The Odds of You and Me

by Cecilia Galante

  I press the side of my fist against my mouth.

  “I went ape-shit after that.” Mr. Herron’s lined face hardens. “My hands were tied with wire behind my back, but I hauled off and kicked one of the guards in the face. I prolly broke the bastard’s jaw in three different places. The guy was on the floor, screaming. They took me out back, too, after that. And you know what? I didn’t care. I was sure they were going to kneel me down the way they’d made Randy-Kid kneel there in the mud and shoot me in the back of the head, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass. Getting killed didn’t seem so terrible anymore. Not after what had just happened.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for what will come next, wondering if I want to know. My breathing is shallow, the edges of my face hot.

  “But they didn’t kill me. Obviously. They put me in solitary. A hole in the ground, way the hell outside of camp, no wider than two or three men. Board on top, nailed down shut. I don’t know how long I was down there. Three, four weeks, maybe more. I tried to keep track of time by looking at the slats of light through the board when the sun came up. Slept standing up, leaning against one side of the hole. Meals were a dry bun that they threw down once a day. If they remembered. Sometimes they didn’t. It rained once for an entire day and night and the hole filled up to my knees with water. All the skin on the bottom of my feet came off. I got dysentery, a fever so bad I thought my skin might split apart from the heat beneath it. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the silence. For as terrible as Randy-Kid’s crying and screaming had been, I would have traded it quicker’n anything for that silence. It was like being suffocated by something that didn’t even exist, living in that hole, inside that silence. Like the whole world, even God, had forgotten about me.”

  He jerks his chin toward the radio in the corner. “I don’t blame that guy out there one bit for runnin’. There’s nothing worse than being locked up in some cage like an animal. Even if you do deserve it. Nothin’ worse in the world.” He taps the side of his head with a finger. “That boy knows that. That’s why he’s runnin’. Not ’cause he thinks he’s innocent. ’Cause he don’t want to lose his dignity. His humanity.”

  Neither of us says anything for a moment. The only sound in the room is the squeak of Mr. Herron’s chair as he leans back on it.

  It takes me a while to find my voice. And when I do, it comes out high-pitched, like a little girl’s. “How’d you get out of the hole?”

  “American troops came in and razed the camp.” His voice is tighter than twine. “Killed every one of ’em bastards. You know, that was probably the moment I was most scared.”

  “When you were getting rescued?”

  “Waiting to get rescued. I could hear everyone running around in the distance, the sound of guns firing, bodies falling, and I screamed and screamed from the bottom of that hole, but no one came, not for a good ten minutes or so. Damn if I didn’t die of a heart attack right then and there, thinking they were all goin’ to head out and leave me behind.” He inhales. Deeply, like a man coming up from the bottom of the ocean. “But they heard me. At least one of ’em did. Got me on a plane with all the rest and took us back.”

  “God. I bet you were glad to be home.”

  “Yep.” Mr. Herron nods slowly. “It was good to be back. I found a job, met my wife a few years later, had us some kids.”

  “And . . .” I pause, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “And things were okay for you after that?”

  He moves his eyes in my direction. “Well, I’m eighty-two years old, and I’m sitting here at my kitchen table, telling you about Randy-Kid. So you tell me.”

  I drop my eyes, stare at the ribboned pattern in the wood surface. There is nothing to say, no possible reply to give such a statement. What was it that James said about the things the brain chooses to remember and the things it chooses to forget? What parts of that experience has Mr. Herron left behind, whole swaths of memory that he will never admit to anyone, even himself?

  “You think they’ll find that guy who ran off yesterday?” I hear myself say.

  Mr. Herron shrugs. “They say he’s hurt. I guess it depends on just how bad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if he’s bleedin’ and don’t have any medical attention, that ain’t good. If he wants to live, he’ll probably drag hisself to a hospital somewhere for help. So they’ll find him then, I guess.”

  “What if he isn’t bleeding all that much?” I ask. “What if he just has broken bones or something?”

  Mr. Herron shrugs again. “Broken bones won’t kill him. He’s just gotta find someone who can set ’em. And then keep runnin’, I guess.”

  I can’t ask any more questions. It’ll look too suspicious. But then, like a gift, Mr. Herron says, “You can set a bone with just about anything. My two buddies and I set a guy’s leg with half a broomstick once, back in the camp.”

  “A broomstick?”

  “We snapped it in half, pushed the sides in tight on either side of his leg, and then tied ’em up. You gotta immobilize it. Keep it straight, so’s it can’t move at all. Helps with the pain, too.”

  Another silent moment passes.

  Mr. Herron rocks back and forth, while I struggle to remain upright.

  “Boy, Mr. Herron, and I thought the only thing you knew how to do was plant flowers.” I laugh a little, stand up again. My head feels light, like I’ve just sucked the contents of a helium balloon.

  Mr. Herron stands up, too. “Oh, I can plant flowers,” he says, nodding. “Waiting for them to bloom, though . . . well, that’s a whole other story.”

  Chapter 18

  I stop at a Lowe’s Hardware after leaving Mr. Herron’s, and ask the salesclerk behind the front desk—a red-haired kid with blue rubber bands on his teeth and a name tag that says JERRY—if I can have help getting two pieces of lumber.

  “Sure,” he says. “What size?” He’s so tall that his shoulders slouch when he walks. He has big ears that stick out, and his chin is covered with red, pustular acne. I doubt he’s even finished high school yet. I wonder if Randy-Kid looked anything like him.

  “Um, I’m not really sure. I want to build something for my son.”

  “Okay.” Jerry gives me a look out of the corner of his eye. “Do you know what you want to build?”

  I shove my hands inside my jeans; they feel moist and clammy. “Um . . . well, really, it’s just for him to build something. Mostly for knocking around, you know? He’s five, he likes to pretend he’s a carpenter. I just want to get him some nice pieces of wood. Let him do his own thing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jerry leads me down an enormous aisle flanked with stacks of lumber. The floor is littered with dusty footprints; a bubblegum wrapper lies adrift on one side. There are pale wood strips as long as flagpoles, shorter, darker ones no bigger than a foot. “We have some nice furring strips I could cut down for you,” he says. “I can make them whatever size you want.”

  “Okay. That sounds good.” I wonder if he has any friends in high school. He must. All kids these days have friends, don’t they? I squeeze my hands into fists, stare at the dirty tile around my feet.

  “This look okay?” Jerry asks.

  “Maybe a little bigger. Like, half of me?” I position the side of my hand against my thigh. “From here down, maybe?”

  “So basically you’re looking for a couple of two-by-fours.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Be right back.”

  I pace after Jerry disappears into a back room, cross and uncross my arms in front of me. I wonder if I’m on a hidden camera. Later, when it’s all over, and the police review the tape, they will come to question Jerry. I imagine him saying something like, “You know, I thought she was acting weird. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but she was all jumpy, talking about building something for her kid. You mean, it was for the guy?” I find a corner nearby, press myself inside the walls as tightly as possible.

  Just in case.

&nbs
p; “All set,” Jerry says, appearing suddenly with two pieces of wood. “These look okay?”

  “They look great.” I step out of the corner, run my hand up the smooth sides of them. They just might actually work. “Thanks so much for your help. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” Jerry sticks a finger in his ear, starts shaking it around in there. “You need anything else?”

  I need ties of some sort, soft ones to wrap the wood around James’s leg. Or rubber ones, so they don’t cut into his skin. But there’s no way I’m going to ask Jerry for them. “I’m good, I think. I’m just going to look around.”

  “Okay.” Jerry heads back down the aisle.

  “Hey,” I call out.

  He turns around.

  “You’re really good at your job,” I say. “Knowing all this stuff and everything, I mean. You’re a natural.”

  His face brightens a little. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.”

  I nod, duck my head, embarrassed. “You’re welcome.”

  I LEAVE LOWE’S with the wood, six soft rubbing cloths, and three rubber strips, thin and stretchy as rubber bands. How I am going to carry all of it—plus the knapsack—into the church without being noticed is beyond me, but I’ll get to that when I come to it. It’s 11:20. Jane is expecting me by noon. I pull out my cell phone as I start the car, dial Jane’s number.

  “Hello?” She answers breathlessly, frantically. “Hello?”

  “Jane?”

  “Yes! Who is this?”

  “It’s Bird,” I say, maneuvering the car slowly out into traffic. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, Bird.” A sigh trembles out of her. “God, I thought it was Genevieve, calling to tell me she was feeling better and that she’d be coming in after all.”

  “Genevieve isn’t there today?”

  “No.” The word comes out of Jane’s voice like a wail. “And the kids are just going crazy! They won’t listen to anything I say, and I can’t get the baby down . . .” She stops suddenly, as if remembering who she is talking to. “Anyway. Are you calling off today, too? Please don’t tell me you’re calling off.”

  “No.” I make a hard right onto North Main. “But I will be a little late, if that’s all right.”

  “How late?”

  “Not too late. A half hour, tops.” As long as nothing unforeseen happens.

  “Oh, that’s fine.” Jane sounds relieved. “That’s okay. Just get here when you can, all right? I’m going to need all the help I can get today.”

  I ease into the parking lot of Saint Augustine’s, checking for cars. There are six. Shit. I sit for a minute, just looking. That reporter Ma saw this morning could be hiding, waiting in the bushes or something. They do that kind of thing for a story—and worse. I’ve seen it on Entertainment Tonight.

  I shove the rubber strips and cloths into my knapsack, tuck the pieces of wood under one arm, and get out of the car. The clouds have lifted finally, and the sky is a vivid blue, the air balmy and warm.

  Just like 9/11, I think.

  So clear and perfect, moments before the suicide planes dropped out of the sky.

  INSIDE THE VESTIBULE, an elderly woman in a heavy green coat dips her fingers into the basin of holy water. She blesses herself, and then reaches out and touches the bare feet of the Blessed Virgin statue. When she disappears through the second set of doors, I tiptoe over to a rectangular slice of window and peer in at the church inside. There are eight people sitting in there, maybe ten. No sign of Father Delaney, though. Or that other priest who gave part of the sermon last night. All right, then. Let’s roll. I take a deep breath and head for the stairs.

  It’s actually more nerve-wracking going up this time, mostly because everything is visible now. I can see footprints in the dust along the steps, a thread-like cobweb nestled in one of the corners. Even the wall has streaks on it, probably from a million different hands over the years, trailing their fingers on the way up. But it’s the stillness downstairs that gets to me even more. With so much empty space, a cough sounds like a shout, the shift in a seat like a squeaky board. Will they be able to hear James and me up here—even if we whisper?

  I look around—for maybe the first time—when I reach the top. The three tiered steps, covered in red carpet, are lined with pews the color of sand. Behind the highest step, light filters through an enormous stained-glass window bearing the picture of a white dove against a blue background. And of course the organ, big as an ox, sits in the corner.

  Back when I still went to choir practice, I always sat in the very first pew, because it was only a few feet away from the balcony, which looked down at everyone below. Miss Wendell, an older woman who had never married or had children, was the choir director. She was forever yelling at me to get away from the balcony and sit down. It was high—three stories at least—and when I leaned over, it was scary, in a thrilling sort of way. Miss Wendell told me once that she had started having nightmares about me slipping and falling off the balcony. I laughed when she said that, because secretly there was nothing I wanted to do more than fall off the balcony. For some reason, I actually believed that because we were in a church, I wouldn’t get hurt if I fell. Jesus or Mary or maybe even that big white dove behind us would swoop down and grab me before I hit the floor. Wouldn’t they?

  I get down on my hands and knees and start crawling along the floor, pressed as close to the balcony as possible. I wonder what Miss Wendell would say if she saw me up here now, using the balcony like some kind of fortress. She would probably be horrified. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe I was the kind of kid—even back then—who showed the early signs of going astray. After all, she had caught me fooling around with Bobby Winthrop in the tiny room that held all the choir books. “Bernadette!” she’d hissed, as if Bobby wasn’t even in the room, as if I’d unbuttoned the first four buttons on my shirt myself. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Bobby leapt up as if someone had stuck a pin in his backside, and disappeared with such agility that even Miss Wendell looked confused. She glanced behind her once and then again, and then finally turned her full attention on me. “Button your shirt,” she said tersely. “And if I ever catch you in this room doing anything else but retrieving the hymnals, you will be sorry. Do you understand me?” I’d nodded, fastening my shirt again while getting to my feet, an endeavor that proved more awkward than anything, and almost toppled over. Miss Wendell’s blue eyes narrowed even more. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

  “No.” I shook my head, wondering how I could ask her about telling my parents. I knew Ma would be livid, but it was Dad I was more worried about. He’d be disappointed. Maybe even devastated. I couldn’t bear the thought of either. “Please don’t tell my parents,” I blurted out. “Please. Just give me another chance. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  Instead of answering, Miss Wendell took two large steps until she was directly in front me and bent down to sniff lightly at my mouth. Satisfied, she stood up straight and gazed at me. “All right,” she said. “We will keep this between ourselves.” She arched an eyebrow. “This time.”

  There wouldn’t be a next time, as I’d quit the choir two months later when I turned thirteen. Getting caught with my shirt unbuttoned in the church choir loft was just the beginning, I guess. Becoming an adult with issues was my obvious lot in life, not a surprise to anyone who knew me. Maybe not even a surprise to me.

  The closer I get to the organ now, the more I can feel that something’s different. Misplaced, maybe, or missing. It’s too quiet. Too empty. And by the time I’m all the way over next to the organ, I don’t even have to look.

  I just know.

  James is gone.

  Chapter 19

  Well, of course he’s gone. He couldn’t stay here. He told me he was going to figure something out and he did obviously.

  It’s over.

  I stare wide-eyed at the empty space behind the organ, panic and relief filling me.


  Who helped him?

  Where is he?

  Evidence of his presence is everywhere—the water bottle, still capped, standing neatly next to the wall. Even the space of floor where he had been sitting is marked up with prints: narrow lines in the dust where he must have dragged himself, a handprint here, another one there. But no body. No James.

  Okay, then. I guess that’s it. That’s all she wrote, as Dad would say. I guess I’ll give the lumber to Angus after all. Let him whale away on it in the backyard. Maybe I can help him make steps leading up one side of the oak tree at the lake house, so that he can climb up into the highest branches without any problem. I’ll bring the food back, line it up again inside the pantry. Ma will never notice. She might even eat the damn meat loaf tonight. Okay. So fine. I have to go anyway. Jane is waiting for me. I have a job that I have to get to, plus another one tonight, and extra work with Mr. Herron tomorrow. Money I have to make. A deadline I have to meet.

  Except that I can’t move. I sit there with my back pressed up against the balcony, like someone’s nailed my hands and feet to the floor. Or maybe I just don’t want to move. At least, not in the direction of the stairs. Not yet. I bring my knees up instead, cross my arms over the tops of them, and put my head down. I study the worn patch of carpet in the space between my feet, faded to a raspberry color, ignore the sudden, familiar pulse of emptiness that has begun to fill my chest like water. I’ve failed him, thrown away what will probably be the only chance I’ll ever have to repay him for what he did for me all those years ago. Because that’s what all this was really about, wasn’t it? A debt that needed to be settled, an evening of the score? Or was it more? Had it become something else over the past few days? Something bigger?