There Was a Little Girl Page 8

  “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  Daddy grunts. “Take one for the road. I’m working on a few things, but I appreciate the offer.”

  The man leaves and Daddy sneers, throwing the half-empty beer can against the wall. I flinch but don’t move. If I sit still, sometimes he won’t notice me.

  He plops down in the old orange recliner in front of the TV, clicking through the channels until he finds an old western.

  “Katherine, go get me some chips and another beer.”

  I scurry off to the kitchen and open the pantry. There isn’t anything there. It seems like lately there’s never much food in the house. A lot of days I go to bed hungry. Mama comes home from work, looking tired, her pretty hair escaping from the ponytail.

  “Whatcha looking for, honey bunch?”

  “Daddy wants chips but there aren’t any.”

  A grumble comes from the living room. “What the hell is taking so long?”

  Mama stomps out of the kitchen. She has a sour look on her face, like she smells something bad.

  “There aren’t any more chips. We don’t have enough to eat. You drank the electric bill this month. Now we’re three months behind on everything. Did you see we got an eviction notice today?”

  Pressing up against the wall, I know what’s coming. I edge out of the room. Once I hit the hallway, I run to the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and climb into the tub. The purple and white polka dot shower curtain rustles as I grab it, pulling it across, blocking out the ugliness. In the tub, I hug my knees tight, rocking back and forth. Little pants, like Max makes when he’s hot, fill the tiny space, the sound echoing off the cracked blue tile.

  The voices grow louder. The meanness filling up our house to the roof. Some days I can see it. An ugly purple and black cloud floating above all our heads.

  “I can’t keep doing this. Enough is enough. I’m leaving you.”

  There’s a low rumble, like an enraged animal, and then a dull thud. I know what’s happening. Shutting my eyes tight, I clap my hands over my ears. They’ll stop soon. They always do.

  It seems like forever, then suddenly something changes. A stillness in the air that makes little bumps pop up all over my skin. Then a different kind of scream comes from my mama. A scream I’ve never heard before. My arms and legs tingle as the curtain hiding me blurs into a swirl of purple and white.

  Another sound… I can’t quite place it. The sound registers and I press my hands to my tummy. The baseball bat.

  Max growls, a low rumble from deep in his belly, and I know I have to do something. I screw up my courage and, with one small, trembling hand, push the shower curtain back. As I tiptoe down the hall, my steps become more certain. I’m stomping by the time I get to the family room. With hands on hips, I stand there, eyes narrowed at my daddy.

  “Don’t you hit my mama. You’re mean and I hate you.”

  His hand lashes out so fast I don’t know what’s happening until I find myself on the floor, my face feeling like a thousand wasps have stung me. A terrible growling emanates from sweet, even-tempered Max. He bares his teeth, his hackles standing up as he puts himself between me and Daddy. Before I can stop him, Daddy kicks Max. My furry brother slams into the wall with a yelp.

  Mama throws a bowl at Daddy, who ducks as it shatters against the wall. Dizzy, I get to my feet, swaying like Daddy does sometimes. He picks up the bat.

  The swing creates a breeze, the impact sounding like one of Gram’s nutcrackers. The same sound as when she and I make cranberry bread at Christmas and crack the nuts one by one.

  Mama doesn’t get up. I run over to her, drop down to the floor.

  “Please get up, Mama. I won’t ever talk back again.”

  There’s a pop as Daddy opens another beer and slurps it down. Mama’s face matches her nail polish. It looks terrible, wrong somehow. Something inside me twists and turns black.

  My fists are clenched so tight, I’m surprised I’m not bleeding as I pummel Daddy with my fists. “I hate you! I hate you!”

  Daddy backhands me and I hit the coffee table. Pain explodes through my side. He lifts his foot and I know it’s going to be bad. The kick never comes. Max attacks Daddy to save me.

  It seems to go on forever, the sound of the bat. There’s one last thud, then a whimper. The screams coming from my throat sound like they belong to someone else. Some other child who lives through awful things.

  “Shut the hell up. I can’t take your caterwauling.” Daddy kicks me on his way out. He slams the door against the wall, leaving it gaping open like some kind of monster’s mouth, ready to devour any who venture close. A few minutes later, I hear a car start.

  Max doesn’t move. And my mama won’t wake up. I don’t know how long I lie there curled up in a ball. Somehow I drag myself to my feet, limp to my room, and grab the quilt Gram made. It’s always been Mama’s favorite. Even if they never talk anymore.

  Try as I might, I can’t move Mama, so I go to Max. I curl up next to him, hugging him tight, tears dripping on the black fur. The sides of my face, hair, and clothes are wet. When I sit up, it looks as if I’ve bathed in scarlet paint.

  With all the strength I have left, I push Max across the floral carpet, the flowers once bright faded to gray, leaving a trail of crimson.

  I curl up between them and cover us all with the quilt. A noise wakes me. Red eyes stare at me through the darkness. The smell of something cold and ancient fills the room. Mama moves. Is she okay?

  Her skin feels funny and her eyes are open, but my mama isn’t there anymore. I pull the quilt tight around me and Max and close my eyes, praying the devil hasn’t come to take us all away.

  Something cool brushes against my foot. As I peek out from under the quilt, I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. A huge gator stares at me. I swear he’s as big as a car. With wicked-looking scars on his head and back. Mama’s leg is in his mouth. Her body twitches as he tugs, dragging her out of the room. Frozen solid by fear, unable to call out or do anything, all I can do is watch as he takes my mama. I don’t want to think of her under the water waiting to be eaten for dinner.

  In his wake he leaves a trail of burgundy. The screen door bangs against the house. With my eyes screwed shut, I pray to a God who’s never answered me before to help me now. Help me pull my dead mama away from the gator. Bring Max back. Punish my daddy. And most of all…to take me far far away.

  He never answers.

  When I wake, it’s to the sound of pounding on the door. I’m afraid and hug Max close, pulling the quilt over my head.

  A scream makes me burrow under the quilt. It smells of pennies and the hamburger meat Daddy used to cook on the grill. Mrs. Thorne pulls the quilt back, a look of horror on her face. She calls someone. Tries to get me to move, but I just shake my head.

  “Now Katherine, you stay here. I’ve called some people to come and help.” Her hand hovers above my shoulder. “Where’s your mama?”

  I stare up at her. “The gator took her.”

  She looks to the waterway and mutters, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  A little later, Daddy comes home, disheveled and defeated. He sees me and Max on the floor. The trail of dried blood leads out the door and across the lawn, down to Mama’s final resting place.

  “Oh Lord Jesus. I’m so sorry. What have I done?” He’s crying. Dropping to his knees, bawling, snot dripping from his nose. He reaches out to touch me.

  I flinch. “Don’t you ever touch me again.” I’ve never hated anyone so much in my entire life. “I hope the police take you away and burn you up in the fire.”

  Time passes in a blur. People try to get me to let go of Max, but I shake my head and hold on tight. I used all the words I had on Daddy. Now I can’t talk. The words won’t come. They got trapped in my throat and now they’re stuck. Maybe for good.

  The police never found the gator. But I could have told them they wouldn’t. He was a ghost. And he took my mama to her watery grave so Dad
dy would never hurt her again. Why didn’t he take me too?

  The nightmare fades. I wake, unable to move. As dawn breaks, I’m finally lucid enough to get out of bed. Back in my own apartment. Far away from Florida.

  A shrink would have a field day with me. My daddy kills my mama, who is then taken by a huge gator. When they dragged the waterway, they recovered what was left of Mama. Mrs. Thorne told some people at the funeral how a couple of the police officers threw up that day. We had a closed casket.

  I stumble to the bathroom, climb in the bathtub and pull the shower curtain closed, shutting me in. As I rest my cheek on the cool edge of the tub, the nightmare eventually crawls back into the room in my mind, where I lock the door and finally fall back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 19

  SOMETIMES IT TAKES GRAM A while to get moving, so I let the phone ring and ring.

  “Are you sure you’re getting enough to eat, dearie?”

  Her voice over the lines covers me like a cozy blanket. Warm and good. Something I no longer deserve. As the days pass, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I did. The absurd thought crosses my mind that I’m grateful I’m not Catholic. The amount of guilt I already feel…if I were religious, the extra guilt would crush my soul.

  We talk about nothing. Her garden and canning. Tiny baby blankets she’s been making for infants at the hospital. It gives me an idea.

  “I was reading about animal shelters needing fleece blankets for the animals. You know, the ones you make by tying the edges of the fleece together?”

  “What a lovely idea. I’ll talk to the ladies in my group and we’ll get a batch going. I’m sure there are shelters around here that would be happy to have them.”

  “Any chance you’ve considered my offer to move?” Before Wilmington, I would have given anything for Gram to move out here to live with me, but now…I need to distance myself. Be prepared for the end. How do criminals function on a day-to-day basis? The thought that the police are going to show up at any moment and take me away. How do they get through their days? Too bad I don’t know any criminals to ask. I’ve never even had a speeding ticket. The weight of what I did presses down on my soul.

  “… so you can understand why I want to stay where I am, dearie. You are coming to visit soon?”

  Before, I would’ve happily made the arrangements. Not now. I can’t. “We’ve got a couple of really busy projects going on at work right now. I’ll be tied up for the next couple months. But once those are done, I’ll take a week off and come out for a visit.”

  “I love you very much.” She hesitates. “I always wanted Hope to be your first name, but your mama, she loved the name Katherine. You know she always wanted a big family, but you were it. At the time I was so sad for her, but now I think it was for the best. You take care of yourself and know how much I love you and think of you every day.”

  “I didn’t know she wanted more kids. Mama never said anything. Why didn’t you speak to each other?”

  She sighs. “That’s a story for when you come and visit.”

  My throat closes up and my voice wavers. “I love you too, Gram.”

  While waiting for my next meeting to start, I’m sitting in a conference room making notes when I see a newspaper someone’s left behind. The story catches my eye.

  Sean Manfred, 25, of southeast Raleigh, was charged with animal cruelty. An early-morning jogger saw the man covering the dog’s head with a plastic bag. The horrified woman saw him jumping up and down on the animal’s head. Animal control officers responded to the scene, along with Raleigh police. The dog, a pit bull mix, is being treated for a broken jaw and two broken legs.

  I take out the black phone, my burner, as it’s called, and snap a picture of the article. With his name I can track what happens. Everything I’ve seen so far has filled me with despair. Like most people, I always assumed people that committed crimes would pay. But what I’m finding is the majority of these people walk away with probation and are prohibited from owning animals for two years. This is happening not only here in North Carolina but in other states too. What is the world coming to? I can’t let the injustice stand. If I do, I’m as bad as the perpetrators.

  The black phone is always on silent, and goes back in my bag. Out comes the white phone I always carry. The different colors were on purpose, though if Jackson or someone sees the other phone, they may ask. At this point I don’t know what I’ll say. I was afraid if I got the burner in white I might mix them up. It’s imperative I’m careful. Methodical and logical. The thought of spending my days locked in a tiny cell, on someone else’s schedule, sends me into a panic attack. It’s so easy to reload my phone. Buy a card using cash and I’m good to go. I’ve used more cash over the past several weeks than I did in the last several years.

  People start filing in for the meeting. I’m distracted, my attention straying to what’s next. After doing my job for a couple of years, I’ve gotten comfortable. So while it would sound arrogant to say I can do it with my eyes closed, it’s true. The dark voice whispers to me as I half listen to the presenter.

  During my waking hours and in dreams, the voice is the same. Telling me abusers must pay. No one else will punish them, so I must. The responsibility falls on me. I am the voice for all those without. Over the past week the voice has become more insistent. My list is long. Growing longer every day.

  The meeting has two more hours to go. During a break, Lisa leans over. “Lewis is going to dinner with Martha again. He’s such a hottie. Why is he with her?”

  “He just wants to nail her.” Lisa wasn’t interested until he showed interest in someone else. That’s her. We’re work friends, but I know better than to leave her alone with Jackson at a party. The taken guys are always more attractive to someone like her.

  Before the break ends, I check the other phone. See the man who was cruel to his horses ended up with probation. He may think he’s gotten off, congratulating himself. Even going as far as thinking the horse was put out of its misery and that’s that. But I know his name, and I know where he lives.

  The voice whispers. Make him pay.

  CHAPTER 20

  EVERY DAY IT SEEMS MY lies are growing. Taking on a life of their own. I tell Jackson I have a meeting on Friday and Monday so I’m staying the weekend in Charlotte. Only I’m not going to Charlotte. I’m driving two hours to Whiteville. Working from home today. As long as I keep up with any requests, no one will ever know.

  The smell of the hog farm wafts through the window long before I pass by. There’s farmland on either side of me. The ground looks stressed by the heat and the drought. With it only being the beginning of May, we have a long way to go. I look up to the heavens and pray for rain. Though I can’t wait for rain every time, and really, what good will praying do? The last time I prayed, I lost those I loved with all my heart. The fields on either side of me used to be full of tobacco. Now the farmers raise hogs with lagoons of waste.

  Sean Manfred thought it was fun to stomp his dog. We’ll see how fun it is when he can’t breathe. Google Street View is fantastic. Before I left, I looked up his address, the surrounding area and roads. He lives in a rural area, no close neighbors. Perfect.

  The rural road is also bad in that there’s no place for me to park. I pull over and put a white strip of fabric in the passenger-side window so it will look like the Jeep has broken down.

  From here I can watch the house. It’s a brick ranch with toys scattered across a brown lawn. My stomach rolls. The picnic lunch I packed threatens to come back up. Has he hurt the child or children too? The Bojangles’ sweet tea slides down my throat, calming the roiling in my gut.

  The front door rests against the brick, with a gash down the middle as if someone has taken an axe to it. The screen door has a sheet tacked up, but other than that, there is no door. Idiot.

  While I watch and wait for the sky to fade from orange to indigo, I catch up on work emails and check my daily list of police blotter sites. I want to believe what I saw i
n Wilmington was an anomaly, but it isn’t. It’s the norm. No one else came forward. The voice within demands I be charged with righting the wrongs.

  Before I left my apartment today, I cleaned the gun, the empty shells rolling around the kitchen table. I put on gloves and washed them with soap and water, hoping to remove any fingerprints. I won’t make that mistake again. When I reloaded, I made sure to wear gloves. And this time I took the other gun so there won’t be a connection. Both guns look exactly the same, so I took a bottle of shocking-pink nail polish and put a dot on the gun I already used. For the second .38 I added a dot of robin’s-egg blue.

  The blue gun is in my messenger bag. Ready. Waiting for me to call it into service. A bag that is part of my uniform. The rest of my ensemble is made up of cheap sneakers, white this time, a black t-shirt, and black leggings. After seeing all the blood spatter on my gray t-shirt, I thought it best to wear black.

  The lights wink off in the house. Another hour and I make my move. The air is warm and sticky, smelling of dust and dead grass.

  There’s no squeak when I open the screen door. The smell of WD-40 is strong but can’t compete with the lingering smell of cigarettes as I push the sheet printed with ghosts and other Halloween designs aside. The family room is dark. The house so quiet I can hear the dishwasher running. There’s a stench. Garbage that has been left out too long.

  The gun in my hand, I pad down the carpeted hallway. There are pictures of a little girl on the walls. Burgundy washes over my sight. Not again.

  At the first door, I listen before turning the brass knob. The door swings open onto a frilly pink bedroom. The little girl looks to be seven or eight. My lungs expand, seeking air. She’s sound asleep, her princess bedspread thrown half off the bed. The pink sheets are pulled up to her neck. Her blond hair is in ringlets and she sucks her thumb. Children should be protected from evil.

  A sound brings me to the next door. It’s the bathroom. A bug taps against the window, wanting in, the nightlight drawing it close. Two more doors. There’s a chemical smell coming from the door on my right. Who knows what might be in there. His room has to be next.