Route 12 Read online

  Theresa stops at the mailbox on the curb. She leafs through the bundle, kicks the ground with her sneakers, turns one envelope over and back. She shuts the plain black box, jogs up the steps, quietly opens the front door, and clicks it closed.

  A blue Riviera slows to a stop at the bottom of the hill. The engine dies and the driver side window rolls down a hair. A silver and white candy wrapper drops from the crack, and a hazy puff of smoke lazes into the open air.

  ***

  Rowdy noises of Friday night football and the greasy smell of fried concession food pass gently over Belle Gap.

  In contrast to Theresa’s house, Cheryl’s household is a giant, messy jumble of clamor and activity. At home, Theresa can only make out the sound of grandpa’s noontime radio shows, the tick of the clock and, on Saturdays, the rumble of the washing machine.

  For the wonderful now she is away from the silence and sameness, sitting cross-legged on Cheryl’s floor. The hum of every other kid’s Friday night drifting in through drafty windows is new and moving.

  Yellow ruffles adorn the coverlet and pillows. On the bedside table a mason jar filled with pencils, each one with bite marks, sits atop a stack of McCall’s patterns. Closer to the bed Cheryl keeps Clearasil, gum, and a copy of Where the Red Fern Grows. A pecan rocking chair sits in the corner, an old Raggedy Ann with worn, barely-there eyes sits waiting for something. Three white seashells in a mason jar hold down notebooks on a paper-cluttered vanity. The room smells clean like laundry detergent.

  She slips another 45 onto Cheryl’s record player, waits for her return before starting it.

  Downstairs, Cheryl can also hear the manic, pounding sound of the Belle Gap Bull Dogs’ game band. She’s in the kitchen fixing an evening snack for Mrs. Manson. Though it’s nearly 9:00 p.m., coffee bubbles in the Mr. Coffee and dishes soak in the sink. Stacks of clean clothes line the couch, including Kathryn’s, Cheryl’s, and Mrs. Manson’s, plus washing and mending from two old men living in a boarding house in town.

  Crash! Cheryl hears the cymbals sound. She pictures the boys and girls walking around the bleachers, sitting near each other, arms touching, legs touching. Even though they are cold, they can feel the warmth of each other. Images of the girls, in their smart looking boots, miniskirts, and fitted jeans, are constant. She has saved pictures and patterns of outfits she will wear one day. One day she will be like them, she will be very, very typical.

  The basement door is wide open, Theresa’s mother moves clothes downstairs in big plastic bins, clearing stuff out of the attic, making room for their new tenant. They had moved the bedroom furniture down earlier in the day. Everything fit snugly alongside the laundry, sewing machine, furnace, and untouched workbench. There’s even a tight little hiding spot for Kathryn’s secret keep of bourbon. A small TV set is already on the stand downstairs. Theresa can hear Room 222 bouncing sound off the walls.

  “Cheryl?”

  “Yea, mom?”

  “Did you make a plate for Mrs. Manson, like I asked?”

  “Doing it now.”

  “Hey.” Kathryn is walking up the cellar stairs. Her hair is back in a faded blue handkerchief and her denim shirt is white with dust. “Did you and Tracy get anything to eat?”

  “It’s Theresa,” Cheryl says. “We did, I fixed peanut butter and jelly.” She takes the plate of biscuits and honey and the little cup of milk.

  “Don’t use all the bread. That’s all I have until next week. Eat the biscuits or they’ll go stale.” They head up the stairs. Cheryl waits at Mrs. Manson’s door, Kathryn walks across the hall to the attic.

  “Hey,” she stops and calls over her shoulder. “Don’t take any of my sodas.” She heads up the steps. “We’re not made of money,” she whispers, mostly to herself. Rubbing her shoulder, she gets ready to move her last load.

  Cheryl knocks lightly on Mrs. Manson’s door. A voice like paper burning answers and she eases inside.

  “Hello, Mrs. Manson.” She’s always genuinely happy to see the old woman. Her two sons live in Pennsylvania with their wives and children. When they remember, they send checks. They don’t visit very often.

  Cheryl thinks it’s a real shame. Sons leave to meet their own wives, daughters stay near for the rest of their lives.

  “Hello, honey. Have a little friend over, I see.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She sets the food down on the table next to Mrs. Manson’s chair and holds the woman’s bony hand.

  “Good, good. You spend too much time with an old woman.” She pulls a Hershey bar from the pocket of her housecoat and hands it to Cheryl. “Go on, now. I don’t want to see you till tomorrow.”

  ***

  “Come on.” The heat is sputtering on when Cheryl makes it back to her bedroom. She hobbles across her small room and plops down in front of the radiator. Using her arms she lifts her sock-covered feet on top of the heated coils, lies back, and lets the heat drift up her nightgown. Theresa easily does the same and relaxes in the warmth, not realizing how chilly she had become.

  Cheryl pulls the candy bar from her gown pocket and splits it in half.

  “Hey.” Theresa remembers and clicks the arm down on the record, setting the needle gently.

  There is the sweetest voice, crystal clear, a church bell ringing from the little square speakers. A chorus of girls whisper back-up. The song is melancholy, heart breaking. Oooh child, things are gonna get easier. Things will be brighter.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why do you live with your grandparents?” They’re lying on the floor next to each other, waiting for the heat to come on again.

  “Oh, yeah,” Theresa says. “Well my dad lives back home. He’s not really good with kids, I guess,” she says, stammering. “And, well.” She looks pained and begins pulling imaginary lint off her gown. “My mom is dead.”

  “Oh my God, Theresa, I am so sorry.” She sits up and puts her hands to her head. “Jesus. I’ve been yammering on about my… stupid crap!”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, not really.” She sounds almost angry. “It’s not okay. How did you keep that inside?” She stops and puts her hand on Theresa’s arm. “I’m sorry. I just can’t even imagine.”

  “It’s okay, I mean really. She wanted to. It was her.” She shakes her head and thinks for a minute. “It’s been a while, I guess.”

  They stare at each other, both glossy eyed and moony.

  “What happened?” Cheryl asks.

  “Not right now. Okay?” No one had asked about her mother since she came to live in Belle Gap, not since the police officers on that awful day. Delia barely speaks to her except for fussing and if granddad, cranky old coot, did remember her, he quickly forgot. For now, just holding someone’s attention is nice.

  “Okay.” Cheryl stares for a moment. “I get it.”

  They lie next to each other again, arms touching.

  Someday, we’ll get it together and get it undone. Someday, when the world is much lighter.

  “You know what we should do?” Cheryl whispers.

  “What?”

  “I want to drive into Lynchburg and see a movie. A double feature. I want to get popcorn and a big, foamy root beer.” She smiles. “And then, we should get a chili burger at Round Robins. All the kids go to that place.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll do it in summer and we can drive back Route 12 in the evening with the windows open.”

  “Can’t drive yet. I guess our boyfriends will have to do the driving.” Theresa smirks.

  “We don’t need boyfriends. Maybe, instead of Lynchburg, maybe we just keep on driving. We can head east. Go through Richmond and then to the beach.”

  “We could work at a shop selling bathing suits. And sit with our toes in the sand on weekends.”

  “Maybe.” She laughs and looks at her braces sitting in the corner. “No one is going to buy a bathing suit from me.” She closes her eyes. “I’ll blow up balloons on the boardwalk or maybe make salt water taffy.�
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  “We’ll see.” There’s a comfortable pause. “You know.” Theresa turns to look at her. “I’m not as pretty as you think I am.” Cheryl can’t hear her, her eyes are closed and she’s humming.

  Things’ll be brighter.

  Theresa barely makes out the sound of an engine turning over somewhere outside. Neither sees the frosty headlights snap on at the end of the drive or the car pull slowly away.

  NINE

  CHERYL OPENS HER eyes a crack and sees sunshine playing through her sheer, white curtains. She curls up in a ball and watches Theresa packing her little train case.

  “Hey.” Her voice is gravelly.

  “Hey.” The girl jumps a little and smiles. “I barely convinced Grandma to let me spend the night. If I’m late for chores…” She blows out an exasperated breath. “Well, let’s just say, you’ll be driving to Lynchburg on your own and you’ll have to tell me how the movie was.”

  “Old Delia kind of a drag, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah.” They look at each other. “So, you think I can spend the night every night?”

  “Two more years of school. Then we can do whatever we want. Hey, you want to borrow some records?” She throws her legs out of bed and limps to the stack of 45s. She picks out a few and hands them to Theresa.

  “And can I borrow that one? I’ll be careful,” she says, pointing at the record with the big-eyed girl on the jacket. Things’ll be brighter.

  “Sure.”

  “There has to be a record player somewhere in that old house, right?”

  “I would hope so. You may have to wind it up, though.” Cheryl snorts. “You have to go to church tomorrow?” She looks up and yawns. Her eyes are puffy from staying up late. After her mother and Mrs. Manson went to bed, the girls had snuck downstairs, shared one of Kathryn’s sodas, and watched a late night movie on the black and white in the living room.

  “8:30 service, bright and early.”

  “You want me to call you tomorrow? Say hi, see how you’re doing?”

  “That would be nice.” She looks down. “You know I’m okay, right? I mean, I get sad and stuff but…”

  “Sure you are.” Cheryl steadies herself on the rocking chair and stands up. “You’re just peachy. Now.” She wraps her arms around her. “Get out of here before Chuck and Delia figure out how to start the car and come looking for you.”

  Theresa steps into the kitchen and finds Kathryn on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor.

  “Morning, Mrs. Prejean.”

  “Hello Tracy. Did you have fun last night?” She stops for a minute and sits back on her heels, looks exhausted.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good, good.” She starts scrubbing again. “We’ll see you soon.”

  Theresa stops in the doorway, stunned by the welcoming sky, painted a steely blue. The wind whispers. She closes her eyes and listens to the softness of swirling leaves.

  “Morning, Theresa.”

  She spins around and finds Percy sitting on the porch just outside the door.

  “I didn’t see you,” she says.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  She leans to the side and makes a wide path around him.

  “I didn’t mean any harm.” He smiles. “I don’t ever mean harm.”

  She ignores him.

  “Hold up, hold up.” He takes a step toward her.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.” She looks at him. “I’m not allowed.”

  “I’m just talking to you. Just standing on the porch. Talking.” He puts his hands up in question. “Sounds decent enough. Don’t you think?”

  “Sure. You’re fine, I’m sure.” She takes one step down, still facing him. “I just have to get home.”

  “I’m going to take you home in my car. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Drawing closer, he stands over her.

  “No.”

  “Why? I want to help a pretty girl. You’re in a hurry and everybody likes to go for a ride.” He slows his drawl and closes his eyes when he smiles.

  “My grandparents wouldn’t be very happy if I rode in a car with you.” She walks to the road. He follows, skulking behind her and slides his hands into his pockets.

  “You know, you sure are a sweet girl.” He catches up and walks beside her.

  “What do you mean? I don’t know you.”

  “You’re being nice to that funny little gimpy girl.”

  “Why would you say something like that? That’s awful.”

  “Come on now, sweetheart,” he says. “You could hang out with all the popular kids, I bet. You’re prettier than all the girls in Belle Gap. And don’t say different.”

  “Stop.” Her face flushes pink and she swallows, too embarrassed to be angry.

  “It’s true. You know it.” He gently touches her arm with his elbow, teasing. “Sure someone has told you before. One of your boyfriends, maybe? You’ve probably had lots of boyfriends.”

  “No way,” she says, shaking her head, unable to keep the tiny grin from blooming on her face. “I’m not allowed to have boyfriends.”

  “You see, that’s a shame. It’s like keeping candy away from a baby.”

  Cheryl’s house is almost out of sight as they walk slowly down the lane. He stands still, seeming peaceful. Without thinking, she also stops, her back to him. She looks in the woods just to her right. She senses him move closer to her.

  “Do you think a girl as pretty as you would ever take a ride with me?”

  “I’m sorry. My grandparents are pretty strict.” She turns to face him. Her eyes open wide. He’s gone, disappeared. Like a whisper, she hears rustling from the dead leaves just beyond the forest edge. She feels foolish and alone.

  TEN

  PERCY SLIPS THROUGH the woods and leaves Theresa behind. He steps back to the path, positive she has moved on. He listens to the gravel crunching under his black McNamaras, another gift from George Perkins, a little big but then again nothing is ever perfect.

  The day is overcast and mild. The wind begins to blow from the north. He can feel a cutting, bitter chill weaving through the breeze. He feels it in his bones and in his blood. Things are changing.

  He heads toward the house. He hears the radio squawking through a shattered windowpane in the living room. A long, piercing buzz cuts through the darkening sky. A wall of static breaks in and garbles the announcement. When the static is gone, the air clear, the automated voice sounds:

  The national weather service in Lynchburg is issuing a severe winter weather warning for the following counties: Amelia, Belle Gap, Bowling Green, Lebanon, Myrtle, Nazareth, Winchester, and Winston. A severe blast of arctic air is expected to bring in high winds, freezing temperatures and the possibility for record snow.

  A monstrous gust gathers behind a stand of nearby pines. The bluster picks up leaves and grit and blows them toward the house. The wind sounds like the roar of a tornado. The sky is beginning to wash gray and big, reaching clouds waft over Belle Gap. He watches Cheryl bring wood from behind the shed.

  It’ is not cold yet, though the chill threatens. Cheryl is bright in her yellow slicker, walking past the dark blue Riviera. Percy picks up his pace. When he’s a few yards away from the house the wind changes direction and cuts through the holes in the old grey toolshed, howling like a ghost.

  “You want me to do that?” he calls to her. She turns and faces him. Her shoulders drop a bit and her jaw sets; she holds tight to the four logs still cradled in her arms.

  “No, I don’t need help.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say you needed help.” He sounds amused. She tilts her head but keeps walking.

  “I asked if you wanted me to do that. If I carried the wood, you could patch up the window with something. They say it’s going to be bitter tonight.” He walks to the woodpile and grabs four logs. “But, no, doesn’t look like you need help.”

  “Good.”

  “Or I could fix the window?”

  He follows her into the living room, enjoys the smell of
pinecones. They both set the logs on a black rubber mat near the fireplace. She places a log on the flames and he does the same.

  A small brown mouse, its eyes even bigger than normal, breaks from the slow burning pile. Cheryl is trying to keep her eye on the terrified rodent. Percy pushes her slightly to the side, out of his way. The mouse hits the bricks and starts for the carpet. He grabs a flowered nightgown from the piles of clothes on the couch and throws it on the animal.

  “God, no. That’s Mrs. Manson’s,” Cheryl says. The mouse is stunned and still for the moment, and she throws her purple tee shirt on top of the gown.

  “That’ll do the trick.”

  “Don’t kill it.”

  “Be right back.” He scoops the creature up in the clothes and runs through the kitchen and out the back door, to the other side of his car, away from the house. Laying the bundle on the ground, he hovers and gently nudges the rodent from beneath the covers. The second the animal is clear he crushes it beneath his boot.

  He picks up the clothes and shakes them out, wipes his foot on the wheel of his car. Pausing for a breath, he stares at the pretty clothes in his hands. He brings Cheryl’s shirt to his face, smelling it and burying his face in the folds. His mouth opens, his eyes close. The screen door opens and he jogs around the car, holding the clothes out to her.

  He grins. “Pests.”

  ELEVEN

  PERCY HELPED CHERYL patch the hole in the living room window. The fire is burning strong, warming the house. He lies back on his bed. His feet are touching the ground. His knees bounce with excitement. He shakes the Benzedrine bottle like an instrument.

  The slanted eaves of the house press in around him. A pressure builds in his head, steam gathering in a kettle. Branches and leaves scrape across the roof. The scratchy scrambling of hurried animals thuds overhead.

  “Mrs. Manson? Did you want to come down for a bit?” He hears Cheryl open the old woman’s door.

  “Mrs. Manson?” she says again. There’s a pause. The girl’s odd footsteps lumber across the floor and another long, electric pause.