Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “Is the Pope Catholic? That girl’s worse than a banana left out in the sun. She does whatever she damn well pleases and has no respect for anyone or anything. You should see the way she looks down at me whenever she comes over here. Like I’m scum of the earth.”

  “That’s because you’ve never played any role in her life.”

  “That’s no reason to be rude.”

  “Wendy told me she’s been seeing a therapist.”

  “Lot of good that seems to be doing,” he says. “You’d think with two disabled parents she’d try to be more understanding.”

  “Okay, call Wendy and tell her I’ll come over.”

  “Iggy, right?”

  “Yeah, Iggy from the diner.” I watch as he takes another hit off the joint. “You should really take it easy with that stuff.”

  “It helps with the pain.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “What isn’t the problem?” He places the roach in the ashtray and lets it smolder. “I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t talk to me about smoking weed and I’ll stop asking about your various issues.”

  “You got a deal.”

  25

  RUSS AND WENDY ARE EXPECTING ME WHEN I SHOW UP AT THEIR door. Russ instructs me how to position the ramp to the van. I slide the door open and watch as Wendy guides her wheelchair up and into the van. Once inside, she secures herself using the seat belt until she’s resting comfortably. Russ sits in the passenger seat, groaning painfully until all his thick limbs are stuffed inside. As soon as everyone is settled, I climb into the driver’s seat and take off.

  It feels odd being in this van with my sister and her husband, knowing that they have no idea who I am. I feel like Lucy dressed in a bizarre outfit that identifies me as Iggy. My normally low voice has been made even raspier from smoking pot and hacking up morning phlegm.

  I turn on the radio and wait for the news to come on, expecting to hear about the two girls attacked in the woods. I imagine that a hiker happened upon them and called the police. But no sooner do I turn it on than Russ switches the station to country music.

  “Sorry, but the news depresses my wife,” Russ says.

  “No worries,” I say, listening to a singer named Kenny Chesney.

  “What’d you say your name was, fella?”

  “Iggy.”

  “That short for Ignatius?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, but no one calls me that.”

  “Did you know that Ignatius was a student of the Apostle John and was born in Syria?”

  I shake my head.

  “Don’t mind my husband,” Wendy says from the backseat. “He’s a vessel of useless information.”

  “I like to keep my mind active and fully functioning,” Russ says.

  “I told him he should try out for one of those trivia shows,” Wendy says.

  “Like Jeopardy,” I say. “I love Alex Trebek.”

  “Watched this documentary last year about Ignatius. Did you know that he later became a bishop and then was martyred? Odd how some things parallel our current times.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “With these immigrants and the murder of those two kids.”

  “Now that you mention it, I suppose there are some similarities.”

  “How do you know my father?” Wendy asks.

  “He came into the diner one day and we got talking. Asked if I wanted to make some extra money.”

  “That’s odd,” Wendy says. “My father hardly ever goes out to eat.”

  “That’s because he spends most of his money on Mary Juwanna,” Russ says, pretending to smoke a joint.

  “Stop it, Russ. You know it helps with the pain,” Wendy says, slapping her husband on the arm.

  “What’s the matter with him?” I ask.

  “Cancer. Doctors say it’s gotten into his bones,” Russ says.

  The word cancer sends a shudder up my spine. I suppose I should have guessed as much, but I didn’t want to admit to myself how dire the situation was. The fact that it’s in his bones is definitely not a good thing. I wonder how much time he has left. Do I dare ask?

  “How you like working at The Galaxy?” Russ asks, thankfully changing the subject.

  “Pays the bills,” I say.

  “My wife’s sister cooked there a few times. She found it frustrating to work for that miserable Greek.”

  “That was your sister?” I say, glancing at Wendy in the rearview.

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Damn! I got some tough shoes to fill then. Everyone at the diner tells me what an amazing chef she was. They also said she was beautiful beyond words.”

  “Lucy was one of the top chefs in New York City,” Russ says proudly. “And she was also quite a looker.”

  “Can’t really blame her for leaving the diner. Yanni breathes down my neck all day, cursing me out for the smallest of things. Hell, I’d leave too if someone buried me up to my chest,” I say.

  I park in the lot and then move Wendy down the ramp. Russ walks with a cane and moves at the speed of an eighty-year-old. We make our way inside the supermarket and take our time shopping for the items they need. An hour later, and with the cart full, we make our way to the register. Russ explains that they like to shop every week, which is why they need someone to drive them around. Soon enough we’re back in the van and heading home.

  I move Wendy down the ramp and then carry all the bags inside. She tells me to rest them on the table, which I do. I stand alone in the kitchen, waiting for her to return from the living room. Am I supposed to put away the groceries? I stand awkwardly for what seems like a long time before venturing in to see if she’s okay. Part of me wants to run upstairs and reclaim my old childhood bedroom. Lie down on that familiar mattress and take a long, restful nap. But instead I see Russ and Wendy huddled over Brynn, trying to comfort her. What’s wrong? She’s sobbing in exaggerated gasps, but as soon as she sees me standing there she stops crying and glares at me. She looks angry, as if I’m the one to blame for whatever’s ailing her. I feel like slinking back into the kitchen and escaping out the back door. The TV is turned on to the news.

  “Who’s that?” she asks in a hostile tone.

  “That’s Iggy, dear. We hired him to help us run a few errands.”

  “Where’s Grampa?”

  “He wasn’t feeling too well today,” Russ says.

  “What’s wrong, sugar?” Wendy asks, cradling her daughter’s head in her hands. “Why are you crying?”

  “Jesus! Haven’t you been listening to the news? Someone attacked my friends in Robinson Woods and left them there to die,” she says, her eyes still glued to me. “What if they come after me next?”

  “You know we wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you,” Wendy says.

  Brynn laughs in a sarcastic manner. “How would you ever stop them? You’re in a wheelchair. And Dad’s a goddamn cripple who can barely get out of his own way.”

  “Don’t talk like that about your father, Brynn.”

  “It’s the truth, and you know it.”

  “Trust me, baby,” Russ says, “we’d never let anything bad like that happen to you.”

  “Why is that creepy little man staring at me?” she snaps, sniffing back the tears. “Please make him go away.”

  “Maybe I should head out,” I say, hitching my thumb over my shoulder. “Need help putting the groceries away?”

  “Don’t worry yourself with that,” Russ says. “There should be two twenties on the table, Iggy. Thanks for all your help.”

  I wobble into the kitchen and see two twenty-dollar bills where he left them. Knowing that Wendy and Russ need this money more than I do, I stuff the bills into one of the utility drawers in the hope they’ll find them later and forget they ever paid me. It’s the least I can do for the kindness they’ve shown me. I slip out the back door and drive home.

  All I can think about is that snotty little niece of mine and how rudely she treated her parents. Maybe
Dad’s right and Brynn’s the one who needs to be taught a lesson.

  I wonder about Brandy. Is she as spoiled as Brynn? Has she developed an attitude problem like Stefania? I wonder if she’s as pretty as those two. It must be tough to grow up with a father like Dalton and a stuck-up mother like Debbie. It’s no wonder these kids drink, smoke, and act like such little jerks. Their parents are all screwed up.

  * * *

  Everything is quiet as my dad and I sit in his living room, listening to the fire crackle. I lie sprawled over the sofa, thinking about what my sister had said about our father. It’s hard to believe that cancer has gotten into his bones and is worming its way through his frail body. It’s why he spends so much time hanging around this dilapidated camp and getting stoned all day. He’s preparing to die. But how much time does he have left? Months? Weeks?

  Warmth emanates from the fireplace as he gets up and throws another log in the blaze. Do I dare broach the subject with him? It occurs to me that he’s not been making regular visits to the hospital for chemo or radiation, or whatever they must do to fight such an illness. It tells me he’s given up hope and is preparing for the worst, hoping to spend the remainder of his days in quiet solitude.

  I realize that my coming home is a blessing in disguise. At least I’ll be able to make peace with my father before he dies.

  “Sympathy for the Devil” gives way to the news. My ears perk up as the reporter announces that two teen girls were attacked in Robinson Woods. The girls were shaken up but otherwise in good condition. The perpetrator secured the victims with nylon restraints and then used a stun gun to subdue them. The motive for the crime is not known, the reporter states, but neither girl was sexually assaulted. The police are curious if these crimes are related to the deaths of those two kids.

  My cell phone rings after the news is over. “Back in Black” by AC/DC begins to play. But it’s Lucy’s phone that’s ringing and not the cheap Tracfone I purchased for Iggy.

  I wonder if I should answer it so soon after the attack. But on the third ring, I snatch it off the coffee table and stare at the caller ID in surprise. Almost immediately, my heart begins to thump.

  “Lucy? It’s Rick Dalton.”

  “Please tell me you’ve caught the murderer.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not the reason I’m calling,” he says. “You sound strange, Lucy. You all right?”

  “I’ve come down with laryngitis,” I say, quick on my feet.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Look, Dalton, I’m here in New York City and you’re in Maine. We both know it can’t possibly work between us.”

  “This isn’t a personal call, as much as I’d like it to be.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “Then just spit it out.”

  “Two girls were attacked in Robinson Woods, and both of them are saying that you were the one who assaulted them.”

  I burst out laughing. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. How in the world could I attack them when I’m sitting here in Manhattan?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s my duty to inform you of the accusation and follow up on it.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “The chief ordered me to go down there as soon as possible and ask you a few questions. Basically, he wants me to confirm that you’ve been in Manhattan the entire time.”

  “Fine, but can’t we just do this over the phone?” I say, slightly panicked.

  “He’d like me to meet with you in person.”

  “I suppose we could do that.” This is a disaster.

  “Did you do it, Lucy?”

  I laugh. “Do you really think I’d fly up to Maine in order to attack two teenage girls I don’t even know?”

  “But you do know them.”

  “Who are the girls?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. They’re minors is all I can tell you right now.”

  “You’re not at liberty to say, but you can call me up and accuse me of attacking them?”

  “I didn’t accuse you, Lucy, these two girls did. I suppose it’s theoretically possible that you flew or took a bus up to Maine and then returned home. I’m not saying you did, I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “Then do your homework, Dalton. Check the airlines and bus lines to see if my name is on any of their passenger lists. I can assure you it isn’t. I don’t own a car, so you can rule that out. And you’ll discover that I haven’t rented one.”

  “There are people checking on that right now.”

  “Did you ever consider that these girls are lying in order to set me up?”

  “We’re considering every possibility.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” I try to sound visibly upset.

  “It’s merely a formality. I’m certain you’ll be cleared of any wrongdoing.”

  “I’m the victim here. I’m the one being falsely accused,” I say, raising my voice. “I was the one buried in those woods and left to die.”

  “The people who attacked you didn’t intend for you to die. If they did, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “I’m not there in Fawn Grove, which is exactly my point.”

  “We can meet for coffee if you like. It doesn’t have to be for very long.”

  “I have nothing to hide. You can even talk to the guy I was hanging out with yesterday.”

  “A guy?”

  “Take it easy, Dalton. He’s just a friend.”

  “Okay,” he says, sounding relieved. “I plan on driving down there tonight.”

  “Call me when you get in and we’ll set up a time and place to meet.”

  I drop the phone in a state of panic and head for the door. I look back at my father and see that he’s asleep in his chair. After finding a blank piece of paper, I scribble a note for him when he wakes up.

  I need to return to Manhattan as soon as possible. But how? Dad’s old van might break down along the way. It’s too late to fly, and even if I could fly, I’d have to use my real ID. Then an idea comes to me that’s so brilliant that I sit back and laugh. I can’t believe this will be so easy.

  I hop in Dad’s van and drive as fast as I can over to Dalton’s shitty little apartment next to the train tracks.

  I stagger up to his apartment and knock three times in succession, trying to catch my breath. After a few seconds the door opens and Dalton stands there staring at me as if I pushed his mother down a flight of stairs.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “It’s me. Your old pal Iggy.”

  “I know who the fuck you are. I asked what you wanted.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Not a good idea right now. I’m packing for a trip.” He doesn’t step aside to let me in.

  “Where you going?”

  “New York City, not that it’s any of your business,” he says. “Look, I don’t have time to stand around and bullshit with you. So if you don’t mind, Iggy, how about taking a hike.”

  “I came over to see if you were okay. You drank up quite a storm the other night.”

  He laughs bitterly. “You my mother now?”

  “No, but I was worried when I didn’t see you at the diner.”

  “I took the day off from that shithole and ate a decent breakfast for once.”

  “You said some pretty crazy things to me that night.”

  “Get the hell inside,” he says, dragging me in by the collar. He stands over his sports bag and places a folded shirt inside. “Whatever I said to you that night was in complete confidence. Understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is that the only reason you came over here? To check up on me?”

  “Yeah. I thought you and I kind of bonded that night.”

  “So we had a few laughs. Big deal.”

  “Hey, I really enjoyed hanging out with you.”

  “No offense, Iggy, but I needed a shoulder to cry on an
d it happened to be you that day.”

  I collapse on the couch, feeling the scarred tissue along my thighs burning in pain. “So, why you going away?”

  “Police business.”

  “I bet you’re going to see that girl, right?”

  “Ever try minding your own business for once?”

  “Never been to New York City.”

  “Me neither, but there’s a first time for everything.”

  “Would you mind if I tagged along? I have money and can pay my own way.”

  He looks at me and laughs. “Are you for real?”

  “I’ve hardly ever been out of Maine and always wanted to see the Big Apple, especially now that they built that 9/11 memorial.”

  He laughs again as if it’s a stupid idea.

  “I can keep you company during the long drive, and I’ll pay for my own hotel and gas fare.”

  “We won’t get in until later tonight.”

  “Got the day off tomorrow and nothing else to do.”

  He stops packing and stares at me. “Suppose I could use the company in case I get tired.”

  “What time you leaving?”

  “Shortly.”

  “Mind if I go home and grab a suitcase?”

  “We’re only going for the day.”

  “That’s all the time I need,” I say. “Might bring back some souvenirs too. One of those ‘I Love New York’ T-shirts.”

  “Better hurry, or I’m gonna leave without you.”

  “Where should we meet?”

  “In The Galaxy parking lot in fifteen. If you’re not there, I’m gone.”

  “I’ll be there all right. See you in a few.”

  I race home and grab a suitcase, then pack my wig, my makeup kit, a colorful cable-knit sweater, my black leather boots, a Ralph Lauren wool wrap coat, and my favorite square green ankle pants. Oh, and the new, taller prosthetics made specifically for Lucy. Dalton’s waiting in the car, the engine running, when I get to the diner. I park the van in the back and then slip into the passenger seat next to him.

  “Road trip,” I say cheerfully, placing my oversized bag in the backseat.

  “Hold on to your do-rag, Iggy, because I’m about to go all Indianapolis 500 on this cruiser.”

  “Very cool,” I say. “Being a cop lets you break the speed limit, right?”