Ache

by P. J. Post

  She leans her face close and stares at me. She doesn’t blink. Her hands are resting on my shoulders. I feel myself trembling. I’m suddenly aware of how warm she is, of her weight on my legs. She’s so beautiful, so honest, so real.

  I realize I don’t have to protect my secrets from Annie.

  She kisses me and I kiss her back. Sitting there in the dark tunnel under Elm Street, I fall in love for the first time. I find my very own princess.

  One night, the following week she arrives after dark and she’s dressed differently. I shine my flashlight on her. She curtsies and smiles. She’s wearing a white dress, but it doesn’t look like a Sunday-school dress, it looks more grown-up.

  Then she runs over and wraps her arms around me and kisses me.

  “Happy birthday,” she says. “I have a present for you.”

  “What? My birthday was last month.”

  “I know, but it sucks we missed it, so you’re getting do-overs. Stay here.” She turns and runs back to the entrance to the tunnel and comes back with a thin square wrapped like a regular present, but with a brown paper bag instead of fancy wrapping paper.

  I hold it and feel my eyes get wet, and I turn away so she can’t see.

  She jumps in front of me. “What’s wrong? You can’t not like it, you haven’t even opened it yet.” She pouts.

  “No, I love it.”

  “You don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s my first present, since my mom died.”

  She doesn’t say anything. She leans over and kisses my eyes, and then kisses my tears away and hugs me so tight I can barely breathe. “I’ll always give you presents,” she whispers in my ear.

  She pulls back and I open it. It’s the Ramones’ first record. I grin.

  “I can play it when my dad goes to work,” I say.

  “You’re going to love it.”

  “Did you get it from that record store you told me about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When are you going to take me?”

  “My uncle’s being mean. I can’t go anywhere anymore. I have to sneak out.”

  “Are you going to get into trouble?” I ask.

  “No, he’s dumb.”

  “I’m sorry. Can we sit down?”

  “I’d rather stand,” she says.

  “Okay, why?” I ask taking her hand.

  “I got in trouble already. I got spanked.”

  “For me? Don’t do anything to get in trouble, promise?”

  “Okay. But I wanted you to have it. It was worth it,” she says, giving me a big smile.

  “My dad doesn’t spank me.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Not really,” I say and raise my shirt as I turn around.

  “Oh! Did he do that?”

  “Not the big one, that was from the car accident that killed my Mom. It’s the new stripes.” I can feel that some of the belt lashes are bleeding a little.

  She traces the scars with her finger, careful of the fresh stripes.

  “I’m so sorry, your dad is a jerk.” She hugs me again.

  “What did your uncle do to you?”

  “He pulled my pants and my panties down and spanked me with his hand. It really hurts and it was weird. It’s not as bad as yours though. I’m sorry I can’t sit down.”

  I know what she just told me is wrong, very wrong. She’s too old. I wonder if I should tell someone, and then realize I don’t have anyone to tell. I don’t know what I can do on my own, I’m just a kid. Then I wonder if she is thinking the same thing about me.

  “We don’t deserve this, we should run away,” she says.

  “Run where?”

  We both laugh.

  I change the subject. “So my dad’s a mechanic, what does your uncle do?”

  “He works at a strip club and deals drugs.”

  “What’s a strip club?”

  “It’s one of those places where women get paid to take off their clothes. Old men stare at them and give them money.”

  “Gross.”

  “Yeah. And that reminds me, I have another present. My uncle brought it home a couple of days ago. I think you should have it. Be right back.”

  She turns and runs back out to the tunnel entrance and then returns with a guitar case.

  “What?” I ask.

  “My uncle got it from the club, I think, and I thought about you.”

  She sets it down and opens the case. Inside is a Korina wood Explorer, an old one. It’s lived a hard life, but when I pick it up and play, I know it’s not broken, its soul is still here. It just needs a little love.

  “This is too much, I can’t take this. What will your uncle say?” I ask.

  “This is what he gets for spanking me. But I hope you take it, ‘cause I’m going to leave it down here if you don’t. Serves him right.”

  “Thank you,” I say. I put the guitar back in its case and hug her, holding her for a long time. “You’re not going to get in more trouble, are you?”

  “You’re welcome, Connor. I like to make you happy. It’s so easy to do. And no, he won’t even miss it, he was pretty high when he came home with it. He won’t even remember.”

  And then she looks at me suspiciously. “Have you ever done drugs?” she asks.

  “No.” This time I’m not lying.

  She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small package.

  “What’s that?”

  “Cocaine. You sniff it. It’s so cool. My uncle gave me some after he spanked me. I think he felt bad or something. Like I said, he’s weird.”

  She carefully squats down and makes a flat space with her bag and then lays out the small package. Inside is a dollar bill, she unfolds it and then very carefully uses her fingernail to break it up into little piles.

  “How do you sniff it?”

  “Here, hold this. Be careful,” she says and then takes another dollar out and rolls it up tight like a straw and then hands it to me. “Put one end in your nose and the other over this pile here — no — real close, yeah like that, and then sniff real hard and up it goes.”

  I do as she says and sniff and suddenly try not to sneeze.

  She giggles and then takes the dollar roll from me and sniffs the other pile.

  We take turns sniffing the remaining piles.

  She takes her finger and dabs the leftovers and then rubs her finger inside my mouth. I feel it go numb and grin.

  I’ve already had two beers, but now everything slowly starts to feel even better, brighter — happier.

  We can’t stop grinning at each other. We hug. And then we make out.

  We stay much later than usual. We can’t let go of each other.

  This is the best birthday ever.

  §§§§§§

  We never make it to the record store.

  By August, she isn’t coming every night. And when she does, she’s tired and quiet and doesn’t want me to hug or kiss her anymore.

  She just stands there. Her blond hair is pushing out the purple and her make-up is brighter and thicker, making her look older. She’s wearing new clothes too. They’re tighter and show how much she is growing up.

  She has a beer and a cigarette or two and then says she has to split.

  I know something is wrong, but I don’t know where she lives or how to help.

  After a couple of weeks, I decide to follow her, to be her knight and rescue her, but she never comes to the Fort again.

  Each night I go to the tunnel, pacing and smoking stolen cigarettes, worrying about her, hoping she is okay and that she’ll be here soon.

  But night after night, she doesn’t come.

  And then, in late August, she’s back.

  When I get there, I see her sitting against the wall, a slumped silhouette against the fading sunset. She’s wearing a night shirt with cartoons characters on it and she’s barefoot. As I get closer, I see the spoon, the metal lighter and a crumpled dollar bill on the wet pavement between her legs.

  The n
eedle is still hanging from her arm.

  I stand over her, staring at her half-closed and vacant eyes.

  Her face is battered and the blood is fresh.

  The blood between her legs has covered her nightshirt.

  Why?

  That’s all I can think of, why? Not what, or who, just why?

  How could this happen to someone as sweet and kind as Annie? She doesn’t deserve this, it’s not fair.

  It’s not fucking fair.

  I feel my eyes begin to sting.

  Why didn’t she come to me for help, I would have helped her. Why didn’t she say something? I could have helped her.

  But then I remember, she did say something.

  I should have rescued my princess, but I didn’t.

  What have I done?

  My breath catches in my throat and I whimper, “I’m sorry, Annie, I’m so sorry.”

  I’m overwhelmed with sadness, helplessness and regret, but I feel something else too, rising and gaining strength. It’s more than anger.

  I’m shaking and all that keeps running through my mind is how unfair this is, how good she is and how much hope she had for the future, how much hope we had.

  We should have run away. But it’s not too late, when she’s better, we will.

  I sit down cross-legged beside her, gently putting my arm around her and hold her hand. I don’t know what else to do, I’m afraid to touch her face, afraid of hurting her. And then from nowhere, a nursery song my mom used to sing to me when I was a kid pops into my head. I pull the needle out and hurl it across the tunnel and then begin to sing the song to Annie now, gently rocking her back and forth while I wait for the police to show up, like they do on the TV shows. I could go for help, but I’m afraid to leave her alone. I don’t want her to be alone, not now, not like this.

  I feel weak and afraid and that only makes me shake worse.

  I desperately pray for her to be okay, to get better, for the police to show up — for anyone to come and help.

  “Connor?” I can barely hear her.

  “Yes, Annie?” Her eyes are glistening, but somehow still dull. There is hope, she is going to be okay. I smile down at her and squeeze her reassuringly.

  “I love you. I’m sorry.”

  And then the light in her eyes fades, and just-like-that, I know she’s dead.

  I gasp and squeeze her more, hugging her as tightly as I can, trying to hold her here, but she’s limp in my arms.

  “Annie!” I scream, “Don’t leave.”

  And then the whimper returns. “Please.”

  I bury my face in her hair and beg her to stay, even though I know she’s gone.

  Why can’t I protect the ones I love? Why can’t I keep them safe?

  But I know the answer, I’ve always known it. I don’t deserve someone like Annie, if I did, she wouldn’t be going cold in my arms.

  I’m weak, and that weakness has destroyed Annie and crushed my life too.

  And then my breathing gets smoother and the sting in my eyes slips away. I don’t cry. I don’t even feel like crying anymore.

  I suddenly feel stronger and I’m beginning to understand this new feeling.

  Annie is the second person I’ve watched die, the second woman I let die.

  I make a promise to protect anyone who needs it from now on, no matter the cost, no matter the consequences. And I pray to God, making a deal. If he lets Annie into heaven, I’ll watch over everyone I can.

  “Please God, when she gets there, let Mom take care of her,” I say with conviction.

  And I keep praying as I sit with her, holding her hand throughout the evening, rocking her as though she were merely sleeping. Some part of me refuses to accept that she’s gone.

  Later that night, I hear men shouting her name and see flashlights bobbing around the trailer park. They’re looking for Annie. I already found her and she found me, and that is all that matters. They get closer and louder until a young policeman ducks into the tunnel and shines his flashlight on us.

  He turns and shouts out to the other searchers and walks over to me. I think he already knows what happened, but he doesn’t say anything. He takes her hand away from me and pulls me to my feet.

  He asks where I live and soon the tunnel is full of policemen and paramedics. He guides me away from the tunnel and up into the trailer park. It’s full of flashing lights and people standing around. I keep looking back at Annie.

  She looks so small lying there.

  I know I’ll never see her again, and it will be like none of it ever happened.

  But it did.

  It did fucking happen. I love Annie and I miss her so badly that it hurts, my stomach is rolling in pain and my heart feels dead. I loved my mom too. I know that nothing will ever be the same again and all because of someone like Dad.

  My shaking begins to slow and this new feeling blossoms, and I know it for what it is now and I welcome it.

  I want to kill someone.

  I want to fucking kill whoever did this, and I want their blood to stain my hands, so I can never wash it off — so I can never forget my pact with God.

  The policeman puts me in the back of a cruiser and asks where my dad is, where I live. While he uses the radio to have someone down at the station call my dad, we sit for a while amidst the flashing lights and purposeful activity, but it’s all just a little too fucking late. I look back one last time to the tunnel and I see myself standing there next to Annie. But it’s not me, it’s who I was.

  Two kids died in that tunnel tonight.

  The cop drives me to my dad’s and leaves me in the car while he goes up to the house. My dad is waiting on the porch and talks to him. I can tell he’s angry and for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid. The policeman lets me out of the car and I go into the house.

  Dad slaps me to the floor as soon as the door closes. I glare up at him and leap to my feet and attack him. It’s the first time I fight back. It’s also the last time he slaps me, he uses his fists after that. He beats me bad that night, but even as I lay in bed, nursing my wounds, I feel stronger than ever before.

  My long dormant anger is now a focused rage. It’s taken root deep in my soul, nourishing me and I know it will never desert me.

  Annie gave me that.

  This is her present.

  The gossip floats around and later I hear that her uncle and several of his friends gang raped Annie over several days and nearly beat her to death that evening. A neighbor heard something or saw something and called the police. They said that her uncle was keeping her high with drugs and pimping her out. They said she was a junkie and why should anyone be surprised? What did she expect to happen carrying on like that? They said a lot of things. The only truth I know is that on one hot evening, in that tunnel, I guess to take away her pain, Annie overdosed.

  Those cruel and selfish monsters, not the ones under the bed, but the ones out in the living room watching television and drinking beer — just like mom, they took Annie too.

  And I did nothing.

  All these years later, the guilt is almost unbearable. Deep down, I feel like I am as bad as her uncle, why didn’t I save her? Why didn’t I do something?

  I hate myself.

  Rationally, I know this is crazy, I was a just a kid then, but I can’t shake it.

  I decide to search for our mark, but it’s right where I remember. It’s faded, but still readable near the ceiling, black paint on the wall — a heart with A + C written inside. I rub my ear, holding Annie’s black rose earring, while I trace the outlines of the heart, remembering the night she painted it. I’ve had quite a few girls like Debbie, they’re always like Debbie, but Annie was the first and last girl I truly cared about — allowed myself to care about.

  I’ve never told anyone about Annie. Officer Dan found me in that tunnel, and I’m not sure what he knows, one way or the other. We were two lost children that found one another, but in the end — we couldn’t save each other.

 
; I eventually found the record store. I met Todd there two years later, a year after a tornado wiped away the trailer park. By then, Annie was just a childhood legend, the nameless ghost that haunted the Elm Street playground.

  I never cried for Annie, not that night or any since.

  I cry now.

  I cry for Annie. I cry for Tonya, for my mom, for Shauna and even for myself.

  And this is how I spend the rest of my eighteenth birthday, leaning back against the wall where Annie killed herself in the tunnel under Elm Street, next to an abandoned playground.

  17

  In the End

  I walk back to the Garage the following morning in a fog, my mind not really thinking about anything anymore. I’m exhausted.

  It’s raining, which makes me feel better.

  Fuck everyone.

  I walk along the railroad tracks on the way back and retrace my steps around the back of the Garage, but I don’t smell honeysuckle today and it pisses me off.

  Tonya’s van is parked out front.

  I get to the front door, but it’s locked. I fish around in my pocket and realize I don’t have my key. I bang on the door, but Tonya isn’t here or if she is, she isn’t letting me in. I drop to the sidewalk under the front door awning and light a cigarette.

  I have nowhere else to go.

  Later in the morning, Bradford’s BMW pulls up. They sit for a while before Tonya gets out. She walks past me, opens the door and goes inside without a word but leaves the door open.

  I get up and walk in while the BMW drives off.

  Tonya must have gone upstairs already, but the honeysuckle scent remains. Bradford must like it, can’t say I blame him. I take my wet shoes, socks and shirt off and sit down on the couch. I don’t have any other clean pants to wear.

  I hear her upstairs and feel like a trespasser. I’m sure she wants me to go, but she’s too nice to say so. I look around at my gear, thinking again about the good times we had here, the music and the friendship.

  I don’t even want to think about how much I’m going to miss her, because I already do and it hurts.

  I raise my voice so she can hear me. “If it’s okay, I’ll leave my guitars and stuff here and clear out today.”