Copyright 2010 M.R.HYDE
http://hydewords.blogspot.com/
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An Excerpt from Mercy and Truth
A Collection of Short Stories
n
1. (Historical Terms) (in Anglo-Saxon England) a member of an aristocratic class, ranking below an ealdorman, whose status was hereditary and who held land from the king or from another nobleman in return for certain services
Now Beowulf bode in the burg of the Scyldings,
leader beloved, and long he ruled
in fame with all folk, since his father had gone
away from the world . . .
The Pale Thane
The smell sat inside a person’s nose like old grease. It was the kind of smell that would take a long time to remove from the memory—like washing Vaseline out of one’s hair. You could smell the building before you entered it. If your stomach was stalwart enough you could grasp the door handle and pull only to realize that your fingers contributed to the sweat and grime of countless people. It was a dirty place, even with a coat of new paint—acrylic whitewash for vertical sediment.
The maintenance men cared less about this place than anyone else. As long as enough cash was tossed under the table they would put up with anything.
“The idiot lost another car.” This comment was stirred into their stained coffee mugs along with the cream and sugar. Eyes rolled, guffaws erupted, scorn spat out of their mouths.
“If I had a son like that I would take him out to the desert and leave him.”
Not to be outdone, the largest of the maintenance men added his invective. “If he was mine—and he never could be, a worm like that—I would beat him until he finally stood up to me and fought like a man.” Great hurrahs erupted inside the maintenance garage. The children in the nearby playground paused for only a second recognizing the guttural vocalizations of the centurions.
Everyone regarded the owner’s son in some measure of disdain. The children often ran next to his aging golf cart jeering at him as he dodged barking dogs that had jumped into the fray. Tenants of all races and stations of life held him in contempt because he could never get repairs done quickly enough. Even prospective tenants found little to respect in him. His shoulders slumped forward as if he had been toiling at an ancient computer for many decades. Yet his skin and features betrayed the fact that he had not yet reached thirty years of age.
A prospective tenant would see him first behind a great cherry wood desk with a heavy piece of glass set on top. One soft, white hand lay flat on the glass while the other fumbled in a near-by drawer for a master key always at the ready for showing apartments. After taking someone’s photo identification for “security reasons” he would finally rise from the chair, directing them to the side door where the golf cart stood ready awaiting the potential resident and the driver.
It was a bit surprising when he stood. Sitting in the chair one might imagine that he could have never raised his frame above five feet. Yet he stood easily at six feet with shoulders that could have been broad if he had just pulled them back. Instead they created nearly a half circle, the breadth of his back looking more like the curve of a weathered barrel. His carriage seemed as if it should have been strong, but it was not. When he walked he almost glided, barely picking up his feet. Some felt this was because he was lazy and weak.
When approaching the cart he would direct the prospective tenant to sit next to him. Then with the precision of a race track driver he would dodge potholes and concrete ravines, weaving confidently past building after building as if he had done this a thousand times. And he had. Tenants would stare incredulously at him as he drove by and cast a slightly curious glance at who might be their new neighbor.
Once at the selected building he would lead the visitor over dingy, carpeted hallways lit by dull yellow light. He made it a practice to stay at least two steps ahead of visitors, casting community details over his shoulder like salt for good wishes. He also made it a practice to make as little eye contact as possible during these initial visits.
The closer he got to an empty apartment the more he seemed to find new strength and his voice increased in volume. When the key turned in the lock and the door swung open it was almost as if he was a proud parent—answering questions with a bit of delight and pointing out the features of his tiny, greasy, gray apartments.
The ride back to the office was always a bit quiet. And again present residents would turn and stare with a kind of emptiness that was unsettling. In the office it was apparent that the ploy of withholding identification was really that, a ploy. Smiling broadly for the first time, he would tell visitors that he needed to take some of their information so that he could contact them again. Rarely did anyone surrender their information, and it took some convincing to have their identification returned because he showed a kind of tenacity that was surprising. It was generally in this moment that the deal was broken, for only the most desperate would stay and endure the application process.
Carolita was desperate. The small child wrestling mightily in her arms was preventing her from finding her identification in the bottom of her purse. She plugged the squalling mouth with a pacifier and handed the man her card. He seemed pleased to have obtained such a precious document and quickly tucked it into the key drawer. The ride to the vacant apartment was strange and felt a bit treacherous, particularly because her squirming child could not sit still even in a moving vehicle.
“Are you just moving to the area?”
Carolita did not want to intimate anything about her life. She was sure that this man was nice, but she had to be very, very careful.
“No, me and him have to find another place to live. That’s all.” The baby began to scream and the driver leaned a bit out of the cart trying to reduce the impact of the screams on his eardrum. He thought he avoided the lump of pavement intended to be a speed bump, but he did not. Carolita’s purse flew into the air and the contents scattered out onto the pavement. The cart lurched to a stop, the baby’s head bumped against the cart’s sidebar and more screams of real, but slightly less than serious, pain rang out. They reverberated up and down the canyon of brick and mortar. By the time Carolita finished checking her child’s head she noticed that the man was kneeling on the pavement furtively picking up her things and throwing them into her purse. She heard the dogs and children in the distance, but could not quite understand when she thought she saw panic in his eyes. Seconds later he was back in his seat urging the little cart to move as fast as possible. The dogs and children were nearly upon them now. But the cart had not failed him yet. Once again he was able to outrun them.
Carolita looked over at this man and saw beads of sweat on his forehead. “You afraid of them, mister?”
Without blinking an eye he responded with a simple, dull “No.” She shook her head, attended to her baby and wondered why this tall man was afraid.
Once inside the apartment Carolita let her boy down and gave him free reign. The boy, though small, was strong and rambled through the apartment at will alternating between crawling and walking. Carolita carefully checked the windows. They were clean and flimsy.
“Do you have a second or third floor available? I need that.”
“There are two or three.” What he really should have said was that there were many.
“How much do electricity and gas cost if I am on welfare?”
“You can get State assistance and it will be less than ten dollars a month.”
“That’s good. How much is the deposit?”
“Two hundred and we’ll need a thirty-five dollar application fee, too.”
“That’s o.k. Can I see the third floor apartment now?”
The valet took the keys with delight as the hero emerged from his chariot. It was hard to tell if the valet was more delighted to meet this man or to drive his car. It was pristine and beautiful, much as the man had been in earlier years. Although he was an aging god he was still god-like. His shoulders were stretched wide by pride and sinew. Years of training and vigilance kept them upright. There were many more like him at the gathering tonight, but he was the most god-like of all.
The sense of power was palpable in the room. Everyone there was either full of themselves or full of regret. But it could safely be said that there were no lack of egos. It fairly seeped out of the pores of every inch of golden, bronze and brown skin in the hall.
The stage lighting was set perfectly to bring the platform to a golden hue, highlighting the magnificently draped backdrop and providing ample contrast and focus for the aging athletes as they rose to be glorified again.
Leif and Hannah Rothmorton entered the great hall amidst flashes of cameras and younger, purring women. It took only moments for the crowd to hear of, sense and recognize his presence. Most everyone turned to catch a glimpse of the man known for his physical prowess and renowned for his philanthropic work. His wife, once a legendary beauty, had her pale, silken hand slung loosely over his still powerful forearm. She was an accoutrement at this point. But she was familiar with his humanity, and he let her be so.
Humanity was not on the program tonight, though. Leif had come to receive the Hall of Fame award. It was his long-awaited moment to stand in the eternal glow of fame and glory. He was ready to receive it all. His arms were open. His eyes were open. His heart was open. Hannah tripped a bit on her gown and her fingers dug into his virulent arm. Leif neither slowed down nor reached to steady her. She was at least grateful for something to grab onto. Her ankle hurt a bit, but she knew better than to detract from him. So, she walked steadily again by his side.
The meal was good, but as with all large banquets, arrived mostly cold to their table. Old friends glad-handed Leif and patted Hannah on the back throughout the meal. Other former goddesses commiserated quietly with her as their husbands erupted in raucous laughter. It was a night of revelry and noise and noise.
The M.C. interrupted the festivities just as the dessert and the final libations were being offered up.
“Tonight we have gathered in this esteemed hall to honor one of the greats of our time. Leif Rothmorton, would you please stand!” The response of the crowd was deafening. The M.C. could barely be heard above the applause.
“And, of course, his lovely wife Hannah! Hannah, please stand beside your fine husband.” The spot lights flooded their table while Hannah and Leif stood in the pantheon with fluttering pieces of silver and gold confetti obscuring their vision. The crowd stood all around them pressing the noise of applause into their flesh.
It took the M.C. quite some time to quiet the crowd enough to invite them to be seated, for the program was just getting started. There were many speeches to be made, not the least of which would be Leif’s. With the voice of the M.C. booming through the microphone, the tales of might and power, strength and perseverance began to reverberate.
“Leif Rothmorton was born a runner. At least that is what his father said. Never having crawled a day in his life, he fairly leapt out of his mother’s womb. According to his boyhood friends he was always the fastest and most competitive—even in the games of young men in dirt fields. When Leif was in college, he was an accomplished sprinter, a marvel to behold. It was expected that he would make the next Olympic team—and he did. Competing against some of the world’s finest athletes Leif won three gold medals and was highly regarded by his teammates as one of the finest athletes and gentlemen they had known. After graduating from college Leif was invited to be an assistant men's track and field coach. In his first decade of coaching alone, Leif Rothmorton accrued a coaching record that would be the envy of any aspiring or seasoned coach. In a remarkably short time, because of his discernment in picking talent and his ability to pull the most out of his students, Leif became head men's coach. Over his many years as coach, his teams collectively won thirty-two Olympic medals, seventeen of them gold. Leif’s teams were never satisfied with defeat and consistently achieved national championships, capturing a total of twenty-eight team titles. Leif was honored as the head coach of the U.S. Olympic men's teams three times, as well as serving as assistant coach in the Pan-American Games. Today Leif is never far away from the track, but his heart is always with those in need. His philanthropic work includes fundraising for the Children’s League, raising awareness and funds for several homeless shelters and in particular for the Rogene Swanson Battered Women’s Shelter. After the great natural disasters in the Northeast two years ago, Leif and his wife Hannah have made numerous trips to aid in the rebuilding of that region and have become honorary mayors of the town of Rosemont, most hard hit in that area. It is with great honor that I present to you now, Leif Rothmorton, this year’s inductee into the Track and Field Hall of Fame. Leif!”
The crowd burst forth in sincere and fervent applause. Leif took the stage adjusting the microphone for his height, pulled some pages from his suit pocket and cleared his throat. There was much more to remember, much more to revel in, much more to report. Hannah went to the restroom.
Carolita had moved her few belongings in to the third floor apartment earlier that day. She and her baby boy returned from the grocery store. He was anxious to stretch his legs and lungs so she put him down and let him go. She turned back to the door and closed it carefully inspecting the hinges and locks. There was a decent deadbolt and a chain lock just above eye level. She looked at each of these things again, knowing they could not stop Reggie if he was really angry. She took some comfort in the fact that she was at least three floors up and that he could not come in the window. Her fervent prayer was that he would not be able to find her. That is what she prayed for most of the time. Going to the kitchen she put the few things away from the grocery bags, checked on the baby and inspected the pallet of blankets she had put down on the floor. They would be a little more comfortable than the bare floor and would keep them off of the carpet that only appeared to be clean.
With no radio or television she was left with her boy and her thoughts. Carolita loved her little one, but she felt badly she did not have what it took to even play with him. Her crushed ribs still hurt and her left hand, as bruised as it was, was at least more flexible now. She was very grateful that her little one entertained himself tonight with the few toys he had and the apartment to ramble around in.
She thought about the car. Had she parked it far enough off of the street? Was it in a corner dark enough to obscure the license plates? She believed it was, but could not help fretting. She found another consolation in that the apartment complex was so huge it would take him a long time to find her if he wanted to. She made little or no conversation with other tenants and felt that at least for a little while she could rest, really rest.
“Your father missed you at the banquet tonight.” It was his nameless mother. That’s how he always thought about her. Once upon a time she was arm candy to the king and everyone knew her name. But now she was nameless, faceless, faithful, and forlorn. She had not turned to drink, nor prescription medications, nor had she turned to gossip or pandering with the pool boy. She had fairly quickly resigned herself to the muted role of wife of the hero and turned to simple, momentary pleasures and daily tasks. She had few friends and rarely traveled with the king. She frequented the gynecologist’s office in constant fear of his unfaithfulness. Herpes she could live with, but there was the possibility of HIV-AIDS of which she just might die.
“I had to show an apartment tonight, mother.”
“I know. It just would have been nice to have you there.”
He knew it would have been nice for her to have someone to talk with—and not about the king. The people always flocked around him as if he was Adonis or the very winged Mercury. He had seen her fade into the background his whole life. For years he had taken it upon himself to be her steady companion. They would have little, quiet chats standing against the wall at function after function. As he matured he had experienced a season of resentment towards her. Why hadn’t she made close friends? Why did she need him to talk with so much? Couldn’t she just stop being so selfish? But then he began to see why and why and why. The women really wanted Leif not her. Their dialog—or more often monologue—was about Leif and not her or their son or even the weather. And she really was not selfish and certainly not demanding—just a lonely woman with a weak child and a monolithic husband.
So, her only child and son had stopped resenting her. But he still wanted some of his own life, however pale that might be. The hurt in her eyes and voice faded over time out of respect for his individuation. Hannah knew she could not expect or want her son to compensate for the narcissistic man she had knowingly married.
On the day that his son was born, Leif Rothmorton was poised for another moment of greatness. As his wife’s belly grew he had been dreaming of the glories of his progeny. His thoughts hovered over the likelihood that his son would be beautiful and strong. So, it was disappointing to hear the doctor say that this infant boy weighed only five pounds. This was not the stuff of legends! He wanted to boast that his son was a young beast ready to take on the world his father had prepared for him.
“How’s that boy of yours, Leif, old man?”
“Fine! Fine.” he would say with great conviction.
“You need to bring him out to the track and let us see him start gaining on his ol’ Pop!”
“Hannah’s a bit protective of him, you know. Still young.”
All of it was lie upon lie. Leif would worry often, just before going to sleep and just waking, how he might introduce his son to his colleagues and athletes. He would try to shake off the terrible image of the boy—tall, spindly and sallow—standing among the giants of the field. But it would intrude upon his mind time and time again.
He worried until the day it finally came to pass. He could no longer shift the blame to Hannah’s pampering. On the way to the track he gently instructed the boy to stand tall, keep his shoulders back and pick up his feet. Even then this boy was less of a boy. The champions gathered around him quickly looking forward to seeing the promise that rested inside this child. Once the encounter was over Leif knew the truth had been revealed and he could move on. So he did. Just like any good coach can recognize the lack of drive and passion in a junior athlete, Leif let his son go early. From that point forward his colleagues rarely inquired after the boy.
There was a firm knock on the door. The interior of the apartment was still. Again came the knock, loud and sure. Carolita turned off the entryway light before she slid up to the peephole in the door. She did not want her shadow to be seen. At first she could see no one. And then the top of a woman’s forehead tipped into the round frame. The woman knocked again.
“Carolita Gonzalez. This is Gloria Romero from State Services. We had an appointment today.”
Carolita listened for one minute more.
“Ms. Gonzalez?”
Carolita unlocked the door knob and the deadbolt, but kept the chain lock in place. She looked the woman up and down quickly, listened carefully for anyone else in the hallway.
“Can I see some I.D., please?”
“Sure. It’s right here.” The woman’s voice was very calm and she seemed legitimate. The chain bounced against the metal door as it swung open. Gloria entered the modest apartment. It was clean and bright in the late afternoon sun. A little boy, no more than one or two, came rolling out of the bedroom with a bright smile on his face and drooling from his nearly toothless mouth. Gloria smiled back.
“Well, Ms. Gonzalez, you know why I am here. But let me just clarify again. I am here to verify your income and living situation to make sure that you qualify for the assistance we have initially given you. Could we sit down for a few minutes?”
Carolita was embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t had time to get furniture.” Gloria could see that the dining and living rooms were completely bare except for the half dozen toys strewn across the floor.
“Let’s just go stand by the window. At least it’s a little bit cooler there.”
“I would be more comfortable if we just leaned against the counter here.” Gloria capitulated and the interview proceeded.
After getting answers to the necessary questions and seeing bank records and the child’s birth certificate Gloria needed to look at the apartment and make sure it was safe and sufficient for the child. What she found was the bare minimum—a few cheap dishes, a decently stocked refrigerator and a clean bathroom. In the bedroom she noted the neatly constructed pallet and the bare closet.
“Haven’t you had time to get some furniture?”
“Uh, no,” Carolita said quietly.
“We’ve given you enough to at least go buy a couple of things.”
Carolita’s eyes widened with some fear and anxiety and she stumbled over her words. “I—I just haven’t had no time.”
Gloria sensed Carolita’s fear and bent her head down a little lower so that she could catch Carolita’s eye.
“Carolita Gonzalez, it is clear to me that you have been through some terrible stuff. I’m going to do my best to help you, o.k.?” Carolita faintly nodded, but the fear was still in her eyes.
“Please, Mrs. Romero, I don’t really need nobody’s help. Me and the boy we’re doing alright. I just want to live simple.”
“Carolita Gonzalez. I want to offer you some help, o.k.? I’ve got some very close friends at the Salvation Army and I know that they could bring some furniture by for you soon. Would you let me at least give them a call? Please? They are very close by and it would not take much for them to come by on one of their runs.”
Carolita was slow to respond. Gloria could see a thousand thoughts chasing through her mind. She was quite certain what kind of thoughts Carolita was having. She had had them herself many years ago.
“I need to think about it. Is that o.k.? I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
Gloria drove away from the apartment building with sadness in her heart again. She understood how a woman so young and so precious could live in such fear.
The next morning Gloria got a message that Carolita was willing to receive the furniture, but that they would be out of town for the next two days. She asked if it was possible to ask the manager to let them in. He had a key and her permission. He was the pale man sitting at the red desk in the office.
Reggie Osborn was high. He probably had been high for two or three years. His family and friends wondered just exactly how much his body could take. But they did not wonder enough to get near him. When Reggie was high he was mean. He slept with a sawed-off shotgun under his bed—when he slept. He had cooked enough methamphetamine that he could do it in his sleep. And he had carefully built worker bees, demanding their loyalty, so that he could make more than enough cash to buy whatever he wanted. He owned a home, although he never permitted the “industry” there. He would prep and cook in other homes—in old neighborhoods and new—moving rapidly so that the cops could not find him. His most effective practice was to move some of his worker bees into a new purchase, let them get high at one of his meth houses on the other side of the tracks, but make them live clean while in the new neighborhood. This they would do for about six months, just long enough to seduce the neighbors into thinking things were copasetic. Then he would quietly move the industry in and began producing for that region. Six warrants for his arrest, five simultaneously rotating meth labs, countless meth addicts and multiple women frequently impregnated, beaten and abandoned—these were his trophies.
This was the man Carolita lived with for three short months. Those months were exhilarating and terrifying. The highs were like nothing she had ever experienced. But, all the good relationships with men in her life—her father, her three brothers, and great co-workers—were nearly wiped from her memory by the violence and the meth. When she discovered she was pregnant, she valued the baby’s life enough to get out. And she had worked hard to do that.
At first Reggie would have nothing to do with her, but then his paranoia kicked in. He began finding her at random places—the grocery store, the park, her apartment. Reggie made it unmistakably clear that if she squealed to the cops she and that peanut inside her would be dead soon. Just weeks ago he had given her “one more, good beating” and that in front of the child. Then she fled.
Now she was in a town far enough away she felt like he might not find her. But the idea that she should have any friends or connections terrified her. She dared not let anyone see her too often or too much. If Reggie got wind of this—and she didn’t know how he would—but if he did, she would have to flee again.
Thinking about the furniture delivery the next day, she felt that it was imperative that she and the baby slept in the car. She could not risk the movers being able to identify her to anyone. Reggie had ways of finding her that were uncanny and unnerving. This was most likely driven by his extreme paranoia and his meth-induced insomnia that permitted him to drive freely throughout the county for several days at a time. Carolita stuffed a garbage bag with enough clothes, food and diapers for two days. Then at dusk she and her baby drove until they found a decent place to park. In the morning she would treat him to a fast food breakfast with a new toy. He would play all day in the indoor playground and then they would find another corner of the world to curl up that next night. Only then could they return home.
Herbert Spencer stood in the manager’s office in as little clothing as he had deemed possible. A threadbare, blue terry cloth robe was barely pulled around his diminished muscle shirt, the gap exposing his striped and sagging briefs. His white-socked feet were shoved into slippers that were just a bit too small for him. He had found them in the back corner of the Salvation Army store. It didn’t matter to him one little bit what anyone thought of the way he looked. He needed resolution to his problem immediately.
When the young woman and her baby came through the door he knew he would get nowhere fast. He had just begun to explain for the third time that the showerhead in is bathroom was plugged up. He hated baths. And he had been bathing in the tub for three weeks now. His first call to the office was three days after it gave out. He thought he would try to fix it himself, but had failed to sever the crusty showerhead from its pipe. For three hours he had wrestled mightily with it and it would not budge. The next day he went to the dollar store and found a promising cleaning agent which did not live up to its promise. The following day he beat against the pipe so vigorously neighbors had called in to complain.
When he heard the knock on his door he knew exactly who it was and he rolled his eyes, despite the fact that there was no one else there to acknowledge his disdain. The door opened up to the pitiful figure of the apartment manager. Herbert loathed him.
“Mr. Spencer, I’m going to have to ask you to stop banging on the pipe in your bathroom. The people in the apartments around you are completely frustrated with you.”
“Well, I’m completed frustrated with you!” yelled Herbert. “I’ve called in a work order no less than three times. You would think for all the money I put into your greasy hand that I’d at least get some kind of acknowledgement of my problem. But, no! Here you stand because four other people complained about me!”
Quickly, before Herbert could draw another breath, the gaunt, young man spoke plaintively. “You know I submit work orders as soon as they come in. The maintenance men must be backed up again. I’ll talk with them right away.”
Herbert was no longer surprised at how quickly the young man disappeared down the hallway. He had never seen him run, but it was as if he vanished before his eyes. Herbert stepped out into the hall and yelled after him, “You don’t get this fixed right away and I’ll call your father directly!” Herbert crossed his threshold and slammed the door behind him, muttering profanities and cursing the day that boy was born. He despised the boy’s father in these moments, although Leif Rothmorton had delivered for years on Herbert’s gambling during the Olympics. Those days were long gone and Herbert was left with a negative return from that great man’s pitiful son.
Herbert could have elected to move, but it was just too much trouble and he had no friends to help him. He often thought that it would do no good to move anyway. His veteran’s fixed income was as pitiful as that boy. He was stuck in a stinking hole. And he knew his life was meaningless when he could no longer load his gun. Although he had kept it cleaned and ready for years, his arthritis had pulled his finger into nearly cemented fists. Now the gun lay under his bed gathering thick dust. Sometimes when he would wake from another nightmare—this one of his buddy getting his head blown off, that one of the enemy leering at him from behind the brush—he would find some consolation in the fact that he could at least appear to be a threat if he waved it in the air at some new foe.
It would be three more weeks before he could shower again.
Carolita was laughing at her boy. He was so funny sometimes, and even funnier in the days when she less afraid. The furniture that had been freely provided embraced her in its roughness. The avocado green couch and side chair had clearly been cherished items of some elderly woman who had kept them immaculately clean until her death. Perhaps they had even been covered with plastic. Now they sat in her tiny apartment making her and her boy feel a little more normal. The dining set may have very well come from the same home. It was low and the chairs were small even for her. People must have been shorter years ago.
She went to the kitchen to begin fixing dinner. Thankfully the sun was setting and the apartment had started to cool down. The smell of onions permeated the apartment. This was the one vegetable that was always cheap and always made food taste just a little bit better. A song from her childhood twirled through her mind and she began humming the tune. Her boy would enjoy the macaroni and cheese, but she would have to cajole him into eating the greasy hamburger.
After dinner they played a game of hide and seek. Then it was time to get ready for bed. As helped him brush his four little teeth she wondered what kind of man he would become. As soon as she saved up a little bit of money they would take a bus trip so that he could meet her father and brothers. Maybe early memories could be made of good men so that he could build his character on that and not on violence and drugs. She prayed that he could forget the terror of the nights when Reggie had beaten her. It had been a while now. Carolita wondered if those kinds of things could ever be erased from memory. She hoped at least his could, if not hers.
When she laid the boy down she watched as his eyelids fluttered softly as he moved into sleep. She wished she had not named him Reginald, Jr. But it was much too late to change that now and she did not know how to do it. Suddenly she felt very tired. She checked the front door and its locks as usual, went to the bathroom and then carefully lay down next to her boy. She went to sleep thinking about all the things that he could become and tried to eliminate the negative images that popped into her head. She would do her best to raise him right.
In the morning Carolita felt better for having a great night of sleep. Perhaps today would be a good day to try out the nearby park. Carolita dressed her boy, put a few snacks and some water in a grocery bag and headed out the door. The little one was getting excited. He had not been outside much the last few months and his eyes darted everywhere while he grunted, gurgled and making guttural cries of joy at the simplest things. Carolita had a tinge of guilt for depriving her boy of the pleasures of life, but they had to be safe. Safety was one of her most valued possessions.
The grass was a bit high and the boy frequently stumbled over it on the way to the play ground. He didn’t seem to care and surged and jerked forward toward the great towers of plastic and steel. He was always ready to take on the world and he did so now. With the hyper-vigilance required of all good parents Carolita alternately laughed and gasped as her child took all kinds of spills, tumbles and steps. He was too small yet to really climb. And for this she was grateful. He would gyrate over to other children and want to grab a hold of them, and as the games of children go, they would dodge his encounter while the parents would exchange smiles and laughs at their children’s early socialization efforts.
Reggie stood by an old oak tree fifty to sixty feet away watching his child and the mother playing. It infuriated him that they would be having so much fun without him. But he did find a little bit of satisfaction in the fact that he had located them again. He knew he could always find them. He was that persistent and that confident. Reggie moved over to a picnic table chained to the ground, sat down on top of it and continued to watch them as he lit up a cigarette. He mulled over in his mind the many times she had defied him. The shorter his cigarette became the more his rage grew. He would teach her a lesson again.
Carolita saw a couple of parents across from the playground glancing behind her. They had concerned looks on their faces. Immediately adrenalin surged through her body. She carefully looked over her shoulder and saw Reggie standing on the edge of the playground. He took a drag on his cigarette and smiled at her.
“That’s a nice looking boy you got there.”
Carolita hardly knew what to do. She quickly moved toward her boy and picked him up and put him on her hip. She could see her car parked on the street a little to the left of Reggie, but a good distance behind him. One of the other mothers came up to Carolita’s side.
“Do you know that man? Are you o.k.?” What Carolita did not know was that she had lost all color in her face and had been swaying a bit as if to faint.
A man’s voice boomed from behind the two women, “Sandy, I think we should be going. Tyler, Megan, it’s time to go. Get your things and head to the car. Sandy!” The woman hesitated, she felt the terror vibrating from this young woman, but understood the need to protect her own children.
“Take care of yourself,” she said quietly and earnestly. Reggie, Jr. saw his father and immediately put his head into his mother’s neck and shoulder.
“Nice day for a picnic.” Reggie mocked her freedom. “I said it’s a nice day for a picnic, isn’t it?”
Carolita simply looked him in the eye for one moment and started toward the car. The blanket and the snacks no longer mattered. All that mattered was that she got into the car and drove. Reggie walked several paces behind her quietly making comments about the weather, how good she looked, how much the boy had grown. She got to the driver’s side and fumbled for the keys in her pocket. Reggie leered at her across the top of the car, leaning heavily on the passenger’s side door. “Where do you think you can go to get away from me? Huh? I’ll tell you. Nowhere.” His eyebrows shot up above his dark sunglasses and Carolita knew that it was true.
In as swift a motion as she could manage she opened the door, put the boy on the front seat and locked the door behind her. She started the car as she saw Reggie in the rear view mirror. He was coming quickly around to the driver’s side. Just as he was leaning over to glare at her through the window, she turned the wheel and hit the accelerator barely missing the car parked in front of her. Her boy started to cry and scream. She flew away not wanting to look in the rear view mirror to see if he was there. It didn’t matter if he was right there or not, he would find her soon. And next time he would probably be very high. She reached over to grab the seatbelt and buckled it around the small abdomen of her son. She would put him in the car seat in the back just as soon as she felt they could stop for a minute. She knew that there was a fast food place nearby where she could stop for a moment with a lot of people around. Then she would drive for a long time in a random pattern to try to throw him off, ending up at the furthest apartment in her complex. She prayed that he would not be able to follow her after those efforts. But prayers had not worked before.
The door buzzed on the apartment manager’s office. It was late at night and a man stood there repeatedly ringing the buzzer. He seemed determined to get a response. A pale young man eventually looked through the glass doors at him and pointed to the sign showing regular office hours. Reggie was not satisfied. At first he smiled broadly but then he expressed more than a little frustration and his face turned dark. The apartment manager opened the door slightly and was immediately confronted with the strong smell of chemicals. It took him only a moment to understand that the smell was emanating from the man himself. He was wild-eyed and very agitated with sweat pouring off of his brow and down his neck.
“I’m trying to find my wife. She told me she moved into this place and I need to find her.”
The manager hesitated and looked hard at the man.
“My name is Reggie Osborn and my wife is here. You need to tell me where she is. She’s my wife and I have a right to see her.”
The manager was sure this would be a mistake and spoke very firmly. “You will have to come back in the morning when we are open.” Before Reggie could spit out one more word, the manager locked the door and disappeared.
Reggie raced away from the office and into the first courtyard he could find. He saw some teenagers, took a deep breath to calm himself, and walked up to them asking for a light. One young man pulled out a lighter and offered it to him, while two of the girls took soft and slow steps backwards to move behind the other boys. Most of them knew the smell of meth and they knew the kinds of behaviors that could accompany it.
“Do you need somethin’?” the boy asked as his lighter was returned to him. He could see the man’s hand vibrating like a machine.
“Yeah. My wife, she’s here with my boy. She’s about this tall and the boy is two. She told me she moved in here a couple of months ago and I keep trying to track her down and give her some money for the boy.” Reggie went on in rapid fire detail repeatedly describing the woman and the baby, along with the car and its license plate number. The more he talked the further the young people seemed to move away from him. This made Reggie very angry. Before they knew what happened, Reggie had the boy with the lighter by the collar demanding that they tell him where she was. The girls quickly ran into the darkened hallways terrified of what might happen next. The other boys fought back the urge to flee and feigned support from a good distance.
“I don’t know your wife and there are hundreds of kids in this dump. Get off of me!”
“You don’t get me to her I’ll make you remember you never want to see me again.” Reggie was leaning close to the boy’s face. The boy wrestled out of his grip just long enough to scoot away. One of the others yelled out, “Hey man, there’s a big laundry room two buildings down. Almost everyone goes there. Maybe you could find her there.” The comment distracted Reggie enough that all the boys scrambled for the nearest hallway and disappeared into the night.
Reggie headed out in search of the laundry room. When he found it he saw two elderly women folding their clothes near the entrance. Reggie dropped down to their eye level and was in their faces before they knew what was happening. “You little cows seen a woman and a boy move in here about two months ago?” He described Carolita and Reggie, Jr. in heated, graphic detail. The women were terrified and unable to speak. He slapped the woman closest to him and cursed in her face. The woman on the left said she had seen a young woman and baby around building forty-two, but that’s all. As soon as Reggie ran out, the other woman went to the phone next to the soap dispenser and called the Manager’s Office.
“You’ve got to call the police. There was a terrible man in here looking for a young woman and a baby. He slapped Lucille and her lip is bleeding bad. Yes, yes we’re in Building Three laundry room. Get some paramedics in here to take a look at Lucille. You gotta hurry. I don’t know what he’ll do next or if he’ll come back.” In what seemed an eternity, the women heard the familiar sirens peal out through the night air.
Reggie saw an older man smoking near the entrance to Building Forty-Two. Once again, despite the chemicals racing through his body, he knew he had to take a deep breath. He stopped for a moment to gather himself, but could feel the rage boiling inside of him. He would find her and then she would know again what it meant to be on the wrong side of his fist.
The old man noticed someone walking rather quickly toward him. It alarmed him a bit, because it was dusk and he couldn’t see very well at that time of day. He turned as quickly as he could to go back into the building. But before he could get through the door an arm pushed the door closed and a voice rasped in his ear, “I’m looking for Carolita Gonzalez, old man. I was told she was here. Where does she live?”
“I—I don’t know,” he said weakly. “How would I know who she is and where she lives?” Herbert Spencer knew everyone in his building, whether he ever spoke with them or not.
“Old man, I will end your life right now, if you don’t tell me where she is.” Herbert saw the blade of a knife jet out before his face. In one weak moment he blurted out, “Three-fifty-six.” It was the apartment right next to his. Reggie threw the door open and dashed up the stairs. Herbert heard the sirens for the first time and prayed that they were coming to this unit and not another.
Carolita had not slept for three nights since seeing Reggie at the park. She had stopped only briefly to get groceries after driving all that afternoon. Then she hid the car behind the maintenance garage and prayed no one would tow it. She knew that she would have to stay inside for a few days and wanted to make sure that her boy would have enough to eat. She would not eat. That’s what terror did to her. She tried very hard to make the boy’s activities normal and quiet. No one must know that they were in the apartment.
Tonight she felt a little less on edge. Forty-eight hours and hundreds of apartment units gave her a tiny bit of consolation. Reggie just might not find her. She had put Reggie, Jr. down for the night and lay quiet and still on the rough couch, hoping that her body could relax enough to sleep for a few moments.
She heard a voice out in the hallway and sat up straight and still. The next thing she heard was the thunder of her hollow metal door. He was there. He was coming in. She grabbed the baby from the bedroom and stood shaking in the middle of the darkened room. The door made a repeated blast from impact, shaking the walls. For one brief moment she was amazed at the power of a drug-filled human being. But that moment was gone forever when the chain tore off the metal molding and flew across the living room hitting the window with a loud pop. The locks gave way and the metal door was flung hard against the soft drywall.
Herbert stood for one terrible moment in the darkness when he suddenly realized what he had done. He had given a girl’s life away, just as he had in the war. How he could do that twice in his life he would probably never understand. But rational thinking kicked in and he lurched up the stairs, having to stop every five to ten steps to catch his breath. Something he thought might be courage was surging through him. But in a moment of clarity he realized it was probably repentance. He made it to the top of the stairs just in time to see the man kick the door in and hear the woman scream. Herbert reached his door, stumbled into his bedroom and knelt down by his bed. He pulled out his shotgun and forced himself up by pushing against the mattress. As he stumbled toward the door he struck at the layers of dust on the gun trying to make it look less like a relic. Herbert turned out of his apartment into the hallway. He could hear Carolita screaming. At the same time he heard voices coming up the staircase at the other end of the hall. Radio interactions indicated the presence of police. Herbert realized quickly that he could be identified as the threat as he stood there in his bathrobe and gun. He tried to dodge back into his apartment but hit his shoulder. Wincing with pain he made it to the bedroom again shoving the rifle as far under the bed as he could. He had no time to close his door and could even hear through the walls the struggle of the police trying to apprehend a beast. It struck him as odd that he had not yet heard the baby cry.
When it sounded as if they had bound the man, Herbert peeked out into the hallway. Two officers were interviewing Carolita who was holding the baby close. They moved her down the hall toward Herbert so Reggie could be taken out. As Reggie writhed, spat and cursed, Carolita hid behind the officers so that she would not have to see him. Then the baby began to scream. Within minutes Reggie was taken down the stairs, his curses fading in the hallway. Herbert went and stood stoically next to Carolita and attempted to comfort the baby with soft words. Behind him he heard someone coming and turned to see the apartment manager appearing on the scene.
The police saw the manager and greeted him by name. They were altogether too familiar with this man. Too many times they had had to call him to get access, give him their reports and arrest people in his urban village. They treated him with respect, which would surprise Herbert later upon recalling the event. One of the officers asked Herbert if they could use his living room so that the woman and her child could sit down while they took her complete statement. Herbert quickly accommodated them while the manager and the other officers inspected the damage.
When he followed the officers into the apartment, the young man was aghast at the damage incurred so quickly. A window was shattered and there were holes in the walls where the man had thrashed against his foes. Furniture was broken and torn. But he was most startled when he turned around and saw that the metal door frame was bent so dramatically that it would be impossible to close it tonight—or any night. The force that that represented was enough to make him sick to his stomach.
“We’ll have to get her to a shelter tonight if she is willing,” one officer told him.
“Of course, why don’t we take her down to the office and we can clean some things up here later. If she doesn’t want to go to the shelter, I can put her in one of the apartments close to the office for tonight.”
An officer went to the neighbor’s apartment and came back with Carolita. Another officer held the boy close and watched as the woman packed a few necessary things.
“Officer Stanton, will accompany you to the manager’s office so that he can talk through your options for tonight.” Carolita followed solemnly down the hall with the officer holding her boy. As a few neighbors poked their heads out of their doorways the other officers quietly assured them that things were alright now. They could see the yellow crime scene tape crisscrossing the doorway of Carolita’s apartment. Not many of them would sleep well the rest of the night, especially Herbert Spencer.
In the office, the pale man went to the back storage room to search for keys to an empty apartment. While the officer told Carolita all of her options, they could hear drawers being opened and closed and papers being shuffled around. After some consideration Carolita opted to stay in an empty apartment rather than going to a shelter. She had been in those before and hated them. There was too much doting and record keeping. She just wanted to be in a quiet place. Then she would figure out what to do in the morning. Reggie would be in jail for a while at least and she knew she would have some days to figure out what to do next.
The officer cleared his throat and raised his voice a bit to get the manager’s attention. “Carolita would like to stay here tonight with her son.”
In a moment the manager appeared in the doorway. Seeming to be distracted, he said, “Fine. Fine. That will be just fine. I’ll put her in one-twenty-four just two doors down from me.” Carolita felt some relief for the first time in several hours. The manager walked the officer to the door and Carolita could hear them finishing the business of the night. Her boy lay sound asleep in her arms.
“I’m sorry to make you wait a bit more, but I still need to find some paperwork. Could you wait a few more minutes?” Carolita was confused at his request but had very little capacity to make any more decisions this night. So she conceded to wait, sat on the stiff couch and stared at the cheap oil painting on the wall. She was just about to call out to him when he came and sat in the chair across from the couch. He laid some paperwork on the coffee table and spoke very quietly to her.
“Do you have family close by?” Carolita was surprised at his question and nodded yes.
“Would you feel safe going to them?” Carolita nodded again and tears came to her eyes.
“Could you get there in two or three days?” She quietly affirmed that this was possible.
He disappeared in the back room again. And it was very quiet. She could hear some activity, but it was hard to discern what was happening. He came back out, sat for a moment and looked at her. She was not sure how to interpret the look, but she did not feel afraid.
“This is the pink slip to my car. I have signed it over to you. It is free and clear and I’ve also filled out the bill of sale.” He moved the papers toward her and held out a pen. His fingers were trembling. “If you would sign this line right here I will give you the car. Here’s some cash, too. I would like you to get in the car and drive as far as you can tonight. There’s plenty of money there for gas and food for the next week. You can get to your family’s house on that. The car is right outside. I need you to do this tonight. Will you?”
Carolita sat stunned for a minute. “Will you?” His question was furtive and full of sincerity. “I don’t expect anything. I don’t want anything. I just want you to take the car. It’s perfectly legitimate, you can just take it to the DMV when you get where you are going and it will work out just fine.”
“But this is your . . .” he stopped her mid sentence.
“Will you?” He was nodding his head up and down as if to show her how to say yes.
Carolita nodded her head up and down, leaned forward and signed the Bill of Sale.
“Oh, I forgot something. Wait just one more minute, please.”
Carolita watched him go out the back door. The next thing she heard was the car door close and then he reappeared. “Come on.”
There was a pale light from an old fixture hanging just above the car. It made everything look orange. He opened the back car door and an old, disheveled car seat was strapped in, he lifted the boy from her arms, fastened the seatbelts around his little body and carefully closed the door. He led Carolita around to the driver’s side, opened that door and proceeded to point out the buttons and levers for lights, signals and oil. He showed her how to open the gas tank door and then asked her to start the car. Carolita dutifully followed his instructions and fastened her seatbelt.
Just before he closed the door, he leaned down, smiled very tentatively and said goodbye. Before Carolita could respond, he passed through the back door of the building and the light went out. Carolita sat there for a full minute clutching the pink slip and bill of sale while the engine ran. The baby stirred in the back seat and uttered a little cry. Carolita put the car in gear and drove into the darkness.
“The idiot lost another car.” Eyes rolled and guffaws erupted, the maintenance men had taken their seats again in the seat of mockers.
“You know what I would do if I had a son like?”
“We know! We know!” they all yelled raucously. One of the compatriots laughed, “You would beat him until he finally fought like a man!” The children in the nearby playground paused for only a moment hearing the loud, deep laughter erupting again from the maintenance garage.
Read more of M.R. Hyde’s work.
Wife of Lappidoth: A Mountain Tale (Novella)
Just Off Center (Short Collection of Short Stories)
Mercy and
Truth: (Short Stories)
SHE: Stories of a woman (Flash Fiction Collection)