Peace Sign

I remember the day but not the year (Was it ninety-five maybe?) when my husband brought home a newspaper article for me to read, an interview with a pedophile.

            “I drove through neighborhoods in search of Little Tikes cars, bicycles with training wheels, tiny swimsuits hung on porch railings to dry.”

            I was pretty sure he was trying to help but instead his words gorged the panic monster that lived close to me, maybe even inside me, back then. Always it gnawed at my hamstrings, held one or both my Achilles’ tendons in a pincer grip.

            A month or two after, I heard our daughter’s footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. I glanced at the glow-in-the-dark clock dial—one forty three. Moments later I felt her tentative hand on the quilt beside my shoulder. Her quick, moist breaths warmed my cheek.

            “Mommy? A man was in my room just now, next to my bed, and he knew my name.”

            As one my husband and I shot up. I headed for the steps, he for the Louisville Slugger he kept in the closet.

            We found no one, no open window. Still, her dream nourished the beast inside me, made my eyes perpetually round, my ears constantly alert. It fostered in me a fatigue that never seemed to abate.

            I recall thinking, as I tucked her back into her Lion King toddler bed that night, that's  the worst kind of bad guy, the one who knows your name.

+++++++

It was a late August morning in 1997 when we watched our eldest child climb onto the school bus that would take her over the hill to kindergarten. I juggled waving, nose dabbing, and picture-taking. My husband blew kisses at her grin pressed against the fogged window. Our two-year-old daughter clutched her Tickle Me Elmo and wept.

            “Our life will never be the same,” I said as we watched the bus disappear around the bend.

            My husband nodded as he u-turned the stroller and started back toward the house. 
            “You said that both times we drove to the hospital with you in labor. Remember?”

            I stopped there on the street, revelation in my open mouth. “They’re going to leave some day. Forever, well, for months at a time.”

            My husband smiled. “I know. That’s how it works.”

            I bunched my t-shirt in front of my throat divot and gulped. “I’m not gonna like it. I’m telling you right now.”

            He sighed. “Me either, but it’ll mean we did our job right.”

+++++++

Our 2010 vacation was quite possibly our best ever—Colorado in early summer. A horseback ride through the Rockies, a white water rafting trip, daily visits to the prairie dog colony near our condo.

            In the airports coming and going, my husband made our eldest do everything.

            “Where’s the check-in desk? Which train will take us to our terminal? Find our baggage claim.”

            She protested, but he was right. In two months she’d need to know these things because she’d fly alone for the first time ever, not just across country, but to the Southern Hemisphere.

            The dreaded (by me) day finally arrived. After she disappeared from our sight in the Pittsburgh airport, I felt as if someone had tunneled me through. Surely a tractor trailer could fit inside the hole in my gut.

            Back home, for nearly 24 hours I endured torment—shortness of breath, a galloping heart, visions from the “Taken” trailer, a film I’d refused to see.

            Near the end of our first day without her, I managed to drive to the grocery store despite my blurred vision. As I parked, the KLOVE deejay asked listeners for prayer requests. I whispered mine as I unbuckled my seat belt, gathered my list and coupons.

            “Please let her be safe, not kidnapped or heaving up a food-poisoned box lunch on the eight hour bus drive from Lima to the mountain school.”

            “How He loves us. Oh, how He loves us . . .” I whimpered as I reached for the volume nob on the radio, twisted it until my eardrums throbbed. It was a sign, surely it was, the playing of one of my favorite songs ever. I searched the sky through the windshield, blew a kiss—a sign language thank you—toward heaven. I placed my hand over my heart and noticed how its jittery rhythm evened out.
             After shopping, I arranged the grocery bags in the backseat then checked my phone. There it was, a text from my husband. "She made it, safe and sound." Behind the steering wheel, I crumpled. Relieved. Thankful.

+++++++

Two years later, it’s almost no big deal. Her flying here, her travelling there, to this country or that. I am amazed that the impossible has become doable, the unknown bearable. The what ifs are quieter now, paler.

            Why, this summer I didn’t even weep when she took her little sister to her home-away- from-home—the mountain school in Peru.

            In the airport, my brunette middle child vibrated beside me with excitement and fear.  
            “You’re in good hands,” I told her, “hers and God’s. You’re gonna be fine.”

            I gathered the girls close and said a prayer. Then I kissed their cheeks, turned, and walked away without a shadow of a limp or stagger. As I crossed the threshold of the automatic doors, I marveled at my dryness. No moisture coursing from my eyes or nose? No dampness (or panic beast) whatsoever in the basement of me? Surely this is the peace which surpasses all understanding.

Pay Day

Two Wednesdays in a row Vandalia tore holes in Mark’s butt via the telephone when he insisted he had no paychecks for her.

            “Come to the warehouse in two weeks, Van,” he said. His hand visored his forehead as he focused on the calendar desk blotter in front of him. “Charlie promised he’d stop by and see us that Wednesday ‘round about quitting time. You can duke it out with him then.”

            Van took Mark up on his offer. Showed up  at five that day with the two kids incarcerated in their car seats from what we could tell when we peeked outside.

            Mom O. tiptoed over to the window and hipped Jason out of the way. Pincer-gripped the curtain and tugged it to the left an inch.

            “What on earth did that girl do to her hair?” she said over her shoulder. “It’s the color of blacktop now. And since when was it that long? How could she possibly think that looks natural?”

             When Charlie finally showed up, Van followed him into the office. It seemed as if Charlie, like Mom O., didn’t know quite what to make of Van’s hair. After she gave him a half-hearted squeeze, he walked around behind her. Grabbed a hank of hair near her part and followed it down to the bottom. Then he just stood there, futzing with the ends. We weren’t sure if the glint in his eye was because he found it attractive or because he thought it silly.

            Van wriggled free then reached into her voluminous handbag and produced a sheaf of papers. She held them out to Charlie.

            “Here,” she said. “I got you some more job applications. ‘Cept these ones are for around here.” She sidled back up to Charlie. Rubbed against his side like a cat. “I want you to quit that fracking job out west. I don’t like you being that far away.”

            Charlie smirked. “Why, Van,” he said, “don’t tell me you actually missed me.”

            Her face didn’t change as she plotted her words. “Of course I did, silly. It’s hard doing everything alone. Plus without you, the kids won’t go to sleep at night for nothing.”

            Charlie’s grin increased. “And then there's the fact the kitchen doesn’t get cleaned, the toys picked up. The laundry doesn’t get folded and put away. The—”

            Van gripped Charlie’s arm so that her violet fingernails disappeared. Her eyes flitted around the room, attempting to gauge our opinions.

            “Charlie, stop that,” she said. “You’ll give folks the wrong idea. Fact is, I do miss you. A lot. And besides . . .” Her voice trailed off as she splayed her fingers on either side of the zipper on her snug-fitting, low rider jeans. She made sure her eyelashes were fanned out just so on her creamy cheeks before she spoke again.

            “There’s more,” she said. “I had hoped to tell you this when we were alone but you’re forcing my hand here.” She raised her gaze. Pursed her lips to redistribute their ruby shine. “I’m . . . We’re . . . gonna have another baby.”

            As one, our jaws dropped. In the next instant, we found ourselves puzzled by Charlie’s lack of reaction. Without so much as a glimpse at her, he dug deep into the cargo pocket down by his knee and withdrew a granola bar. Didn’t speak until he had the package open.

            “Funny you should mention that,” he said. “There’s something I had hoped to discuss with you in private as well. Seeing as how you’re laying things out in the open, I may as well do the same.”

            Charlie lowered himself onto the folding chair beside Jason. Took a bite of his bar. Chewed thoroughly. Swallowed.

            “You know how Davey and Kendra have been trying for years to have a baby?”

            Van leaned on the door jamb, taking care to arrange her straightened black hair behind her shoulders first. She nodded.

            Charlie licked his pinky and used it to get the last bits of granola out of the bottom of the wrapper.

            “Seems their lack of babies is Davey’s fault,” Charlie said. “They told me that the first night I was out in Colorado, at supper.”

            Van’s face remained blank. Like she could care less about Davey and Kendra’s quandary.

            “So they asked if I’d—”

            Van straightened. The sudden intake of her breath made a scraping sound in the hollow quiet of the room. In the next moment, her face reconfigured. Into someone, something, decidedly less attractive.

             “Please tell me they don’t want you—”

            Charlie rolled his trash into a ball, squinted, and arc'd it at the garbage can.

            “He shoots. He scores,” Adam said without enthusiasm.

            Charlie produced a beef jerky stick from his back pocket. Met Van’s gaze as he stripped off the plastic.

            “Actually they do. They wanted me to help them have a baby.”

            It sounded weird.  Charlie using the past tense.

            Vandalia rooted in her purse and produced her pink satin makeup bag. Unzipped it and proceeded to attend to her lip ritual. She lined, primed, painted, blotted, and glossed. When she was finished, Charlie spoke.

            “I told ’em yes. But then in the screening process, Davey and I discovered yet another thing we have in common besides our passion for American Idol.”

            Everyone but Van figured out what was coming next.

            “I’m sterile, Van,” Charlie said. “Just like Davey. Something about us both having mumps real bad when we were little.” Charlie pointed to Vandalia’s stomach. “That baby in your belly? And Jeremiah and Hannah? They’re not mine either. You got any idea whose they might be?”

            Vandalia’s grape-colored fingernails scraped the doorframe as she clutched it with both hands. To keep from collapsing.

            She swallowed before she spoke. “You’re wrong, Charlie,” she said in words that seemed mustard colored. “Of course they're yours. They’re—”

            Charlie studied his hands as he meticulously dissected the jerky wrapper into thin strands. We sat in silence as we waited for him to say something else. Finally he glanced up.

            “They tested me more than once, Van. Turns out, you’re the one who’s wrong.”

            The air in the office felt instantly thick. With a buzzy quality to it. An odd odor, not unlike that of a threatened rabbit, seemed to suddenly take precedence over Vandalia’s Estee Lauder perfume.

            Charlie stood then. Fished in his jacket pocket for keys.

            “I showed the doctor, the fertility specialist, the pictures of Jeremiah and Hannah I keep in my wallet,” he told Vandalia. “He laughed, the son of a bitch, when I swore up and down they were my babies. Advised me to schedule a paternity test. Before he left the exam room, he said the strangest thing.”

            “What?” Jason said. His eyes were wide and eager to know. “What did he say?”

            Charlie singled out his ignition key. “He said, ‘You’re from a small town, Charlie. Pay attention. You see a guy with wavy red hair and blue eyes, that’s your woman’s baby daddy.'”

             Sweat slicked my palms and armpits as the temperature in the room seemed to soar all of a sudden. My face felt like it might combust or even explode. The minute they all turned and stared. At me.

(This is the final installment of a short story. If you'd like to read the whole piece, go to June posts and start with "Vandalia and Charlie.")

Something Has to Change

The call came the next day. Right around eight thirty, before we climbed into our trucks and went out for the morning.

            “Just let the machine pick it up,” Mark told Mom O. from the doorway. “I’ll deal with it later.”

            Because it sounded so very strange, we all paused when we heard the tinny voice of an automated operator.

            “This is a text to land line message,” the artificial woman intoned.

            We’d agree later how thankful we were for Jason’s sweet tooth. He was hovering over the candy dish when Mom O. collapsed after hearing the operator’s staccato words: “I’m going to kill you.”

            “What the—” Mark lunged to grab the phone but the nasal dial tone was already filling the office.

            Jason caught Mom O. as her knees buckled. Staggered under the weight of her until Charlie hurried to help him ease her onto her chair. He used his big hands to cradle Mom's head so it wouldn’t loll forward. Adam fetched a damp paper towel and pressed it to Mom's grave-colored forehead.

            Mark stared at the handset in his palm. “Dang it! Blocked call.”

            Jason snapped his fingers to get Mark’s attention. “Does Mom have some little pill to take? Like on TV? Should you call 911?”

            “What do I know?” Mark said as he punched numbers into his cell. “Let me ask my sister.” He swept us with his glare, as if Mom O.’s condition was our fault. “See, this is why I didn’t want her to come in today.” Suddenly, with his eyes narrowed and the bones of his face set, he focused on Charlie. We’d never seen Mark that mad, that mean, ever.

            “You need to get that . . . that . . . wife of yours under control, Charlie," he said as his pointer finger sliced at the air.  "And just so you know, the police are involved. I swear, if anything . . .” His voice trailed off as he observed Charlie’s face. Noticed how his soft, brown eyes possessed no anger. Only embarrassment and a deep sadness.

~~~~~~~

The next Monday, on Mom O.’s first day back to work, Charlie quit.

            “The fracking outfit finally made me an offer,” he told us at the end of the day. “Only thing is, the job’s not local. The boss man had hoped to set up shop here, but the folks protesting in front of the courthouse every Wednesday freaked him out. So for now, I’ll be working in Colorado for three weeks, then home for one.”

            On his side of the desk, Mark grimaced. “Charlie, I hope this isn’t because—”

            Charlie shook his head. “No worries, Mark,” he said. “This has been in the works for awhile now.”

            Mark smiled but it was a sad smile. “We’ll sure miss you, man.” He glanced at the rest of us. “No offense to these guys, but you’re about the best worker Mom O. and I ever had.”

            We huffed in unison but no one paid us any mind.

            Charlie rubbed his hands on his jeans. “Thanks for that, Mark,” he said. “The cool thing is, I won’t have to pay for hotel and meals every day. My brother and his wife live out there. Said I could stay with them.”

            He turned to face Mom O. when he heard her sniffling. “And Mom . . . Gosh, I hate to go. Really I do. With the busy season coming and all. But the money’s too good to pass up. We should be able to dig ourselves out of the red within a year or two. Only thing is . . . I’m going to miss Jeremiah and Hannah something awful.”

            Our eyes collided as we acknowledged the name he didn’t say.

            “Oh,” Charlie said, “and Vandalia of course.”

            Our eyebrows rose and fell together before we glanced away.

            Mark stood. Walked over to Charlie and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I can check on them from time to time, if you want.”

            Charlie gazed up at him. Drew a long, shaggy breath. “That’d be great, Mark. Actually, I’d like to ask a favor. You can say no if you want. Can you deposit my last paycheck for me? I'll get you a bank slip.”

            Mark’s eyes widened but then he relaxed them. Nodded. “Sure, man. I can do that. And you have vacation pay coming too since you all didn't go anywhere this year or last. I can deposit that check the week after.”

            Charlie nodded then turned to us. Extended his hand. “Nice knowing you guys and working with you, for what? Five years now?”

            Adam drew Charlie into a hug.  Slapped him on the back. “At least five,” he said. “Good luck, buddy. Colorado? Really? Bet it’s beautiful out there.”

            Charlie moved toward Mom O.’s desk. Grabbed her wrists and gently heaved her to standing. Encircled her in his burly arms and carefully hoisted her  an inch off the ground.

            Mom O. giggled. “Easy does it, Charlie.” When he let her feet touch ground she cupped his scruffy cheek. “I hear their mountains are bigger than ours,” she said. “I don't believe it. Send me a post card, won’t you?”

            “Sure thing, Mom,” Charlie said after he used his handkerchief to dab at her tears.

            She sniffed again and flipped her hands at him. “Go on now. And you take care, Charlie. Make good choices, you hear? That’s what I always tell Mark. Don’t I, Mark?”

            Mark nodded and smiled his sad smile again. “She does indeed. All the time.”

(You're almost to the end of this short story. If you wanna start at the beginning, click here: "Vandalia and Charlie.")