Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “You want another?” he asks, holding up his empty shot glass.

  “I’m good for now.”

  “So how long you been living here, Iggy?”

  “Long enough to know the score.”

  “I know what you mean.” He laughs at this. “A lot of people in this town actually like living here. It’s like they view their shame as a virtue. Hell, even I’m ashamed to be still living in this dump.”

  “Misery loves company, right?”

  “Exactly, except these people mistake misery for civic pride,” he says. “You ever think of leaving this place?”

  “And miss out on all these wonderful winters?”

  He laughs and takes his fresh shot glass from the bartender.

  “Think about it all the time. Guess I’m too chickenshit to split to warmer climes.”

  “I had high hopes of leaving at one time. Then I got married and had a kid, and that ended that pipe dream. This town has a way of wearing a guy down.”

  I sip my beer and think of his conflicted relationship with his daughter. “Girls too.”

  “Especially the girls. The women here in Fawn Grove age fast once they graduate from high school.”

  I nod knowingly.

  “First come the babies. After the babies comes the weight gain and welfare checks. Then repeat the cycle.”

  “A lot of them turn to drugs.”

  “That’s because they lost all hope that they can make a life in this town,” he says. “Then these immigrants arrive and start demanding free this and free that, and before you know it two kids are dead.” He downs his shot and orders another. “If I had any balls, I’d go chase after Lucy in New York City.”

  “Girl has you by the balls, dude.”

  “Why you say that?” he asks.

  “That line cook’s all you can think about.”

  “No offense, pal, but you’re a line cook. Lucy was a chef. There’s a big difference.”

  “Whatever. Cooking’s just a means to pay my bills.”

  “Part of me was hoping she’d stick around and take over The Galaxy. Return it to its former glory.”

  “If you don’t like the diner so much, then why do you still eat there?”

  “Creature of habit, I guess. At one time The Galaxy was the place to go in this town. It meant something to people living here. People went there after the prom, for an anniversary, or after getting laid.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but Denny’s serves way better food than The Galaxy.”

  “Maybe so, but back in the day you were lucky if you could grab a seat at the counter there.”

  “Yanni’s too set in his ways to change.”

  “Lucy constantly bitched about that old bastard. Said he used liquid eggs because he was too cheap to buy fresh ones. He thought people couldn’t taste the difference.”

  “Dude’s not fooling anyone,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Those liquid eggs are nasty.”

  “You haven’t seen nasty till you’ve seen a kid buried up to her chest and with her face smashed in.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t ever want to see that.”

  “What about you, Iggy?” He sips his beer. “Got a girl?”

  “Besides Mary Palmer and her five sisters?”

  He nearly spits out his beer laughing. “I’m going to try to forget you said that, especially now that I’m picturing you in that kitchen making burgers.”

  “Yeah, I got a girl.” And her name is Lucy, I want to say.

  “She know how to cook?”

  “Hell, no. But then again neither do I.” I lift my drink to toast. “Not that you’ll ever know about my girl’s cooking.”

  “You never know, I might steal her away from you when you’re not looking.”

  “She’ll never leave me with a package like this.” I grab my crotch in an exaggerated manner, and it makes me want to barf.

  “That’s a postcard, not a package.”

  “How would you know? You been checking out my mailbox?”

  “I’d never do that to a guy like you, Iggy. Besides, there’s only one girl I’m interested in, and she’s a long ways from home.” He slides off the stool and staggers to the john.

  I stand, dreading this moment ever since I walked into this pub, knowing it’s necessary to my disguise. I pass the bartender a twenty and ask him to fill my glass with nonalcoholic beer for the remainder of the evening. The alcohol I’ve consumed to this point has already gone to my head.

  The bathroom has three urinals. I pull up to the one on the far right, leaving a free one between us. Pissing while standing feels unfamiliar and takes all my strength. It defies the identity I’ve strived so hard to create and feels like a betrayal of my true self. It reminds me that I’m still broken, and not yet the woman I hope to become. Time, money, and fear once prevented me from making the full transition to Lucy Abbott. But I’ve promised myself that one day I’ll save up enough money and take that final leap into womanhood.

  I turn and glance at him, the strong scent of urinal cake blasting my nostrils. His forehead is resting against the tiled wall, and tears are running down his cheeks. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s crying.

  “Dude.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes while he pees. “It’s just that my life is so fucked up right now.”

  “At least you have a life.”

  “Lucy found an earring at the sight of the first crime scene. She showed it to me.”

  This admission alarms me.

  “I didn’t want to say anything at the time, but I saw that same earring on the dead girl.”

  I zip up my fly.

  He moves drunkenly to the sink to wash his hands. “We have videos of the dead girl that she made in her apartment.”

  I wash my hands, ashamed by my excessively shorn nails. “What was she doing?”

  “I’m not supposed to say anything.”

  “That’s cool.” I walk out the door and park on the stool. Dalton sits next to me and orders two more beers.

  “The thing is, I could get in big trouble with the state police if this gets out.”

  “Then keep it under your hat, bro.”

  He downs most of his beer and orders another. “You got to promise me that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  “Who am I going to tell? I live like a hermit.”

  “The dead girl was talking to some of the other girls in her class. She mentioned Stef’s name. And a girl named Brynn.”

  Brynn! “Girls will be girls, right?”

  “I have a daughter that age. She barely talks to me unless she needs money.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Brandy. She’s such a great girl. I just wish her mother would stop bad-mouthing me.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I say. “So who you think killed those kids?”

  He grabs his new beer and looks around the bar as if paranoid.

  “You telling me that you don’t think it’s an honor killing?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking. I’m pretty drunk right now.”

  “Which one is it?”

  “They messed up. I asked Stef what those earrings meant, and she said it was a Greek symbol for ‘eternal friendship.’ ”

  “That don’t mean shit, Dalton.”

  He turns angrily and jabs a finger into my shoulder. “It’s Detective to you, pal. Show some respect for the law.”

  “Okay,” I wince. “Chill out.”

  “You chill out.” He takes a few seconds to calm down. “We also found a set of footprints that match a popular brand of girls’ shoes.”

  “You said those kids go down there to party.”

  He looks tormented by all this. “Both of these dead kids had drugs in their system. How else could that happen?”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think someone in that refugee community found out about her extracurricular activities and decided that
she should be punished.”

  “Makes perfect sense.”

  “I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this,” he mutters, staring at me as if I’m scum.

  “I said I won’t say anything.”

  He orders two more beers. “You have kids, Iggy?”

  “Hell, no!”

  Dalton shakes his head and smiles. “That’s what Lucy used to say. Hell, no. Said she couldn’t have kids even if she wanted them.”

  “Barren?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “Who needs the headache?”

  “These kids in Fawn Grove are such spoiled little shits,” he slurs. “It’s this goddamn town that’s responsible. For everything bad that’s happened here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Lucy would make a great mother, I just know it.”

  “You have to get over this girl, man. She’s driving you crazy.”

  “She’s all I’ve been thinking about after we kissed that day.”

  “You kissed her?”

  “Yeah, and it was the best kiss ever. But I fucked everything up.”

  I can’t quite believe I’m hearing this. It’s both flattering and unnerving to hear it come out of his mouth. Part of me wants to hug this guy, and the other part of me wants to punch him in the face for treating me so badly when I was a kid. Another part of me wants to forgive him. And yet another part doesn’t. Shouldn’t living one’s entire life in Fawn Grove be punishment enough?

  We drink up. Or I should say, Dalton drinks. He’s drunk beyond caring at this point. My nonalcoholic beer tastes like shit as the night wears on, but it allows me to stay levelheaded and calm. There’s nothing I want more right now than a shot of Jack Daniels to numb the pain.

  But I know that transgender people have some of the highest rates of alcoholism, drug use, and suicide, and my history with the bottle is not a proud one. Besides being the best chef in the restaurant, I could drink every line cook under the table. I was the girl who couldn’t stop partying. I was the girl who couldn’t stop the voices in her head from telling her what a phony bitch she’d become and that no one would believe her act. I drank to forget that I was not the woman I was fated to be but a monster slapped together like Frankenstein’s creation. I was a monster of my own making, vilified and mocked by that alter ego whispering in my ear. Only intense therapy and Dr. Frankenstein could transition me from monster to Lucy Abbott.

  Dalton babbles aimlessly as the night progresses. And yet somewhere deep inside me, I sympathize with his pain. He needs to be forgiven for his sins, but mostly he needs to forgive himself. I want to tell him that we’re all sinners to some degree, waiting for forgiveness and a loving embrace. And yet if I give in to temptation, I’m afraid what might happen, or what I might say. I could accidentally reveal my true self and ruin everything. Then I’d be forced to leave Fawn Grove forever without discovering the truth.

  “I’d love to get married again and have another kid, one who loves and appreciates her dad,” Dalton slurs. “Not a spoiled daughter who never speaks to me and treats me like shit. I’m only thirty-five. I’m still a young guy, right?”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Brandy used to love me when she was a little girl. Now all she calls me for is money or to use my truck,” he says, pulling out his wallet and opening it to a photo of a girl on a horse. “Look at this picture of her. She was eight when I took it. How cute is that?”

  “She’s a doll. Where was that photo taken?”

  “Fryeburg Fair. I used to take her every year and we’d have an amazing time together. We’d get cotton candy and then I’d give her piggyback rides all over the grounds.”

  “A girl doesn’t forget stuff like that, Dalton. She’ll remember the good times she had with you, and then she’ll eventually come around.”

  “I really hope you’re right, because I love that girl to death.”

  “Another drink?”

  “Jesus, Iggy, I’ve never met anyone who can drink like you.” He laughs and slaps me on the back. “You got a hollow leg or what?”

  “Two hollow legs, actually.”

  He laughs hysterically at this. “Where’s my car keys? I gotta get home.” He slips off the stool, but I manage to catch him before he falls.

  “Oh no, Dalton, you’re not driving anywhere.”

  “I’ve got a confession to make, Iggy. I was a real asshole growing up.”

  “I know,” I say as I help him stagger out the door.

  “You do?” He looks at me suspiciously.

  “You told me that story earlier. Don’t you remember?”

  “I did? What’d I say?”

  “You said there was a particular kid you used to pick on when you were younger. Said his name was Jaxon and that you treated him badly.”

  “That little fucker! I’d punch Jaxon in the face if I ever saw him again.”

  This pisses me off. “You said you used to beat him up and treat him like shit in front of all the other kids.”

  “I wish I could go back and apologize to that little fag.” He turns to me, anguish over his face. “The kid would never stay down, no matter how many times I told him. It was like he was asking me to beat his sorry ass.”

  “Why did you feel compelled to pick on him?”

  “The kid was weird. Different. Things weren’t like that back then.”

  “Like what?”

  “Jaxon was a tough little bastard, but he was also a soft kid. What we used to call a sissy. A pretty boy.”

  “He’s not a kid anymore.”

  “I’m not proud of what I done to him. But you can’t go back and change the past, right?”

  “Give me your keys.” He reaches into his pocket and fishes them out. Angrily, I press the unlock button and his pickup beeps.

  “Never saw Jaxon after he left town. Heard he enlisted in the army and died overseas,” he says, tears falling from his eyes.

  “Kid was obviously no sissy, then.”

  “No, he was a hero. Wish I could say sorry for the way I treated him.”

  “Maybe you already have and you don’t even know it.”

  “You sure you’re okay to drive, Iggy?”

  “Never been finer.”

  He collapses into the backseat. I lift his legs and then stuff them inside before slamming the door shut.

  I ask where he lives, and he mutters an address. It’s been a long time since I’ve lived in Fawn Grove, and I’ve forgotten many of the street names. I plug the address into my phone’s GPS and let it guide me to his apartment. It brings me to a shitty part of town elevated just off the railroad yard. Down below, I see boxcars lined up on the tracks, ready to be loaded or serviced. I park in the weedy lot alongside a row of dented cars.

  “Come on, Dalton,” I say, rousing him out of the backseat.

  “Detective,” he mutters.

  I help him inside and up the stairs to his apartment. I can’t believe how small and crappy this place is. The first thing I notice are all the framed photographs of Dalton’s daughter on the walls, mantle, and coffee table. In every one of them she’s smiling at the camera. Some are baby photos, and others were taken before she became a teenager, and before her mother turned her against him. It’s obvious that he loves her and is desperate for her to return his love. The sight of all these photos makes me feel sad for Dalton.

  This is not exactly the neatest apartment I’ve ever been in, and I’ve seen a lot of messy ones. Clothes and fast-food wrappers lie everywhere. My shoulder hurts from helping him upstairs, and my stumps hammer with pain. It’s been a long time since I carried an additional 180 pounds over my shoulder. I lower him onto the tattered sofa and gather his feet up onto the cushion. He’s already snoring by the time I stand back and take him in. I go into his bedroom and grab his faded Bruins blanket and wrinkled pillow. Lifting his head, I stuff the pillow beneath it and cover him with the blanket. I’m about to leave when I hear him stir.

  “Thanks, Luc
y,” he mumbles.

  “If you only knew,” I whisper.

  “I love you, girl. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “I loved her to death.” He turns onto his right side.

  “Loved who to death? Lucy?”

  “That boy didn’t do nothing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She should have never trusted a cop,” he says as the horn of a train blares outside.

  “Who should have never trusted a cop?”

  He adjusts himself on the couch. “The girl.”

  “Lucy or the dead girl?” I shake his shoulder. “Which girl are you talking about?”

  “Lucy?” His eyes briefly open. “Is that you?”

  I realize he’s been thinking about me. “Go to sleep, Dalton.” I kiss his forehead and then he’s back to snoring.

  I climb inside his pickup and head back to the bar. I’m exhausted from everything. The bar is closed, and all the lights are off. I park in the back lot, then place his keys under the mat. I call for a cab, hoping I don’t have to wait too long this time of night.

  24

  THE DINER IS ONCE AGAIN BALLS TO THE WALLS THIS MORNING, thanks to the fire that destroyed Denny’s. They estimate that it’ll be two months before they can rebuild it. Despite the blaze, it’s amazing that people have decided to come here to eat. Can they be that desperate? If it were me, I’d rather stay home and make my own breakfast than eat this shit. Pour myself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch with cold milk.

  From the kitchen, I can hear the dissatisfied customers grumbling and complaining about the food. The eggs are too rubbery. The bacon’s greasy with little to no meat. Too salty. Too peppery. Too bland. Too this and too that. Yanni yells at me for one thing or another, and I feel like grabbing him by the collar and shaking some sense into him. If only I could take charge of this shit show and advise him how to turn it around. Because for the second time since I’ve worked here I see young faces in the dining room. But then, for the sake of my own narrow interests, I ruin another order of pancakes or French toast. This place is a lost cause and so there’s no sense cooking liking a pro and revealing my true identity. Yanni likes that I cook down to his standards and that he can pay me dirt. Despite every culinary truth I hold near and dear, I keep my head down and put out plate after plate of garbage.