrangement was a recipe for indigestion. I sat with Max to my left, Clay to my right, and Abner across from me. Seeing how he cut his food into precise pieces and chewed thoughtfully—instead of scarfing it down like an animal, as I’d imagined he would—was more than I cared to know about him.

  The sound of chewing and drinking was too close to my ears. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes besides stare at my plate or glance at Max. Wolfing down his food, he was no help.

  “This is good.” Clay reached for more. “If you can do this with venison, I wonder what you could do with all the fish we catch in summer.”

  “No chance of finding out. We’ll be rid of her long before then. One way or another.” Abner’s grin showed a stringy morsel of meat stuck between his teeth.

  By the time the meal was finished, Max had slumped into a drugged sleep, his head on his arm on the table, and he was snoring.

  “Didn’t tamper with the drinks, eh?” Abner spoke in a low voice. “You passed the lasagna test, but you had to ruin it for yourself with the drinks.”

  I began clearing dishes simply to escape the table.

  “Clay, go haul the kid back down into the hole.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue. You lugged him once before, so you can do it again.”

  I finished stacking plates beside the sink, telling myself if I was useful and quiet, perhaps Abner would forget about retribution. I searched through all the cupboards, but couldn’t find any dish soap.

  “There’s soap on the sink ledge,” Abner replied to my query.

  “That’s a bar of hand soap.” Dehydrated, cracked, and ancient. “I mean liquid detergent dish soap.”

  “Don’t have it. Don’t need it. Soap’s soap. I’m afraid we’re not as fancy ’round here as you’re used to, royal maiden.”

  Clenching my teeth, I filled the sink. The flaking yellow soap did nothing to fight the grease. I used all my muscle power to scrub the lasagna pan.

  So I had been caught drugging the beer. What would the consequences be? I caught my reflection in the slick black windowpane above the sink, and I looked scared to death.

  I shuddered, my submerged hands creating undercurrents in the filthy, lukewarm water. Water filled with silverware, I reminded myself, my mind perking up. Forks, knives, and spoons. Shifting my eyes carefully, I chose my timing and carefully slipped a knife into the waistband of my jeans, on the right side, for easy access. I concealed two spoons on the other side, for digging.

  By the time I was done drying the dishes, my hands were parched and wrinkled. My skin felt foreign, not like skin at all, but like a pair of rough gloves glued to my hands. I found myself wishing for hand lotion, but was jerked from this thought as Abner suddenly towered over me.

  “You just don’t learn, do you, girl?”

  I yelped as he grabbed me and pulled the cutlery from my waistband, grazing my skin with the knife as he did so.

  “I see everything you do.” He twisted my arm backwards so painfully, I gasped.

  My voice came out in a whisper. “God, please.”

  “What was that? Praying again, are you? You really think God can save you? Since when? Has He ever intervened before? Of course not. He’s a deaf God. What a fool you are to keep turning to Him. A fool, like all Catholics.”

  I was vaguely aware of Clay, sitting in the brown living room chair, his eyes on us. But when the pain in my arm made stars flash before my eyes, I forgot him.

  “Since you’re such a religion lover, why don’t I take a page out of the Good Book,” Abner sneered so close to my ear that I felt the warm dampness of his breath, “and we’ll see what you think of your God then.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Under Abner’s evil eye, I was forced to fill a plastic basin of warm water and bring it into the living room, along with a washcloth. My heart hammered crazily. Abner sat in the brown chair, which Clay had vacated in exchange for hovering nervously near the rocker.

  What next?

  Abner held the gun steadily on me as he stretched his legs. “Take off my boots.”

  I blinked stupidly.

  “You heard me. Take off my boots.”

  My pride buckled at the thought of kneeling down for the task, but I forced myself, telling myself this wasn’t that bad, and I could still refuse whatever came next.

  And get myself killed.

  The laces were crusty, the knots complicated. I picked at them till my fingernails hurt. Once I got them loosened, I pulled the heavy boots off quickly.

  “Now the socks.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the foul, salty rotten odor that hit me the moment I stripped the first black sock from Abner’s foot. I actually saw dirt stuck to his skin, and curling, thick dark hairs. Yellowed toenails sprouted from angular toes. If I throw up on your feet, it serves you right.

  “What are you waiting for? Wash them.”

  Swallowing hard, I rung out the washcloth and began scrubbing, trying not to think about the task as I performed it. The water in the basin quickly darkened into a murky soup. I held my breath.

  At last, no more grime remained. The worst was over. The end was in sight. This was actually nothing compared to getting a finger hacked off. My breath trickled out in wispy relief.

  “Now dry my feet,” Abner directed.

  “But . . . I don’t have a towel.” I made as if to rise and get one, but he forced me back down with a crack of the gun on my shoulder. Laughter rattled from his throat. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been reading your Bible like a good Catholic girl? Because if you had, you would be well acquainted with this entire scene.”

  My frantic thoughts skittered in all directions, trying to understand, but then he began quoting, and it became all too clear.

  “ ‘Mary therefore took a pound of ointment . . . of great price, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair.’ ” Abner paused to grin. “That’s the gospel according to Saint John, chapter twelve, verse three. Sorry I don’t have any rich ointment for you to use, but don’t let that stop you.”

>   My throat tightened. “Wiped his feet with her hair.” My ribs tightened. My entire body tightened, then recoiled. I put two stunned hands to my head, as if to protect my hair. Yes, it was not in salon condition at the moment, but still—if I touched this monster’s feet with my hair, I would have to shave it all off.

  “Do it,” he ordered.

  My scalp itched and crawled and prickled with horror as I bent my head low over his foul feet, now so close to my face. My chestnut curls tumbled over his toes and ankles, and my hair—once my crowning beauty, my pride, my source of vanity—became a filthy mop.

  When at last Abner sighed and said, “That’s enough,” I raised my head so quickly I became dizzy with the rush of blood. I saw Clay, still hovering in the background, and shot him a glare. Whether he was wounded or not, I disdained him for standing by, watching, and doing nothing to help me. That his efforts wouldn’t have been effective didn’t matter. He should have tried.

  Feeling thoroughly wretched and dehumanized, I was allowed to gather my winter things and return to the hole. I descended into darkness feeling utterly forsaken by God. How could He allow such profane ridicule? No, don’t think like that. It’s what Abner wants. To which my anguished heart cried: But Abner always gets what he wants.

  And the truth was, I wasn’t so incensed by the thought of how Abner offended God, as I was over how he’d offended me. I huddled near Max’s still slumbering form and wished for the escape of his drugged sleep, the comfort of nothingness, oblivion, as I wallowed in misery. How does that evil man even know the Bible well enough to mock it in such a twisted way? He even had the verses memorized.

  But I didn’t want to think about Abner anymore. With a mad surge of anger, I snatched up my dirty blanket and rubbed it fiercely over my head, till it felt my hair would all fall out. But in the end, this only made me want to avoid touching the blanket as well, and I groaned in despair. The evil taint of Abner was spreading, infecting everything. He was right. I was a fool to think I could ever escape.