Route 12 Page 2

  A small woman sits on the couch. She quickly slips a crinkly envelope into her handbag, licking her lips. Theresa’s father, already in his postal uniform, stands against the dining room wall.

  “Mother,” she whispers, stopping dead in her tracks, feeling dizzy. The woman on the couch has the same small nose, darting eyes, and dark red hair as her mother. The woman turns and aims her gaze at Theresa. Her mother is alive and glaring at her daughter who is sick with joy, relief, confusion, and deep down, regret. Dreaming?

  “This here is your Aunt Becky.” Her father’s voice is high and grating. “You’re going to stay with her for a time.” He stares at the woman who inclines her head slightly in a stiff greeting. Theresa sits down hard on the wooden step. How long is “a time”?

  “Come on now.” Aunt Becky, not much older than Theresa, walks over and pulls her to standing.

  “Go get your stuff, Ricky is outside waiting for us.” She points at the stairs. “He’s got to get up early for work. It’s a long drive to Winston.” She sighs and folds her arms, shakes her head. “We got to get going.”

  She follows Theresa up the stairs. Without asking Becky reaches under the bed, then rummages through the closet. She pulls out a small brown suitcase and a matching train case. It had belonged to Maggie Grace, last used on her honeymoon. Becky opens more drawers and dumps clothes into the bigger bag. “Here.” She hands Theresa the train case. “Go get your stuff from the bathroom.”

  When her suitcases are full to bursting the little group heads out of the house. There’s a stranger sitting on the front porch. He’s young, maybe twenty-five, with orange hair and fair skin. He has great big buckteeth with a giant gap in the middle. He doesn’t say anything, just nods and tips his cap. He smells like motor oil and gasoline.

  “Whatever you leave behind I’ll be sure to send.” Her father roughly pats her on the back “You take care.”

  Aunt Becky and Uncle Ricky’s house is a trailer in a lot with six other trailers. An upside down washtub doubles as a front porch. They had cleared out the back room before Theresa arrived. Her bed is a cot underneath a crank window. In the corner are several boxes, a yellow and blue elephant mobile, yellow bassinet, and a basket of fresh, white diapers.

  “This’ll do for now.” Aunt Becky stands in the crooked doorway to the cramped room. There’s a small bump under her green sweater.

  “What about school?” Theresa asks. I don’t know you. I don’t know, really, where I am. I don’t want to cry. I think I may scream.

  “We’ll think about that later, I guess.”

  ***

  Uncle Ricky drives her two hours west. Aunt Becky is too far along; her baby is due in a few weeks, so they’re alone. They pass through small town after small town until he finally stops in the smallest one of all. The town is unimaginably high in the hills. She feels dizzy when she closes her eyes.

  “Taking a rest.” He pulls into a gas station on the outskirts of Belle Gap. When he comes out, after filling up the tank and emptying his bladder, he gives her a soda pop, twisting it open with his dirty, calloused hands. He drives the pickup four blocks up a steep hill, turns onto Clover Lane, and stops in front of a two story, white house. Peeking from the overgrown holly bushes is a statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Theresa slides out of the truck while Ricky grabs her train case and suitcase. She stares at the tall house. The cold night air stings her nose. With both of her bags tucked under one arm, he finds a house key on top of the doorsill and lets her in the foyer. He sets her suitcases inside and looks at her awkwardly.

  “They’ll be asleep, so find your way upstairs.” He pauses. “Your grandparents will be alright to you.

  “Well, goodbye girl.” He pulls the door to and locks the bolt. She listens as he returns the key to the doorsill. The truck sputters to life and chugs away. Standing in the dark, cold house alone she hears the tick tock of a clock echoing.

  She looks behind the first door in the short hallway. Her grandparents are dead asleep, each in their own twin bed with matching blue and white crocheted blanket. An old Philco TV throws flickers of light against the icy blue walls.

  Carefully, she pulls her bag up the stairs. At the top are two doors: one leads to the attic, the other to a small bedroom. A window rests in the gable. There’s a faint light glowing in the bottom of an old hurricane lamp. Instead of brightening the room, it makes everything feel old and dingy. She sits on the bed, wondering if it had once belonged to her mother. Theresa watches the shadows reach out for her and the room closes in. I would rather die.

  THREE

  THERE’S A BLANKET of mist and thick gray clouds on the October day Percy finds release from Belle Gap Detention and Foster Home. He is eighteen, a full-grown man, neither healed nor happy; nevertheless, he’s no one’s charge. With no hard and fast plan, he makes his way west on route 12, heading toward the town of Belle Gap. He wants to find some place quiet, some place gentle, and then he wants to break that place to pieces. Break. Break. Break.

  The road curls like a sunning snake. Pushing deeper into black hills the trees grow closer and closer to the road. The highway rises steep, as if to strike. He stops at a bank of four black, metal mailboxes five miles from his starting point. One has a tattered American flag stuck to the top.

  He tugs the flag off the mailbox and lets it drift to the ground. A breeze pushes it to a ditch filled with vines and overgrowth. He pulls out the envelopes and nickel rags, thumbing through each piece. All addressed to a Mr. George Perkins of 8 West Route 12. Shoving the mail in his bag, he trudges up the little dirt road.

  After nearly twenty minutes of walking, he comes to where the dirt road spreads to four driveways. Crunching through the dried up razor grass, he walks toward a clearing. His eyes dart back and forth, taking in a tool shed leaning on its foundation, a bowed porch, and an open garage with a car covered by tarp.

  Just past a stand of myrtles, two metal garden chairs sitting underneath, he finds the narrow, run-down two-story. An old woman is working in the tool shed a fair distance from the house, close to the edge of trees, rinsing clothes in a utility sink. She turns her back to the house, puts a load in, takes a load out of the rattling washer and dryer. She begins rinsing again.

  He steals into the tidy house while the woman is busy. It feels worn and soft inside, a place well lived in, with tired furniture and threadbare rugs. On nearly every surface rest small, senseless statues: Cupid carrying a giant red heart, a porcelain bride and her groom smiling at each other with red, embarrassed cheeks, and still another figurine with a teddy bear holding a sign, “Love Bear.” Small framed pictures of children and old people span the faded gray walls. On a desk is a black and white 8x10 of a handsome young marine in his dress uniform.

  He finds the silver service and china in a squeaky-clean cabinet in the dining room. He creeps into the kitchen, keeping an eye out for the old woman. Search the drawers. Search the cupboards. On top of the icebox, he finds $600 cash inside an old coffee can. He puts the money in his pocket, crouches down, and peers out the window. She is sitting on a folding chair in front of the dryer holding her coat around her, waiting.

  A board creaks overhead. He sneaks to the hallway and lights quickly up the stairs. There are three doors on the second floor. A narrow open door reveals the linen closet; powder blue bath towels, washcloths, sheets, Epsom salt and razors. Percy finds a beaded sewing basket on the closet floor, a vaporizer and a dark metal box, a lock box. Lock boxes usually mean money. He opens the box and finds a stout little .38.

  “Spin it. Cock it. Hold it to your head.” The guards at Belle Gap made the boys play dangerous games with guns. He had sweated, cried, prayed for the hollow sound of an empty chamber. He had been lucky. Now he has one of his very own, a gun for his games.

  He pushes open the door just to his left. Soft light comes through the window. A white coverlet lies over a full-size bed. In the middle of the bed, an old cat sleeps, not even looking in his direction. Ther
e’s a framed picture on the nightstand and an old doll on the pillow.

  Reaching the master bedroom, he peers inside. It’s pale, unhealthy, a filmy room holding in an ebbing life. An old man sleeps. The weak bundle of flesh lies on the far side of the bed, fading into the colors of morning. The room smells like Vicks menthol, urine, and pine cleaner.

  Percy squeezes his eyes shut and covers his mouth with his free hand. His shoulders lurch up and down as he tries to suppress eager laughter. A thin veil of sweat breaks out over his top lip. He takes a deep breath, collects himself. Break him. With a wall of anger, hard like concrete, he upends the bed, sending the man smashing to the ground.

  Mr. Perkins wiggles and shudders on the floor, trying to raise his head.

  “Ess!” he calls out, crying.

  Percy jumps across the upturned bed, boots the old man square in the ribs. Slowly, he crouches, hovering, eyeing the dry, wrinkly skin and dark spots. He grabs a handful of fine, gray hair, tugs the old timer’s head back, smashes the gun into his temple repeatedly.

  From behind, Mr. Perkins looks like a child, helpless and easy. The boy breathes heavily through his mouth and his skin feels lit up with bee stings, itchy and achy. He is panting, nervous and excited. After unzipping his pants, he hoists the old man’s hips high. Pushing and shoving, he rights his clothes when he is done, and leaves Mr. Perkins bleeding from both ends.

  Mrs. Perkins is just crossing into the kitchen when he jumps down the stairs. She sees him, sweaty and stained, standing in the hall. She drops her basket, rubs her hands together repeatedly. She stares in shock then looks past him. He takes two great strides into the kitchen.

  “George?” she bellows and immediately covers her mouth. The barrel of the gun aligns with her forehead. There’s a pop, a small hole opens in her pale, wrinkled skin, and the back of her head explodes out like fireworks.

  He darts from room to room, like a dog on a blood scent, nose down, searching and sniffing. His dirty hands touch everything. He finds a black nylon bag for his spoils. He steps over the dead man and into the bathroom. Behind the mirrored medicine cabinet he finds an assortment of medicines, Prednisone, Phrenilin with Codeine, Serverdrol, and Benzedrine.

  Open wide boy, time to take your medicine.

  After grabbing everything worth taking, he crosses the backyard and makes for the gray, moldy garage. He grabs the heavy black tarp, pulls it off the car, revealing a dusty blue 1965 Riviera. With twenty miles worth of gas in the tank, a belly full of morphine, and his new .38 on the seat next to him, he rumbles into Belle Gap high and feeling fine.

  FOUR

  ROOM 208, in the basement of Belle Gap High School, is humid and loud with the old, broken down furnace butted against the inside wall. Belle Gap’s art teacher, Miss Carmen, is clapping her hands while standing at the head of the classroom. A glossy poster of the cherry blossoms in Washington D.C. shows on the wall behind her. Giant spools of colored paper cover one wall.

  “Alright, hush up.” Miss Carmen claps again. The students take their seats and begrudgingly pay attention. “Today we’re doing the pencil portraits we talked about last week.” A murmur ripples over the class. “We’ll do the sketches this week, next week we’ll work on the pastels.” She frowns and pushes heavy black glasses up her tiny nose.

  “Keith and Vincent,” Miss Carmen calls. Two boys from the back of the class walk forward and she points them to an empty, round table with cups of colored pencils and sand colored drawing paper.

  “Kimberly and Charlotte.”

  “Robbie and Jackson.”

  “Hush up. Charlotte. No one cares about your business.”

  There’s a flutter of low giggles.

  “Don and Valerie.”

  “Bobby Bobbit and Bobby Kay.”

  “Who’s left?” she looks around. “Come up.”

  Theresa walks to the front of the class feeling obvious, tripping over a binder left in the aisle. She doesn’t hear it, but she’s sure the kids are laughing. From the corner of her eye, she sees the other girl limping toward the front. Maybe she tripped as well.

  The girl is pale and simple, wearing a beige skirt and a brown wool sweater. White socks cover her skinny calves and there are dull, noisy braces fastened around her knobby knees and locked to her black orthopedic shoes. The poor girl stops and crosses her arms in front of her. Her long brown hair is in a single braid and big, tortoise shell glasses hide her eyes. They look at each other and quickly lower their heads.

  “Theresa and Cheryl.”

  They inch their way to a little round table underneath a high, narrow window. The harsh winter light washes over them.

  “You want to go first?” Theresa politely asks.

  “Oh, God. No.” Her partner seems horrified. She waves her hands in her face. “You, please.”

  “Okay.”

  The colorful tissue paper tucked behind their table flutters, making a soft, lush noise. They take deep breaths. The tangy smell of oil paint rolls into their lungs. From the auditorium, the tenth grade music class is singing, “Joy, there’ll be Joy, Joy.”

  “Joy,” Cheryl absent-mindedly whispers. The girls look at each other for a moment and laugh. The teacher gives them a stern look.

  “I hate that song.” The girl laughs and pushes up her glasses.

  “You sure you want to sit still for this long?”

  “That’s one thing I do really well.” She looks at her legs, smiling.

  “Well alright, I’m pretty good at it, too. This should be easy.”

  “Breezy.”

  ***

  After gym, Cheryl walks out of the girl’s locker room working to keep her balance on the wet floors, her braces sliding. Standing on the red outdoor carpet in front of the double exit doors, she slips into her corduroy coat. She pops a piece of gum and stares at the long road home.

  “Wait up!” she hears someone call. She turns to look. Her face scrunches up and flushes red.

  “Wait, I walk that way. Can we walk together?” Theresa calls, running over, picture perfect.

  “I’m sorry?” Cheryl mutters, looking around to see if this was mistaken identity. This had happened before; kids, mean kids, waving hello or smiling at her, only to fool her and run past, laughing and hurling names.

  Freak! Freak! Freak!

  “I don’t really know anyone and I kind of don’t want to walk alone,” Theresa says. “Do you mind if we walk together?”

  “No,” she answers and looks around again, expecting someone to jump from around the corner and frighten her. “I don’t mind.” She holds her books tight to her chest, jabbing the metal from her spiral notebook into her thumb repeatedly. Finally, she holds her finger there, letting it hurt. They move down the sidewalk together.

  “You have lunch after fourth period, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I do. Is that when you go?”

  “Sure is. Maybe we could sit together tomorrow. I mean, if you don’t mind or you aren’t busy.”

  “Busy? Hardly.” Cheryl laughs. “That would be nice.”

  They take the nearly mile walk to the end of her long, winding driveway, talking mainly about classes and teachers. They think Miss Carmen is pretty and probably won’t stay in The Gap for long. One hates home economics and the other hates gym. They both agree the music teacher, Mr. Benson, is cute but probably gay.

  “Still makes him the most interesting guy in Belle Gap,” Cheryl says, making Theresa laugh until she almost cries.

  Like all houses on this side of Belle Gap, this one is a two story built in the 1890’s and has a sturdy, grey foundation. A squat, white porch skirts the front of the house and small windows look into the basement. Several brick columns buttress the freestanding house, which is crooked and slanting because of the ravaged ground. An old woman in a blue housecoat sits on a chair near the front window. She waves at Cheryl, feeble but eager. Cheryl waves back.

  “Hey, Mrs. Manson,” she calls, smiling.

  “Well, thanks for
letting me tag along. I gotta head home, help out around the house and stuff.” Theresa turns away, heading back down the lane.

  “Hey. I thought your picture was really…pretty,” Cheryl calls out.

  “Thanks. I had a pretty model.” Theresa turns and waves, bouncing on her toes. “See you tomorrow.” She spins and takes off. The orange sun is shy and the sky shows stringy clouds.

  FIVE

  ROUTE 12, lined with a used car dealership and an empty Caterpillar lot, runs straight into Belle Gap. The road leads past the doors of Saint Mary’s Church of the Ascension. The tall skinny church and the front chapel are foundations for an enormous spire tipped with a three bar cross. Percy sees a quick little man, all in black, rush from a shiny, blue van, cross the portico, and step inside the foyer.

  Percy takes a right at the crossroad, drives a little further and rolls the Buick behind an abandoned Winn Dixie. He finds the loading dock dark and empty and ditches the car temporarily. He sloshes through dirty puddles. Belle Gap is flooded from the overflowing creeks and sewers. By the time he enters the church, splattering across the black and white tiles, he is a pitiful sight. A slick gathers under him while he reads bulletins on the community board in the hall.

  “Hello?” The priest is a few feet behind him.

  Percy turns, dries his hands off on his jeans, and reaches out to the little man. “Hello, Reverend.”

  “Son, you look like you could use a little help.”

  Percy shakes his head, like shooing away a pest. His head pounds—it always aches when someone calls him son or boy. Or kid.

  “Yes, sir. I think I may need a place to stay.” He keeps his anger hidden and shrugs.

  “Well, let’s see what we can do. I’m Reverend Michael,” he says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s your name?”