Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “You definitely should.”

  “The only problem is, that place needs more than a new cook.”

  “You have to start somewhere, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Once people taste your food, Lucy, word will spread far and wide, and they’ll come from all over the county to eat there.”

  “That would be nice,” I say, prepared to go inside. “I gotta run, Dalton. Take care.”

  Dalton releases my hand and smiles. Is he going to try to kiss me again? We stand there staring awkwardly at each other for a few seconds before he turns and scampers down the stairs. He moves inside his pickup and quickly disappears.

  Why do I feel disappointed? Because he didn’t try to kiss me? Is that what I really want?

  I’m about to go inside when I notice another car parked down the street and idling along the curb. A swirl of exhaust coils out the tailpipe. Is someone watching me, or am I being paranoid? I make my way down the stairs and head toward it, reaching into my purse for the boning knife. But before I reach the curb, the car takes off down the street and disappears around the corner.

  16

  I SLEEP THROUGH A WHIRLWIND OF MULTICOLORED DREAMS THAT segue blissfully from one vision to the next. At times these dreams bring me to a near-conscious state and I feel as if I could reach out and touch the objects and people in front of me. I see Jaxon as a young boy, laughing, and I grab hold of his hand and run through the woods with him. In this dream, he has lots of energy and exudes a happy boyish charm that was rarely seen in his short, troubled life. The dream changes and I find myself in the middle of a busy kitchen, panicked and feeling claustrophobic as the tickets continue to pile up. For some strange reason I can’t seem to get the food out in a timely manner—and the orders keep piling up. Exhaust fans thunder like jet planes in my ears, and I find myself transported to Afghanistan, all hell breaking loose around me, the wounded coming in at breakneck speed and in desperate need of medical attention. Everyone’s screaming, shouting, or groaning in horrific pain. I watch helplessly as more than a few of them lie dying on tables, their eyes beseeching me to do something. Anything. Then my dream shifts, and I’m asleep. Suddenly I’m awakened by the familiar sound of those voices. I jump out of bed and sprint furiously to the small tent just outside our base. This is the part of the dream that always sickens me. My dream segues, and I find myself buried in a pit down by the Alamoosa, unable to move and listening to the river gurgle past. I’m at the mercy of the people in front of me, although I can’t see their faces. But I can hear them laughing and mocking me. Each of them has a stone in hand. A command is given, and the people lift their arms and begin to throw them in my direction. I close my eyes and escape into the void of darkness just before they smash into my face.

  A knock on the door startles me awake. I spring up, covered in sweat, wondering who it might be. The sweat is thick and hot and pouring down my face. I’m keenly aware of my surroundings, despite it being pitch black in this room. My stomach growls angrily from that greasy eggplant dish, and it takes me a few moments to realize that I’m actually quite hungry. I recall the thick glob of Italian dressing on my salad. And the stale breadsticks and melted mozzarella that bubbled over the top. There’s a second knock on the door, reminding me that someone is outside.

  “Come in,” I say, adjusting the pillow beneath me.

  Light pours into the room as soon as the door opens. I lift my hand to prevent it from reaching my eyes and see Wendy’s mechanical wheelchair moving toward me. How did she get upstairs? Then I remember the electronic chair lift on the stairwell.

  “Something wrong?” I say.

  “Wrong?” She laughs, but she’s anything but amused. “Lucy, you’ve been asleep for two days.”

  “What?”

  “I know you’ve asked me not to bother you when you are up here, but I was getting worried.”

  “Two days?” I can’t quite believe this. No wonder I’m so famished.

  “You scared me.”

  “I guess I wasn’t as ready to face the world as I thought.”

  “Rick Dalton has called here three times asking about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Could be the date you two went on a few nights ago?”

  “It wasn’t a date, Wendy.”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed,” she says, turning away from me. “It’s just that something awful has happened while you were asleep.”

  “What?” I grab her forearm and notice that my hand is shaking.

  “They found a boy’s body in Garrison’s cornfield. He was one of Brynn’s classmates.”

  “Oh my God! What happened?”

  “Whoever did it cut a crescent moon and star into the section of cornfield where the boy was discovered. Like one of those crop circles.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m not. A local pilot saw the design from above and took pictures of it. Then he sent it to the police. They immediately drove over there and found the boy’s body.”

  “Was he Afghani?”

  “That’s the strange thing. The boy was born and raised in Fawn Grove.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” I say. “What are the police saying about it?”

  “They don’t know. I thought I’d come up here and tell you myself, seeing how you’ve developed such an interest in the case.”

  “I need to get up,” I say groggily, ripping off the blanket.

  “Are you okay, Lucy? It’s not normal for a person to sleep for two whole days.”

  “You are aware that I have issues, right? It’s why I came back to Fawn Grove in the first place.”

  “Yes, but two whole days?”

  “I’m not entirely sure why I slept that long. Are you still good with me staying here in my condition?”

  “You’re family, Lucy. You can stay here for as long as you like.”

  Wendy leans over and hugs me, and as much as this sudden intimacy freaks me out, I don’t move. I let her cling to me. It feels as if she needs this hug more than I do. Although she’s a bit older, and I haven’t seen her for many years, I do love her. Besides Brynn and my estranged father, she’s the only blood relative I have left in this town.

  * * *

  The rain batters the windshield as I barrel toward Garrison’s cornfield. The eastern handle of Fawn Grove consists primarily of farmland and cow pasture, and it’s been like that for years. The only time we ever went there was to pick apples or cut down our annual Christmas trees. We’d get a fresh one every year, and we kids would pile happily into the family wagon for the ride over. Jaxon loved our apple picking outings the most, oftentimes scaling the tallest tree to grab the plumpest, juiciest apple. It’s a wonder he never fell and broke his neck. That kid could scale almost anything, including the local quarry’s highest peaks, where he would leap off the hundred-foot cliff. Then after we’d finished picking apples, our bags brimming with Red Delicious and plump McIntosh, we’d order a bag of pumpkin donuts straight out of the fryer, along with cups of hot cider. With our goodies in hand, we’d settle at one of the picnic tables and gorge ourselves. Come Halloween, Jaxon would be the first one in the corn maze, sprinting through it as fast as his little legs would take him, always the first to escape.

  I pull up to Garrison’s and see a police car at the entrance to the farm. It’s parked between the split rail fence and the opening where visitors pull in. I leave the truck running and walk toward the officer’s car. The frantic sound of the pickup’s windshield wipers reminds me that it’s pouring outside. The young kid who emerges from the car looks to be in his teens. He’s wearing a transparent raincoat over his blue jacket and cap, and the intensity of the rain pounding against it sounds like an assault rifle going off.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” he shouts.

  I’m not sure what to say. I stop in front of him, rain dripping off the hood of my rain poncho and battering my ears.

  “Ma’am?”

  �
�Where’s Detective Dalton?” I shout.

  “He’s not here right now. If you need to speak with him, you can probably track him down at the station,” he shouts back.

  I look over his shoulder. “Can I go inside?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s a crime scene. The state police have instructed me not to let anyone inside the perimeter.”

  “Would you mind not calling me ma’am, Officer Wilson?” I say, reading his nameplate.

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, sure.” He shifts his weight nervously as I look him up and down.

  “How old are you?”

  “Excuse me, ma . . .”

  “I said, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-five, but I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “You any relation to Steve Wilson?”

  “Steve was my-my-my big brother,” he stutters.

  “I knew Steve back in high school,” I say, glad to make a connection that might get me inside. The rain drips down my hair and face, and I hope my mascara’s not running too badly.

  “You knew my brother?”

  “Yeah. We were friends in high school.”

  He seems hesitant, as if he doesn’t want to continue this conversation.

  “How’s he doing?”

  He glances around the farm before saying, “He’s d-d-d-dead.”

  “Dead?” The notion of Steve’s passing shocks me. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “Overdosed t-t-t-two years ago. H-h-h-heroin.” His stutter seems to be getting worse.

  “I had no idea.”

  “It’s become a b-b-b-big problem in Fawn Grove these days,” the kid says. “A lot of it’s laced with f-f-f-fentanyl.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you want to be part of the s-s-s-solution and not the problem,” he says, gesturing toward the cornfield. “Same goes with these towelheads moving into t-t-town. Killed one of our own this time.”

  “How did it happen?”

  He makes a throat-slitting gesture. “Between you and me, I blame those sand niggers! It’s about time they go back to their own country.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “Of course I-I-I-I do. There’s going to be a big protest rally in town. You should go and show your support.”

  His racist words shock me as much as the news of Steve’s death, and I run back to the warmth of my idling truck. The windshield wipers sweep maniacally across the glass as I turn the wheel and gun it back down the road. I put a death squeeze on the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. The cop’s words about his dead brother haunt me, and I find it hard to believe that my old school friend passed away.

  The skies clear by the time I get back into town. A hint of sun can be seen breaking through the clouds. I need to find Dalton. I need to find the missing girl. My stomach rumbles for food as I cruise toward Fawn Grove High. It’s the same squat brick building that’s been there forever. Tennis courts and a football field sit off to the side. A bell rings, and kids pour out the doors and begin to loiter in the parking lot. A few stop to smoke and chat. I stop the truck across the street to observe them. A circle of students stand conversing behind a row of cars and trucks.

  It must be early release day on account of their murdered classmate.

  Why have I come here? One of their peers has been killed and the world moves on as if nothing has happened. Maybe they don’t yet know about their dead classmate. But I doubt it. Word spreads quickly in this small town, if the past is any indication.

  I’m about to speed off when I see Brynn standing in the middle of the circle, her pink book bag sprawled across her delicate shoulder. She’s smoking and nodding her head as if in agreement with what’s being said. She looks older to me now and not the innocent girl I once thought. She’s with Stefania, who is also smoking. Are they friends? Has the murder of their classmate brought these two disparate personalities together? I had no idea Brynn or Stefania even smoked, although nothing surprises me anymore, especially after that conversation I had with Brynn the other day.

  I take off down the road and see a logging truck angling toward me. My pickup has veered out of control and slid into the opposite lane. I turn the wheel hard and at the last second swerve out of its path. The sound of the truck’s horn blasts in my ears as I accelerate around the truck. The crushing weight of its rear tires churn dangerously close to my left. Once I pass, I pull over to the side of the road and let my heart slow to its normal rhythm. I feel sick. I’d throw up if I had anything in my stomach. But my stomach’s an empty pit of despair. If I don’t force myself to eat soon, I fear I’ll pass out.

  * * *

  I stagger into The Galaxy, light-headed and dizzy, and plop myself down on one of the ripped stools. As usual, the place is empty, except for two blue-hairs sipping coffee in one of the back booths. I know it’s usually a slow time in the restaurant business, but the emptiness of the place now seems pathetic and sad. Where is everyone? Years ago there would have been a big crowd in here. I adjust my sunglasses and lean over the counter. It’s so quiet, I can hear the clock ticking above the coffeemaker. I get up, go behind the counter, and make my way into the kitchen. The lack of fuel in my system has left me so weak that I must stop and hold the wall to keep from falling.

  Yanni’s asleep in a chair by the walk-in. For a brief second I fear he’s had a heart attack or stroke. But then the violent sound of his snoring rumbles across the room and informs me that he’s far from dead. I go over and gently shake his shoulder. It takes him a few seconds before he adjusts to the light. He opens his eyes and sees me standing over him. The shock of being woken causes him to jerk his oversized head up.

  “Jesus! You scared the shit out of me.”

  “You always take a nap this time of day?”

  He waves his hand in disgust. “It’s a slow time right now.”

  “Will you make me something to eat?”

  “You come here again to make fun of me?” He gets up and walks toward the stainless steel table.

  “No.” I look around the kitchen. “Where’s all your help?”

  “Stef will be here soon.” He pulls out an industrial-sized can of tomato sauce and begins to open it.

  “I’m famished, Yanni. Could you make me a burger and some fries?”

  “Go sit down and I’ll fix it for you.”

  He looks at me for a second and then buries his face into his hands and begins to cry. I don’t know whether to leave or go over and hug him. Instead, I do what I always do, and that’s nothing. I’m so accustomed to seeing people cry in my kitchen that it’s almost second nature to ignore them. I know it sounds callous, but the kitchen is a cruel and unforgiving place that will crush you if you let your guard down. My inclination is to tell him to get back to work, but that seems counterproductive now. The weak and unfit always fled from my kitchen, never again to face my wrath. And as far as I was concerned, that was a good thing. Cooking in restaurants is about survival of the fittest.

  “My daughter’s right. I need lots of help here,” he says. “This diner is going to hell, and I can’t do nothing about it.”

  His words surprise me, and I don’t know what to say. Saving this diner is more than I can handle at the moment, especially when I can’t even take care of myself.

  “I’ve let my family and customers down. I feel so ashamed.”

  “You can still turn it around, Yanni. It’s not too late.”

  “I’m sixty-six years old and tired. I don’t know if I have the energy to do it anymore.” He turns to me. “Tell me what I can do.”

  “For starters, make me a double cheeseburger with bacon. Fries too. ‘The customer is always right’ is the first rule of any good restaurant, and I’m your only customer right now.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Make my burger and we’ll talk about it later,” I say, barely able to concentrate because of the intense, all-consuming hunger bearing down on me.

  I
return to the dining room and take a seat at the counter. A rumpled copy of the day’s newspaper sits in front of me. I flip through it while Yanni prepares my meal. The top story is about the boy’s murder. I see an aerial photo of the cornfield, and the crescent moon and star are displayed prominent in the picture. In the right column is a photograph of the boy. He’s smiling and looks like an all-American kid from Anywhere, U.S.A. He was good-looking, and I can tell by his earring, stylish haircut, and bright eyes that he was popular with the girls. Such photogenic smiles, in my opinion, often mask a well of hidden sadness.

  I’m about to read the article when I see Stefania walking into the dining room. She ties an apron around her thin waist and grimaces upon seeing me. Not thirty minutes ago she was standing in that high school parking lot with Brynn and the other students, smoking cigarettes. She approaches the counter and stares down at the newspaper in disgust.

  “I thought you hated this place,” she says.

  “You’re imagining things.” I return to my paper.

  “If you don’t like it here, why don’t you go somewhere else to eat?”

  “Why don’t you go take a smoke break while your grandfather makes me lunch.”

  “Smoke break?” She glares at me, the muscles in her jaw flexing. “Why are you making things up about me?”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, Stefania.”

  “I told you a hundred times that my name is Stef. Now how about you stop lying about me?”

  “Lying?” I laugh. “I saw you and the rest of your pals smoking in the high school parking lot. Been smoking anything else lately?”

  “Were you spying on me?”

  “Please. I could give two shits whether you smoke or not. Get lung cancer for all I care.”

  “Better not tell my mom.”

  “Why? What’s a snotty kid like you going to do about it if I do?”

  She stands there fuming, unable to come up with a witty reply.

  “I had no idea you and Brynn were such good friends,” I say.

  “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” She pokes a finger into the paper and makes a groaning sound. “It makes me sick that they made Taylor look so wholesome and happy. That boy was a total scrub.”