Seven Wakings Page 3

  A satisfied smile softened her face.

  She followed up with a second coat, then stopped to smoke— Benson and Hedge’s Menthol— and admire her work. I liked to watch her inhale. It seemed she was breathing in cures to whatever demons plagued her.

  I thought she was finished working.

  I was wrong.

  She moved on to painting the four steps that fed into a cracked walkway dividing our front yard. Emaciated blades of grass stood on both sides of the walk, waiting for water to restore strength and color.

  As I wished for rain, darkness tiptoed over the roof; shadow crept through our yard. The sky began to rumble as if hungry.

  She looked up: “Not today! I have work to do.” The sky thundered. She bellowed back, “You dare argue with me?” She raised her clenched fist. “I’ll show you.” Plunging her gloved hand into the paint bucket as far as it would go, she pulled out a handful of color. Then followed by dunking her right hand. She dropped to her knees and smeared red.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  Drops of rain formed an army and charged forth. I looked up. The sky cracked and roared. A torrent of rain charged forth; a surprise attack.

  “How dare you?!” Mom picked up the bucket of paint and poured it down the sidewalk. She got on her knees and spread red with her hands; an animal in the throws of a kill.

  Dad’s station wagon pulled up. He bolted out. “Delia!”

  She didn’t hear him. The sky was mocking her, pouring rain, growling.

  “Delia!” He ran to her, tried to lift her from the walkway.

  “You want to help me?” She screamed. “Then help me.”

  My father looked up and saw me standing in the window. He tried to lie with his eyes, as if to say everything’s okay. But it wasn’t. I had wished for the rain. Mom was acting crazy because of me. Dad rolled up the sleeves of his uniform. Kneeling on the ground, he pulled color down the walkway.

  The rain pooled and pushed streams of red into the grass. Gaunt blades stood stick-straight as paint, red as blood, slowly swallowed them. Maybe if they held still enough, they wouldn’t drown. Blotches of grey concrete pushed through a sea of red. With every drop, grey took over.

  My parents were losing the battle.

  On her knees, Mom surrendered. She sat back and lifted her face to the rain. “You ruined Valentine’s day!” She started to sob. Her body shuddered with every deep breath.

  Dad went to her, held her in the rain, and rocked her like a child. Then, with an arm around her waist, he led her— dripping red— into the house.

  I shake off the memory— don’t know why death arouses other painful recall— and head for the door.

  Running my usual four-mile trek, I go north on Bliss Lane to Hwy 648, turn right to Marley Neck, and head east. I like how the road goes over Marley Creek, winds through the trees, and passes the new mansions that were built on East Howard Road. I can’t help but wonder what people do for a living to pay for houses that size, probably all doctors and lawyers.

  I try to ignore the acid sloshing around my gut and focus on the runaway cases. Something seems suspicious. First of all, I have never heard of some of the kids. Normally they’d be in the system as victims of child abuse or neglect. Or they’d be diagnosed with behavioral or social problems. And the number of reports has increased too rapidly over the last two weeks. There’s more, but my subconscious hasn’t figured out the details. I think the old alcohol is making me fuzzy.

  I see movement.

  A dog is playing on one of the expansive lawns. A Doberman. Being a dog lover, I smile and watch him romp. Once he sees me, he crouches behind a tree. At first his posture is odd but not alarming; I keep running in his direction. The second I hit the corner of the lot, he bolts toward me, running as fast as he can, barking, teeth bared. Shit! An invisible fence stops him within two feet of me. The dog continues to lunge and push the boundary line so close, I hear the warning beep on his collar. He doesn’t back off. Yellow eyes seem wild for the taste of blood.

  Stunned, I look to the front door. A woman is standing on her circular brick driveway, talking to two men on bikes. They are dressed as missionaries or campaigners: black slacks, white, short-sleeved collared shirts, and black ties. The woman is petite, perfectly coiffured, and dressed in pink from head-to-toe.

  Static fills my mind. The senses are so strong, I feel faint. Or maybe it’s the old booze. Everyone moves like they’re underwater. The woman does a slow turn toward the road. Her hair floats like a black cape as she looks in my direction. A clip of her flashes into my mind. She is standing in a white room— brightly lit— talking to two men. Her face is blurred.

  The dog barks louder, forcing me out of my vision. He’s on hind legs. I give a vocal and hand command for him to sit— as if he’s trained. He drops forward, leans in even more, increases his barking.

  “Hey!” I shout to the owner, more pissed than scared.

  She stops her conversation, walks a few steps toward me. Distance masks her.

  “Does this seem normal?” I yell and gesture toward her dog.

  “I beg your pardon?” She, with an indescribable accent, calls her dog. He runs to her and sits down.

  “Your dog is hunting people. Does that seem okay to you?” I yell.

  “There’s an electric fence. I’m within the confines of the law.” She crosses her arms.

  “Lady, I am the law,” I embellish, “and if you don’t do something about your dog, I will.” I hate when I get frustrated like this, feel like a man overcompensating for a small penis.

  She says something to one of the men, puts her dog inside, and shouts toward me, “Happy?”

  “Thrilled.” I pause, trying to gather a concise threat. “If anything ever happens to a kid out here, I’ll make sure you’re charged.” My hands are on my hips. I feel like I’m clucking.

  She laughs. “You have no idea how ironic you are.” Turning, she touches one man’s hand, and goes inside. The men ride toward the next house.

  Ironic? I jog away, too flummoxed for words. Maybe she picked the wrong expression.

  “How was the run?” Kate asks, loading her backpack.

  I take in her outfit: yellow skinny jeans, red Keds, two shirts under a flannel, black-framed glasses, and a saggy purple stocking cap that precariously clings to the Yamaka section of her hair. My little artist.

  Mac is ready for school and looking at the TV with a gaming controller in his hand. I wonder why they’ve decided to attend classes despite my offer to skip school.

  I grab a piece of bacon. “There was a man in his wife’s robe getting the morning paper, a grandma teaching her grandkids to hula-hoop, and a demon dog who wanted to eat me for breakfast.”

  “So, the usual?” Kate glances at an incoming text message on her phone.

  “Pretty much. Any more contact with Grandpa Jack?” I wipe sweat from my face with the bottom of my blue shirt.

  “Mac’s teaching him Xbox.” She texts someone back.

  “What? How?”

  “Grandpa saw him playing and said he wanted to learn.” She looks up from her phone. “I told Mac to teach him just like he would any other kid.”

  I lean back and see Mac explaining all the buttons on the controller with blind faith that his grandfather is in the room. He follows Kate like that, will do anything she asks.

  “Are you going to the station today?” She’s texting again. I’m convinced that this generation of kids will have the bragging rights to the most dexterous thumbs.

  “Yeah. I feel like I should. Maybe it’ll take my mind off things.” I take another piece of bacon, thinking nothing of adding back the fat I just worked off.

  “I know what you mean.” She locks her phone with the zig-zag of her finger. “That’s why we’re going to school.”

  “Lynette would accuse us of avoiding our feelings.” I kiss her on the cheek and go toward the back door.

  “Yuck, Mom.” She wipes my sweat from her face o
nto a dishrag. “Maybe she’s right, but it’s better than crying all day.”

  I smile and step into the sun. “I’m going to go check on her.”

  “Maybe you should take some Advil.” Kate tosses a small bottle to me. “She’s going to be a train wreck.”

  Walking into Dad’s yard, I bound up the back stairs and open the screen door. Rico and I walk to the couch. Lynette is lying on her back, mouth open, snoring. We stand over her thinking our presence will wake her— nothing. Rico gives her a nudge with his snout— nothing. I clear my throat— nothing.

  “Time to rise and shine, Cupcake,” I say in a sing-song voice.

  She pushes her hair out of her face, opens an eye, and wipes her mouth with a sleeve. “What time is it?” She clears her throat.

  I look at my Timex. “7:13.”

  “Jesus! I have a client at 8:00.” She springs off the couch, stumbles sideways. “Holy Hell. How much did I drink?”

  “Too much for you, and not as much as me.” I throw a tennis ball for Rico.

  “Bring me coffee later?” Tugging her clothes straight, she grabs her purse.

  “Sure.” I hand her the bottle. “Take three.” Rico returns with a slobber-drenched ball.

  Lynette goes out the back, opens the gate to her yard, and stumbles inside.

  I hear Lou say, “Look what I made for you, Honey.”

  Lynette makes a retching sound. She won’t throw up, though. Never has and never will.

  Chapter Three - High’s

  High’s Convenience Store is just up the road. Rico and I stop by there every morning for a treat before work. DeWayne, a homeless man, is slumped in front of the store— as he is most mornings. He has skin the color and texture of raisins, unkempt dreadlocks, and is missing his top four teeth. I’d guess him to be in his late forties, though he looks more weathered.

  “Good Morning, Sunshine.” I lean down and give him a little shake.

  He sits up and yawns. “I heard about your daddy. I’m awful sorry.”

  I nod. “You know, you’re welcome over at Lou’s Place when you’re ready to get clean.”

  “I’ll get by there one of these days.” He scratches in places that make me avert my eyes.

  I notice a curtain move in a window above the store. They say a woman lives up there, although I’ve never seen her. Even the owner of the store doesn’t know what she looks like. Her disability checks are automatically deposited, and she transfers money to his account for rent. The only person that goes in or out, he says, is a day nurse. Maybe a perky girl in her early twenties, who comes with bags of groceries. I’m sure she has a hard time coming to this part of town.

  The curtain drops. “I’ll be right back with our breakfast,” I say.

  Vang, the owner, is from Laos. He greets me with a bow. “Morning, Miss Emma.”

  “Is the coffee fresh? I have a friend who needs reviving,” I say.

  “Use pot on right. Other one for bad customer.” He smiles a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth. Dark eyes twinkle.

  I pour three cups, black, load bags with pastries, and grab a Slim Jim. A headline in the Baltimore Sun grabs my attention: Runaways on the Rise.

  I grab a paper off the top of the stack and fold it under my arm.

  At the register I pull out the floral billfold Cal gave me before he died. I told him wallets made me feel like a man with a butt goiter, but the law requires that I carry identification “on my body.” I only keep my license, a low-limit credit card, my favorite picture of him and the kids, and less than twenty dollars in it. Putting my wallet on the counter, I pay Vang and put the change in my back pocket.

  Outside, I give DeWayne a cinnamon roll and one of the coffees. We wish each other “good day,” and I head toward my beige Taurus. Rico waits patiently in the passenger’s seat. After setting down the drinks and pastries, I pull the Slim Jim out of my pocket. Rico wags his tail as I peel off the wrapper. He has learned to “sing” for his treat and wastes no time before beginning his low yowl. I rub his ears and give him what he’s been singing for. The Slim Jim disappears within seconds.

  I glance through the newspaper article. There are quotes from Chief Lewis: “We’re making this a top priority,” “The children of this community are of the utmost importance,” “We welcome any, and all, input from the good people of Baltimore.”

  I’m glad to see that he’s enlisted the help of the press. That’s what Dad would have done. I fold the paper, tuck it between the front seats, and head toward Lynette’s office off of Ritchie Highway.

  The space she leases is on the first floor of a five-story building. She has a small waiting room, two offices, a mini kitchen and a storage room. Opening her main door, I can see that she’s in the left room with her head down on her desk. It’s 8:10.

  “I come bearing sugar and caffeine.” I stand in the waiting room just in case a patient is on the couch, out of sight. If so, they will not get their money’s worth from Lynette today.

  “Oh my God.” She raises her head. “Not a minute too soon.”

  “Where’s your client?”

  “He cancelled. I’m free until 9:00.”

  “Bummer. You could have drooled for another whole hour.” I walk into her office, give her coffee and a cheese Danish, and sit on the edge of her desk.

  “My brain is throbbing.” Ivory fingers snake through red waves as she holds her head. Tossing her hair into a lose bun, she secures it with a pencil from her drawer, then takes a bite of the danish. “I’ll detox tomorrow.”

  “Your husband could help you with that.” I lean against her second-hand desk. She could afford teak but prefers “sensible purchases.”

  “He says I only qualify for treatment three times a year: Christmas, New Years, and St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “And whenever someone dies.” We both go silent. Lynette squeezes my hand. I see movement in the parking lot. “Oh my God… he’s here.”

  “Who’s here?” She perks up.

  “The hot lawyer from down the hall.” I stand on tippy-toes to get a better look.

  Lynette stands to see where I’m looking. “I swear if I weren’t crazy about Lou I’d...” She stops herself. “You ought to get back out there, Em. It’s been seven years.”

  “I know exactly how long it’s been. I’m the forty-year-old, re-born virgin.”

  “You’re only thirty-six.” She breaks a bite-sized piece off the Danish.

  “Which is nearly forty. This morning… there were moths flying out of my vagina.”

  Lynette almost smiles.

  We both stare out the window, grateful for the distraction.

  “My God he’s spectacular.” I try to imagine him naked.

  “Just look at his physique.” Lynette gasps, puts a hand over her heart.

  “I know… I’ve already undressed him.”

  “Of course you have. Your mind’s always in the gutter.” Grimacing, Lynette massages her temple.

  “Do you think he’s married?” I ask.

  “He doesn’t wear a wedding ring… I’ve looked.” Lynette folds her arms and holds her coffee cup to her chest.

  “You shameless hussy. One more ogle and I’m telling Lou.”

  We watch as he says goodbye to the people he was chatting with in the parking lot. They look like clients: a strapping, older man with silver hair, and a much younger woman with a tidy figure and black chignon. Trophy wife, I think.

  Static fills my mind. My body hums. They become liquid movement. A scene pops up, full screen: The woman is posing a model that faces away; she arranges the young woman’s long, blond hair. Professional lighting illuminates the space. She takes several pictures, and then tosses the camera down. She waves a back-handed goodbye, and walks away slowly. I’m lost in the future. From the outside, I must look like I’m having an absence seizure.

  “Let’s go to the ladies room.” Lynette pushes me out of my vision.

  “What? I don’t have to…”

  “His office
is across the hall from there.” She whispers as if he could hear us. “Let’s move.”

  “Just a second. I look like hell.” I pinch my cheeks and grab lipstick out of her purse.

  “True love will see through the horror of…this.” She makes a circle gesture around my face.

  “Thanks for that vote of confidence.” I apply lipstick, which— I will discover later— makes my mouth look like a toddler’s coloring book.

  “Enough talk. Let’s move.” She pushes me toward the hall and times our “accidental encounter” perfectly.

  Face-to-face with this stranger, I feel an odd connection — like we’ve known each other before. Everything in me expands, fills with breath. I can almost taste our memories. He fits so easily with me; I want to absorb him. I felt the same way when I met my husband and looked at my kids for the first time— they were a part of me that I didn’t know I was missing.

  “Joe, this is my Sister…ish.” Lynette seems surprised by her own word choice.

  He locks eyes with me, extends his hand. “Sister…ish? That’s a term I haven’t heard before.” I can feel his heartbeat in my hand. My palm wants to mate with his. “Joe Montgomery. Nice to… meet you,” he says with a wry smile.

  “We’re the female version of ‘brothers-from-another-mother’.” Lynette looks around as if to find the person filling her mouth with words she’d never choose.

  I wonder if it’s last night’s alcohol speaking.

  Joe and I look at each other, trying to handle this odd declaration.

  “I’m Emma, Emma James. We grew up next door to one another. Lynette has always felt like a big sister to me.” I look to her. She’s nodding. “She timed this accidental meeting because she thinks you’re gorgeous and just wanted to get a closer look.” I wink at Lynette.

  Joe laughs, then realizes he’s still holding my hand. He lets go and shakes his head as if to apologize for overstepping a social boundary.