Route 12 Page 3

  “Percy Perkins.”

  “What brings you to Belle Gap, Percy?” The reverend folds his arms in a thoughtful manner. “I’m sure you know there’s a strike. Not a job to be had.”

  “Family. Came to see my Uncle George but I guess they’re out of town. Went by the house and nobody’s home.”

  “George?”

  “George Perkins,” he says. “He and my Aunt live out on 12.”

  “Huh,” the priest sighs. “Poor George. How is he feeling these days?”

  “Well enough to travel, I suppose. I was moving out here to give them a hand around the old place. It’s getting kinda run down.”

  “Good for you. Yes. They’ve been having a time of it. Alice sure is a comfort to him.” He pauses. “Well, there isn’t much in the way of services here. However, our sister church in Winchester, Saint Ignatius, has an annex with showers, cots, and something to eat. I’ll be driving the van there tomorrow, if that helps at all.”

  A flash of heat bursts and spreads through Percy’s gut. He wonders what the reverend would feel like underneath him. He shakes off the thought, snaps the window shut.

  “No, sir,” he slips from under the man’s grip. “I have money. I’m a working man.” He stares and shoves his hands in his pockets, still hot. “I’m not like that.”

  “I’m sure, I am sorry for…,” the reverend starts, embarrassed.

  “It’s okay.” He shakes his hand again. “I’ll just be going.”

  He makes for his car, running. A coal train hollers from further up the mountain. Inside his car, he looks at the phone number and address he pulled from the boarding house flyer posted on the community bulletin board.

  “Prejean,” he reads the name on the paper aloud, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It’s getting dark. If there’s a rush hour in Belle Gap, it’s now over. He’ll have to sleep in the car for the night, find blankets first.

  SIX

  DELIA AND CHUCK HICKS roll out of the house 6:30 sharp every morning, fussing and fighting. Both bundled tightly in their church best. Theresa’s grandparents seek fellowship at St. Mary’s Church of the Ascension. The bible lessons start with a potluck breakfast: coffee cake, sweet breads, buttermilk biscuits, ham and bacon, preserves from the church kitchen, coffee, and wine from Reverend Michael’s vines. They always end with prayers and blessings.

  After the meetings, most of the women volunteer in the church office or with the second hand store. The men take their leave by foot or by car. Often they sit at the general store and gossip or head home to nap.

  Theresa wakes at 6:35 a.m. She has a full two hours before school starts. Her mornings are quiet. Every room is freezing since her grandparents shut off the heat during the day. Wrapped in a sweater, robe, and two pairs of socks she shambles around the oversized pine table in the kitchen. She scoops sugar into her Cheerios, adds the milk and sits down, her chair echoing as it scrapes the floor. She finishes, ignoring the last few soggy bites and sips the sweet milk. She also drinks orange juice straight from the carton late at night. Sometimes, just for spite, she stands with the refrigerator door wide open, looking for something or nothing.

  She heads to the bathroom, locks the door behind her then checks to make sure it’s secure. This is her ritual, every time she showers, every time she closes the door. She doesn’t want to do it. She has to. An engine inside forces her movements, as if she is possessed.

  The bathroom is foggy and warm. She stands under the hot water until her skin turns pink. When she feels like turning the water down, she grinds her teeth and abides it a little longer. For Theresa every shower is her burden, every shower is a test.

  She dries off over the vent, puts on her jeans and a white button-down. Though she does her own laundry, Delia tells her how to do it and when. Her grandmother favors stark whites and stiff, starched fabric.

  She crouches at the front door, ties her shoes, pulling hard until the tongue and eyelets push into her skin. By the end of the day, she will have swollen red marks across her foot. She likes to run her finger over the tender skin.

  She grabs her bag, rushes out to the porch and onto the damp street, shaking free of the heavy, overwhelming house. The sun is teasing, breaking through in spots, then hiding again. Last night’s rain has temporarily cleansed Belle Gap of the oily, chemical smell, which typically hangs like a curtain.

  Belle Gap is a deep dark hole. An iron bridge to the east side, a deadly, rapid river to the west, the black mountains with sheer, severe cliffs of shale above and below. The Gap, as locals call it, rests in the womb of the mountains. Theresa wonders if her mother remembered the sound of the train or the color of the murky, dirty river.

  She walks past dark and sleeping houses, past a dreaming dog chained to a tree. Before crossing to Cheryl’s side of town, she sees a small bird struggling in the down gutter. A scrawny late robin, eyes jutting and beak screeching, tries sadly to stand, his chest ripped open and his top feathers missing. The robin’s little head continues looking up, looking for mother or father, calling and crying.

  She starts toward the dying bird and holds her breath. It’s okay. It’s okay.

  A huge, matted tom darts from a nearby drainpipe. The cat growls viciously, hissing and spitting. In a violent, gruesome instant, the neighborhood predator is crashing over the bird. He paws the chick to the ground, clamping slick teeth around the fragile, hollow neck, and runs back to the pipe.

  Theresa releases a small, alarmed cry. She stands still as a statue, dazed. The sound of the bird screeching rings in her ears. The terrible growl of the cat is in her head. She looks around, unsure. Finally, her heart starts to beat again and she wants to get away.

  She’s nearly jogging when Cheryl’s house finally appears like a light in a tunnel. She slows down, controls her breathing; she quiets the buzzing in her head.

  A stranger stands on the porch. His smile is wide, stretching across his face. He boldly stares at her with black eyes.

  “Hello.” He has a voice like honey.

  She tries to walk casually and pulls her books close to her chest. Up one stair and to the next. He’s standing on the top step.

  “A girl as pretty as you should be smiling,” Percy says. His voice is deep and his words take forever. “Why do you look so sad?”

  “No reason.” Theresa pats her cheek, wet with sweat and tears, nods her head, then looks in his eyes.

  “No reason at all,” she repeats. She notices his hair is too long in the back and it seems wild and wavy. He has patches of beard growing across his jaw. He smells like cologne instead of soap. She thinks he’s not as handsome as he acts.

  “It’s alright. I didn’t mean any harm.” He steps out of her way, letting her pass into the house. He follows closely. He’s so near he might reach out and touch her. Darting out of his way, almost tripping, she stands at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Cheryl?” she calls to the second floor. Her voice cracks. From the corner of her eye, she watches Percy walk to the kitchen, stop in the doorway, and smile

  “Theresa? Is that you?” Cheryl calls from the top of the stairs. With her book bag in hand she starts down, but trips over a green plastic bin full of folded, clean clothes. Theresa runs up and catches her by the arm. On the first floor, they pause in the front doorway.

  “Did you see Mrs. Manson’s clothes?” Kathryn Prejean hollers down the hall. The girls stare at each other a minute and laugh.

  “Sure did,” Cheryl answers, shaking her head and walking outside. “Bye, Mom,” she carelessly calls behind her.

  “Put those clothes away for her tonight, young lady.”

  “There’s a man in your house,” Theresa whispers to her once they’re on the porch.

  “I know,” she says and puts on her coat while she walks. “He’s probably looking for a room. We’re strapped right now because my mom’s boyfriend left and took her money.” Cheryl looks humiliated. “It’s been a tough year. Or two. She rents out rooms for $100 a week.
She also does laundry and alterations, cleans houses. I help out.”

  “God,” Theresa blurts out. “That’s just awful.” She doesn’t know what else to say. “The guy stealing money, I mean. Not your mom working,” she mumbles. There is a long pause.

  “Are you okay? You almost wiped out back there,” Theresa asks after they are down the lane a bit. They finally begin to slow down.

  “Last night I fell asleep before taking Mrs. Manson her clean clothes. Mrs. Manson is this lady living with us.” She turns around, facing the house again, and waves. Theresa sees a soft silhouette in a second floor window wave back. They keep walking.

  “Anyway, mom likes to remind me by putting the basket at the top of the stairs.”

  “That’s kind of mean.”

  “Yeah, well. I can’t tell if she really forgets I’m bolted in or if she’s just kind of a bitch.” She rattles her braces. “Nah, really, she’s okay. She tells me I shouldn’t get used to people doing things for me. She does the best she can. She’s trying to toughen me up. Lots on her mind. I guess it’s kind of obvious, I’ll never make the track team.” She shrugs. “Or any team.”

  “What happened?”

  “A few years ago a bunch of doctors from Charlottesville came to school with a bus full of medicine. You know, all happy and helpful. They were giving out polio vaccinations, testing for lead, they had dentists and a bunch of other stuff.” Cheryl cocks her head. “Of all the kids, I mean hundreds, who got vaccinated, I got the bad dose.

  “A few days after the doctors left I spike a high fever. Man, I was insane. I had dreams about people sticking needles in my brain, they would just slide in. It was gross.” She wrinkles her nose. “My throat was sore, a headache, I couldn’t even walk to the table for dinner.”

  “Was your dad still home back then?”

  “Yup. After a week, I couldn’t pick up my legs and everything was floppy. Really, I couldn’t move. They took me to Charlottesville. I had to stay for a few months.” Her voice drifts to a whisper. “Mom stayed with me for most of the time.

  “Right before I got out she went home to get the house ready. But when I got there dad was already gone. Mom said he was on the road.” Cheryl looks at Theresa. “Dad’s a truck driver. He just never came back. We got a few phone calls at first.” She chews on a fingernail “Anyhow, they ended up sticking me in these things.” She looks down at her feet. “I missed a lot of school.” She grins. “So, there was that.” Her smile stretches wide.

  “Right,” Theresa says. “How long do you have to wear them?”

  “I guess, as long as it takes. This is my second pair. Not too much longer.”

  “Anyhow, I hope you don’t mind. You know, me coming by this morning.”

  “No, no. I’m glad you did.” She looks at the book poking from Theresa’s pocket, The Popular Crowd. “You know, I just read that. Funny.”

  “That is funny.”

  They make their way down a hill covered with mist and framed on either side with oaks and pines. When they pass a clearing with no house or store Theresa reaches out and threads her arm through Cheryl's arm.

  They cross the front lot of the school and skirt the flag post. They pass a boy and a girl standing very close. The American flag whips and snaps in the wind. The boy and girl kiss for several long moments.

  SEVEN

  “YES, MA’AM. I just moved in from Richmond. I was supposed to stay with my Aunt and Uncle.” Percy is working hard to charm the very distracted Kathryn Prejean. He leans back a bit and watches the woman’s gimpy kid and her little friend walk down the lane. Quickly, before the mother can catch his gaze, he straightens up.

  “I’m sorry, what’s this all about?” She’s facing the counter, sleeves of her denim shirt rolled over her elbows. She has a light yellow weekly medication dispenser, the lids for each day flipped open. Each small cup holds three pills. Pushing the organizer to the side, she opens a cupboard and lays out a cup and saucer. Water is running in the sink. The teakettle begins to whistle and the grungy white wall phone rings. She turns around and holds up a finger, flicking water from her hands and across the room. “Hang on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hello.” She sounds annoyed. “This is she.”

  He walks over to the sink, shuts off the water, turns the burner off, and removes the kettle. He affords the pills a short, intense glance. Kathryn watches him and nods her head.

  “Yes, sir, I know who you are. I got the letter. I’m afraid I can’t talk right now.” She turns away from her visitor, rubs her freckled forehead with her freckled fingers. “Yes, I understand. If I can call you back I can work this out.” She sighs. “Yes, by Friday. I know. Let me take your number. I’ll call you right back.”

  Percy passes a small shelf with apples carved into the wood. A basket full of mail sits on the shelf, all the envelopes are rumpled and crinkled. There’s a pink envelope with red lettering. The hooks underneath are dusty and only one holds keys. He stands in the doorway again.

  “Okay, now.” She turns back around. “What can I do for you?”

  “Yes. I was in town to help my Uncle George. George Perkins. He lives out on Route 12. You know him?”

  “Probably.” She shakes her head, turns back to the counter and begins steeping the tea bag. “I don’t really know.”

  “Well, he must have forgot I was coming. He and my Aunt were gone when I got there.” He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair, looking embarrassed. “Wouldn’t that be something if he was on his way to see me?”

  “Sure,” Kathryn says politely. She puts a biscuit and ham on a little plate and nods impatiently.

  “Anyway, I saw your flyer up on the board at St. Mary’s.”

  “What?” Her eyes squint and her forehead wrinkles. She turns around and stares at him.

  “I was talking to Reverend Michaels. Sure you know him. I saw your flyer up on the board. It said you had a room for rent.”

  “Oh, no.” She shakes her head and frowns. “That’s from several months ago. I’m sorry, but I have someone staying here now.”

  “You don’t have an extra room?”

  “Well, nothing ready for company.” She watches him.

  “I’m in a bad spot. You could say desperate.” He puts his hands in his pockets, shrugs, leaning into the doorsill, close to the basket of late bills and angry letters.

  “You can’t get into your Uncle George’s house?” She shoots him a serious stare. “Why not stay there?”

  “Locked up tight as a drum,” he says. “I didn’t want to break in. That didn’t seem right. And he ain’t the type to leave a key.”

  “’Course.” She turns, grabs the plate and saucer.

  “And I’d go back home but my room’s already been rented out. Uncle George is my only family. My folks are dead.”

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s been awhile. That’s why Uncle George and I are close.” He pauses. “Anyhow, I can pay up front. Two weeks.” He pulls the money he stole from Mr. Perkins out of his pocket. “Would that help at all?”

  “Uh huh.” She stares at the cash. “I guess. But, I really won’t have room for you until Saturday evening or Sunday morning. I have to clean out the bedroom in the attic. That’ll work for you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He reaches out and shakes her hand. “That’ll do great.”

  “Good.” She gives in and smiles with relief. “If you need a place to stay for the night you should head west on 12. Take it out of town. There are quite a few motels. The farther out you go the cheaper the rooms. But I don’t suggest visiting anything too cheap.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He seems grateful and smiles. “Sound advice. I’ll show myself out. Thank you.”

  Kathryn makes her way up the stairs. Mrs. Manson’s tea is still steaming.

  He walks down the hallway and sees a small framed picture on the desk beside the door. He leans closer and stares, studying, considering. All that remains o
f the left side of picture are the father’s hands. She and the little girl look exactly alike; round, dark eyes and frizzy, brown hair. He puts the tip of his pinky finger over the mouth of the little girl and gently pushes the photo and frame backward. He puts his pinky into his mouth, to the tip of his tongue.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Kathryn is upstairs. “I’ll be up in a bit to get the dishes.”

  He hears the door close then open again.

  “If you feel up to it, we can go for a little walk later.”

  Percy stands up straight and looks around. There’s no sign of Mr. Prejean, no boots or jackets, no extra key rings by the door, no photos. He turns and leaves the house, closing the door behind him.

  EIGHT

  THERESA WINDS HER way home after saying goodbye to Cheryl, leaving her at the end of her driveway. She buttons the top tab to her coat and when she slides her hand into her pocket, she feels soft paper underneath her fingertips. She had never been the kind of girl to get notes. A note is acceptance, an invitation to a life less lonesome. Notes are soft pencil marks, expectations, and friendship. She is surprised. Excited. She pulls out the paper and nearly rips it open.

  Ther,

  Ask if you can spend the night tonight. Let me know if you need me to walk with you. Call you later.

  Cher

  There’s a smiley face drawn next to her name. Also folded into the note are two pieces of Cheryl’s favorite gum, brightly striped and fruity. She pops a piece and chews in time with her stride.

  She makes it to her neighborhood. Clover Lane runs along a steep hill and the Hicks house perches at the very top. The back windows peer out on the vast, craggy mountains past Blacksburg Valley. Carpets of green, slashed open occasionally by great cliffs of shale roll up and down. From the front, one can see Belle Gap. The ugly parts, the bus station and the police station, hide in the basin. Saint Mary’s Church, though, rises on the other side, and stares across to the Hicks house.