Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “Is that any way to talk about the dead?”

  “I just hate that everyone thinks he’s a saint now that he’s gone.”

  “No one’s ever a saint while they’re alive.”

  “No one but you,” she says. “Taylor was such a stoner. That picture isn’t even up-to-date.”

  “He smoked a lot of pot?”

  “No, he smoked ribs. Of course he smoked weed,” she says while wiping down the counter. “My friend tells me that in Afghanistan they can put you to death for smoking pot.”

  “So you think that’s the reason why he was killed?”

  “Who knows what these immigrants are capable of doing?” Yanni rings the bell and slides the burger and fries through the hole. Stefania grabs the plate and drops it in front of me. “Buon appetito.”

  I laugh. “Do you even know what that means?”

  “Yeah. Choke on a bone.”

  I laugh, my saliva glands loosening at the sight of the burger. Two crispy strips of bacon poke out the sides of the bun. Grease drips onto the plate and puddles up against the fries. I remove the bun, grab the ketchup bottle, and smack it with the heel of my palm as if I’m performing the Heimlich maneuver. Stefania crosses her arms and watches as I press the seeded bun between my fingers and make quick work of it. The burgers are thin and gristly and have that unctuous taste that comes from cheap beef. Grease drips down my wrists and elbows, and I have to occasionally wipe them clean with a napkin. It might be the best burger I’ve ever eaten. Or the worst. Intense hunger often causes such confused sentiments. I can eat only a few of the fries before a queasy uncomfortableness settles into my rib cage.

  “You scarfed that down pretty quick,” Stefania says a bit too smugly. “Couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “When you’re hungry, anything tastes good.” I toss my napkin over the uneaten fries—the white flag of surrender. “So what’s the connection between the dead girl and this boy?”

  “Who said there was one?”

  “Two kids, two murders? There must be something that ties them together.”

  “I know his father is a preacher in town.”

  “What church does he belong to?”

  “Lighthouse Baptist, I think. His father and Dalton led a protest against the Muslims, calling for them to be thrown out of Fawn Grove.”

  “So you think they killed his son in retaliation?”

  Stefania shrugs. “Either that or because he was a big-time stoner. Whatever theory floats your boat.”

  “You sound so casual about this.”

  “Don’t come in here and tell me how I’m supposed to feel. You don’t know anything about me. I’ll still be living in this shithole when you leave.”

  “Who said I was going anywhere?”

  “Oh, you will. A fancy-pants like you won’t last long in this town.”

  A logging truck rumbles past the diner, causing everything to shake. The burger sits like a curling stone in the pit of my stomach as I stagger out the door. Am I suffering from food poisoning? I went from famished to anguished in a matter of minutes.

  I badly need to see Dalton and find out the details of this murder. Only now I feel like throwing up. I jump into my truck and head home. My bowels feel as if they’re about to explode. I haven’t had so many bad meals since being stationed overseas and eating a constant diet of MREs. It doesn’t surprise me when the blue lights start to flash behind me. I pull over to the side of the road and glance at myself in the rearview mirror. My skin is flushed and pale, my sorry eyes hidden behind these overpriced sunglasses. I place my hands on the wheel and lower my head, praying it’s not him. There’s no way I want Dalton to see me in such woeful condition. A knock startles me back to reality. I roll down the window and turn in embarrassment to face him.

  “Jesus, Lucy, you don’t look so good. You been drinking?”

  “Worse than that.”

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “Actually, I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Better get out of that truck before you make a mess.” He opens my door and steps aside.

  I stagger down to the line of trees. Falling to my knees, I lean over and heave. Dalton comes over and kneels by my side, lifting my damp hair out of my face. He squeezes my shoulder. It’s a gesture of kindness that I appreciate, and yet it feels offensive at the same time. He’s making it extremely hard for me to hate him, and I so badly want to despise this guy, the same guy who tormented me as a kid. But it’s obvious he’s changed. Or maybe he hasn’t changed and wants something else from me. Something I’m not ready to give him just yet. Maybe someday, but not now when everything is up in the air.

  “Are you okay, Lucy?”

  “ No.”

  “What happened?”

  “I made the mistake of eating one of Yanni’s burgers.”

  He laughs. “That’ll do it every time. Fortunately, I’ve built up immunity to his shitty cooking.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about these kids’ murders.”

  “There’s going to be hell to pay in this town when they find out who did it.”

  I hesitate before saying, “Will you take me down to the crime scene?”

  “You know I can’t do that,” he says. “Maybe you should just forget about these deaths and enjoy your time here. How about we go out again? There’s a great country and western bar a few miles out of town.”

  “Do you really think I can just go out to dinner with you and forget any of this ever happened?” I stand angrily, walk back to the truck, and lean against the pickup, running my hands through my sweaty hair.

  “Best to leave it alone, Lucy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll drive yourself crazy thinking about all of this bad stuff. Life’s too short.”

  “But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “This is not your concern. You need to move on in life and enjoy your time here, and let all the negative stuff go.”

  “I hope that when you’re ready, you’ll tell me about it.”

  He sighs warily. “That’s probably not going to happen.”

  “It will, Dalton. It has to, or I’ll find out myself.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s with this crazy obsession of yours?”

  “I don’t know!”

  I climb back in the truck, knowing I can’t tell him about the voices in my head or the girl from the fruit market. Or how her tragic death caused me to lash out in anger the day before I lost my legs. It’s why I need to come to terms with my own hidden truths. I turn the ignition only to realize that Dalton is standing at my window.

  “You okay to make it back to your cousin’s house?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I snap.

  “But I do,” he says tenderly. “I certainly hope you feel better, Lucy.”

  “Thanks so much for your concern.”

  “I’ll see you around,” he says, stepping back from the truck. “And slow down. I don’t want you crashing into anything and ending up like Angus Gibbons.”

  “No chance of that happening. Plenty of fuel left in this old pickup.”

  This makes me laugh. Good old Angus Gibbons and his infamous plane crash. I wave good-bye and then head back to the house, my lead foot pressing mightily against the gas pedal.

  17

  I PULL UP TO THE HOUSE AND SEE RUSS HOBBLING DOWN THE PATH and toward the sidewalk. He’s using an ornate wooden cane and moving slowly. What’s this about? He rarely moves from his chair and hardly ever leaves the house. He makes his way slowly down the stairs leading to the sidewalk. I pull up to the curb and roll down the passenger window.

  “Need a lift, Russ?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Where you heading?”

  “The sun came out today, so I thought I’d get some fresh air. Care to join me, young lady?”

  “A walk sounds nice,” I say, as much as I don’t want to go for a walk.

  “It’ll just be us two cripples.
”

  This line strikes me as odd, seeing how I’d never mentioned my injuries or prosthetics to him. Of course how could he not know? He’s Wendy’s husband. Russ probably knows all the dirty secrets about our messed-up family.

  I park the truck at the curb and join up with him. The rays of the sun work their way through the clouds and filter nicely through the dying leaves. Russ leans on his cane, and for a second I think it might snap from the weight of his immense body. He’s a big man approaching three hundred pounds. At over six feet, he’s got at least six inches on me. Everything is quiet in this leafy neighborhood, and the afternoon sun throws long shades over the sidewalk. It’s days like this when I find myself waxing nostalgic about my hometown, wishing it could always be this way. It strikes me as odd how memory alters perception.

  “Truth is, I needed badly to get out of that house,” Russ says as we turn onto another street. “I was getting a bit stir crazy in there.”

  “You must be an expert on military history by now, all those documentaries you watch.”

  “Beats watching those awful sitcoms. At least I’m learning something about the world.”

  “It must suck being laid up all the time.”

  “You, better than anyone, should know how that feels.”

  “I did at one time.”

  “How long were you hospitalized after the bombing?”

  “Two full years at Walter Reed. But I always believed the day would come when I’d walk out of there like I once did. Not one hundred percent, mind you, but enough to live a normal life.” I realize how funny this line sounds, knowing that I could never be the same person as I once was. Losing my legs, in some ways, came to be a blessing in disguise.

  “Unfortunately, I’ll never live a normal life again. The doctors said my spinal degeneration will only get progressively worse with time. It’s similar to Wendy’s MS.”

  “What happened to you in that mill?”

  “I got caught in a high-speed conveyor belt. My coworker forgot to shut off the power before I started working on it. Fortunately, I was able to break free before it crushed me. Sunbitch threw me against the floor like I was a rag doll. Shattered two vertebrae in the process.”

  “Misery loves company, right?”

  “Don’t you just hate listening to people’s sympathy? It’s one of the reasons I stay inside all the time.” He stops to catch his breath before moving on. “It’s like I’m carrying a contagious disease and everyone’s afraid of catching it.”

  “Know how you feel. I hated having to explain the same things over and over to people. It gets old.”

  “At least your injuries aren’t as obvious to the world as mine. Being like this makes me never want to go out in public again.”

  “I know, right? It feels like everyone’s staring at you,” I say. “It’s like people can see the pain inside your head.”

  “Your mother took it awfully hard when she heard about your injuries. It plunged her into a deep depression, and in my opinion led to her death. Messed your dad up pretty good too.”

  “My mother paid me a visit when I was recovering at Walter Reed. I didn’t want her to see me like that, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “Your mother loved you kids. Maybe she loved you all too much, to the detriment of her own health.”

  “It’s one of the reasons I stayed away from her for so long. I couldn’t bear the pain of seeing her grieve for me. Or for Jaxon.”

  “I think she came to terms with Jaxon before she died.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “You didn’t come to your mother’s funeral, and Wendy wasn’t happy about that. And you didn’t come visit us afterward or even call to keep us updated on your progress. Brynn would have loved to have met you when she was a little girl,” he says.

  “You don’t know how much my life changed in those two days.”

  “I totally understand that, but what about Wendy and Brynn? They’re your own flesh and blood and deserved better.”

  “I know that I screwed up, Russ. I’m trying to make it up to them now, if that’s even possible this late in the game.”

  “Are you going to tell Brynn the truth about your injury?”

  “When the time’s right, I will.”

  “I haven’t seen Wendy this happy in a long time. She’s really missed you, despite everything that’s gone down. Brynn’s the one who’s been most affected by everything these last few years.”

  “How so?”

  “She was extremely close to your mother before she died. Then both of her parents come down with these debilitating medical conditions, making it impossible for us to be the kind of parents we wanted to be for her. Let’s just say that she’s had her issues.”

  “But it’s not your fault you got injured,” I say.

  “Doesn’t matter whose fault it is. A kid doesn’t understand that stuff growing up. They don’t care about whose fault it is. All they know is what’s real and what’s not.”

  “She seems like a great kid.” Then I recall her smoking cigarettes with Stefania in the school lot and telling me about her partying ways.

  “She’s a good kid, but she’s going through some growing pains, and now you coming here on short notice has complicated matters.”

  “I certainly hope I haven’t made things worse,” I say, suddenly alarmed by what I might have done.

  “Not for the worse, just different. And different can be good in many ways too. Your coming home was inevitable, Lucy.”

  “Yes, I suppose it was.”

  “Do you plan on visiting your dad while you’re here?”

  “Not sure.” How many times had I told myself that my father was dead to me? And yet a small part of me still wants to see him.

  “You really should go over there. He’s still your dad, despite all that’s happened.”

  “The way he treated my mother was terrible.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “He’s a jerk and a selfish ass. Why should I go see him?”

  “I’m just saying. You might regret it if something happens to Neal before you say your piece,” he says as we turn the corner.

  “Like what?”

  “He’s not going to live forever. Just tell me you’ll think about it.”

  “Okay, but only because you asked.”

  “Good,” he says, tapping the bottom of his cane on the pavement. “So tell me the real reason you’re so interested in this dead girl.”

  “It’s not just a dead girl, Russ. It’s a dead boy now too.” I watch as two squirrels chase each other around the trunk of an elm tree. How long has it been since I’ve seen a squirrel? Only when I walked through Washington Square did I ever see them mucking about, and I rarely walked through that part of town.

  “You’re treading on dangerous waters.”

  “I might as well tell you the truth, Russ,” I say, committing myself to partial disclosure. “I hear voices at night, and they’ve been plaguing me ever since the time of that bombing.”

  “A symptom of your concussion?”

  “No, because what caused them occurred the day before that roadside bomb. They’re partly responsible for my obsession with these murders.”

  “Care to explain how this came about?”

  “I can’t right now. It’s still too raw.”

  “Have you talked to a mental health counselor about this? Therapy really seems to have helped Brynn.”

  “It’s not those kind of voices. I’m not schizophrenic or anything like that. And no, I haven’t spoken to anyone since I left Walter Reed.”

  “Might be good for you. They say the VA has help for combat vets like you.”

  “Jesus, Russ. Do we have to talk about this while you and I are out for a nice walk?”

  “You were the one who brought it up.”

  I laugh. “So I did.”

  “But no, we don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s not that I
don’t want to. It’s just that I’m not ready to discuss it yet. I wanted you to know why I’m so taken with these murders.”

  “I only ask because you’re looking into things that have been lightning rods in town. Fawn Grove is definitely not the same place you left.”

  “I can see that,” I say, “but since when is looking into two murders a bad thing?”

  “Never said it was. But maybe that’s a job best left to the professionals.”

  “The ‘professionals’ don’t seem to be doing their job very well.”

  “Be that as it may, you’re still playing with fire.”

  “It’s hard to believe that my hometown has become such a dangerous place.”

  “This immigrant issue has created a lot of resentment and division. And that resentment has pissed people off. It’s probably why the refugees yearn for the traditions and customs of their homeland.”

  “Like killing kids who disobey their laws?”

  “Seems barbaric for sure, assuming they’re the ones who did it. But then again, how many people in this country are shot to death over drugs or money? Or overdose on heroin? Every society has their problems, Lucy.”

  “You must have an opinion about these murders.”

  “Wish it were so. Just don’t want to see you sticking your nose into something that could put you in harm’s way.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Can’t say I didn’t warn you about the minefield you’re entering.” He stops and stares at me as if mortified by his own words.

  “What?”

  “Oh Jesus, Lucy. I’m so sorry for my poor choice of words. That minefield comment was totally uncalled for.”

  I laugh and backhand his arm. “Don’t sweat it, Russ. There’s not much that offends me these days after everything I’ve been through.”

  “I often speak without thinking.”

  “Join the club.” We walk a ways before I say, “So what do you hear about this upcoming protest rally?”

  “Where’d you hear about that?”

  “One of Fawn Grove’s finest told me about it.”

  “I’m scared about what might happen, and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”