Hold Fast (5 page)

“Shrapnel, I guess.” I shrug. “Caught a piece of something or other.” I say. I know exactly what it was, and when it happened, and where. It was a Russian-made 122 mm artillery rocket, part of a quick hit-and-fade by Taliban forces. Just thinking about it brings to mind the line of white-hot pain as the fragment creased my arm. I don’t really feel like talking about it, but if there’s anyone I would ever be able to share that shit with, it’d be Bill Dwyer.

Once he’s gone upstairs to bed, I chug the rest of the mug of high-octane coffee and head out to the side yard after rinsing my dad’s cup. My truck is parked under an awning, and it looks like Bill did take good care of it. It’s a 1987 Chevy Blazer, one of the big K5 models. The two-tone blue paint sparkles with a fresh coat of wax. It must have been a lot of work for Bill to reach everywhere to do that with his prosthetic – the lift kit isn’t huge, but there’s some very high places on The Beast. I appreciate him even more now.

The big 350 V8 kicks over easily and catches on the first crank. I love this truck– I’ve had it since I got my license. I saved up my money for three years prior – babysitting, mowing lawns, summers in the blueberry packing sheds near my grandparents’ house. Every spare penny I could scrape together went into buying The Beast. The four-wheel drive, ground clearance, and solid axles have gotten me into – and out of, fortunately – a whole variety of stupid situations, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The tires, yeah, they’re pretty rough. Paulin’s over on Forest Ave should have just what I need in stock, and while I wait, there’s another priority mission to undertake. Should be an easy one though. No matter where you go in Maine, there’s almost always a Dunkin’ Donuts within walking distance.

I have plenty of time to think while I wait for my truck to be ready.

I’d been looking forward to my cruller for so long, but my first look at the twisted-up golden-brown pastry puts me in mind of a long-ago early summer afternoon, and a wrist-thick braid of golden-brown hair. Lost in memory, my cruller is gone and I’m licking sticky glaze off my fingertips before I even realize I’ve started eating.

I’d been fourteen when the roadside bomb killed my father and maimed hers; she was twelve. We’d been playmates as children, and though we’d drifted apart in junior high, we crashed back together tighter than ever, clinging to each other desperately for support. The next three years brought us ever closer, and she almost always spent the night in our spare bedroom whenever Bill had to suffer through another procedure on the long, hard road to recovery.

At some point, and I can’t remember when it happened, I began to notice her as more than my best friend. I’d been desperately in love with Courtney Dwyer for all of high school, but I was painfully shy, and she was younger than me. Two years difference? In your thirties, that’s no big deal, but in high school, it’s enough distance that it might as well have been the Grand Canyon between us. I’d never said anything to her, and never imagined she might have felt the same about me, but that kiss at the bus station…

An entire world of fantasy rolls itself out in my head. What might have happened had I not left? Hazy and indistinct at first, but details settle out. I’ve followed in my dad’s footsteps at the shipyard instead of the military. It’s hard work, but it’s let us buy a small house, and Courtney can stay home with-- children? Maybe.

I can almost feel the doorknob in my hand, coming home at the end of the day, and hear the slap of tiny feet against wood floors. Small children barrel into me, looking for hugs, just like I did to my own dad. And Courtney’s there, smiling, greeting me with a kiss and an impish smile.

“Hey, Sean,” she says. “If you’d just sign here, I’ll give you your keys.”

My what?

Keys.

There’s a pang of regret as the homey scene in my imagination vanishes, and a man with greasy hands is holding a clipboard to me, jingling my keys with his free hand.

“Sorry, man.” I’m embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming like that. It’s been happening too much since I’ve been home. I’m not as alert as I should be. One quick scribble later, I’m back behind the wheel of my truck, but I’m not ready to drive away yet. Sitting there in the parking lot, watching cars go by, there’s still a remnant of regret.

Why do I feel a sense of loss? That life was never real. I never had it—
her
—to lose. A silly daydream shouldn’t affect me so much. It does solidify something for me, though. That out-of-focus picture wasn’t much to go on. I couldn’t tell if it was Courtney or not, but I want to find out.

Bill’s pain and hopelessness affected me this morning, and I’d already been half-seriously considering the idea of going up to Greenville to chase the wild goose on his behalf, but now? I won’t lie, not even to myself and pretend I’m doing this just for him. If I can find something that will help ease Bill’s sorrow, that’s great, but I’d like to see Courtney Dwyer again for my own reasons. I need to know if there really
is
a reason I should regret leaving her behind all those years ago.

But what happens when—no,
if
—I find her?

* * *

I
t’s already dusk
when I wake up.

Jeremiah took a toll on me this morning. I laid down in the shade for five minutes to daydream and it turned into sleeping away the whole day.

For the briefest of moments, I consider spending the night here and just going back in the morning, but that’s probably not a good idea for a couple of reasons. First, someone spotted a mama bear with four cubs out here just yesterday. Second – and perhaps more importantly – if Daniel sees I didn’t come home and he starts asking around after me, they’ll think I’ve run. The last thing I need is for that to happen. The last thing that
Daniel
needs is for that to happen.

I hike back down the hill, through a field of berries and back to the flimsy garden shed I share with my husband to change clothes. It’s already time for evening prayers, and it wouldn’t do for me to show up with grass stains all over my dress. I’m about to join the crowd of worshipers in the chapel when I notice a door ajar on the low north wall of the refectory building: the shower. When I push it open, the air is still misty but all the booths are empty.

Should I indulge in a special treat? An afterhours shower? With no one around to tell me I have to be miserable, forcing me to be quick about it? I’ll be able to enjoy the luxury, make it last.

A glance at the shelves in the corner finds there’s one dry towel left. I snatch it up and undress quickly in a stall. Obviously, this is a sign that The Lord’s Plan calls for one more shower to be taken tonight. As a true believer, I have no choice but to follow His Will.

A light turn of the faucet and a quick step back-- that’s the start of the shower roulette ritual. The temperature and the pressure are inconsistent, variable. It’s anyone’s guess whether you’ll freeze or boil on that first try. I wait a few seconds and continue the ceremony, by testing the water with my fingers. I’m in luck, the flow is steady and warm. Silent thanks go to whomever was here before me for not using up all the hot water and I ease into the sinfully delicious warmth, savoring the pounding droplets on my neck.

I rest two hands on the slimy walls while the water rushes through my hair and down my back. With my eyes closed, I can almost believe I’m back in the house where I grew up, back in the shower in my pink tiled bathroom. I was so spoiled then. I had no idea what an absolute luxury it was to enjoy something as simple as comfort and privacy in a modern bathroom.

By the time I’m finished rinsing, the water is going cold. I’m still a bit damp when I slide back into my clothes and wrap the towel around my hair. I’ll return it tomorrow.

Detouring around the main house and the chapel to avoid being seen coming from the showers, I double back to my home around the far end of the row of pathetic shacks. Light seeps through the wood cracks around the door of the pitiful hovel that was our wedding present. With a greeting and a smile on my lips, I open the door to go inside.

Everything in the shack is upside down, and my mother stands in the middle of the wreckage. Her face is serene, but her eyes are on fire. Her hands are clasped in front of her as if in prayer. This is the mother that terrifies me. This is the one who brought me here, who screams about sin and penance and salvation. This is the woman that stood by and watched that day after the second time I ran.

Jeremiah stands beside her, and Daniel is nowhere to be seen.

My thin mattress is a tattered ruin, and the intricate patchwork quilt that I spent months sewing by hand has been shredded. Stuffing from both covers the floor like an obscene snowfall. All my hard work, gone in an instant, and I won’t have time to make a new quilt before winter.

Everything in my home has been opened and torn apart. Clothes lie everywhere, the small chest of drawers is smashed and broken. The old battery-powered clock on the wall is destroyed. Even the wooden pallet frame that raised the mattress off the floor is a splintered ruin.

Nothing of mine has been spared, not even my Bible. Pages lie scattered, and the cover hangs, sad and empty, off the edge of the shelf. I notice that even the cover has been ripped apart, and the note my father had written to me on the inside is destroyed. They’d never have dared to desecrate what they thought of as a
real
Bible, but mine carried all the ‘pagan superstition’ and ‘heathen apostasy’ of the Apocrypha. It was the only thing I had left from my father, and now it’s gone too.

My eyes slowly fill with tears as I try to make some sense of the destruction around me, and I take a deep breath. No. This is good. I have nothing left to lose here any longer. My heart hardens with a new resolve. Right. I don’t care how, but I will get away from this place. Away from these insane people. Willing away my tears, I brace and glare at the two people standing in the middle of my ransacked home.

“Why?” I ask, proud of the steadiness in my voice.

Jeremiah looks away, but my mother stares back at me, stepping closer. From this distance, the insane sparkle in her eyes is even more disturbing. What happened to you, Mom? Was this something that was always inside you? Or did Emmanuel do something to you to bring you over to the dark side?

“We know,” she says, so softly I hardly can hear her. “We know everything. Just tell the truth, repent now and I promise Father Emmanuel will make it all better.” The sweet pleading in her voice is meant to be reassuring, but overlaid with that fire glowing in her eyes, it’s only more disturbing.

“Mother,” I say, hiding my anger and fear under the calmest voice I can manage. “I have
no
idea what you are talking about.”

“Don’t you lie to us, woman!” Jeremiah finally speaks, and I shake my head in despair.

The tiny room is silent for a few seconds while I wait for him to say more. He bides his time, but my mother runs out of patience first and gives me a hint, “Nathan saw it
all
!”

“He saw all… of…” Oh, Daniel, I begged you to be careful. What did you do in public?

“He saw you stealing from us!” Jeremiah yells.

I’m so lost in my private terror for my husband that his words don’t register immediately, and when they do I have to fight to keep the puzzled look on my face. Finally. They’re talking about money. The little shit saw me making change and pocketing dollar bills. I’m ready for this. Oh, I’m so ready for this. If I wasn’t talking with crazy-Mom? If it was good-Mom here with me, or at least not-as-crazy-Mom, I would have had a hard time fighting back a smile.

Of course, I’ve squirreled away money, and of course, I’ve stolen it from you. I’ve been keeping back a few dollars here and there, saving toward the next time I ran. I’m not stupid, though. I don’t keep it here in my home, and I don’t set it aside when anyone is around to see me doing it!

“He saw me do what, now?” I ask. I’ve already got a plan in place to deal with this one, so let’s just get it over with. I need to get my mother calmed down, and then I need to find something to sleep on.

“I saw you put money in your pocket,” Nathan is standing by the door behind me. He’s not alone. His mother is with him, holding a small bottle of water and some pills.

Rebecca pushes me aside, ascertains the condition of the room with a quick look around and walks past Jeremiah, shaking her head at him as if he was an unruly child. She reaches my mother and gives her the water with a pill to swallow. Mom obediently takes the medication. It’s like a game they play. Rebecca has to hunt my mother every day to make sure she’s medicated. I don’t know what Satan has her on, but tonight I hope it’s some sort of tranquilizer. She seems about to explode.

“Come now, Sister Heather. Tonight you can sleep in the infirmary,” Rebecca says as she escorts my mother out of my ravaged home. I watch them start to walk away, and Rebecca turns to call her son. The little snitch is still glued to the door, not wanting to miss even a second of the showdown he’s orchestrated.

Just as I hiss at him, he silently shakes his head. His lips move, soundlessly mouthing
I’m sorry
before running away. He may have been raised to be a miserable little monster, an inquisitor ferreting out the tiniest scraps of sin, but there is still good left in him, some shred of conscience, of empathy. I hate myself for thinking the worst of him. Could he even understand what he’d set in motion here?

“So you were looking for money?” I ask, turning to look at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah nods, and a wicked smile flickers across his lips.

“But that’s not all that Nathan will see,” he whispers, inching his way closer to me, so close I can feel his breath on face. “It would be awful if he were to witness an
abomination
. No child his age should ever have to see a thing like that.”

I can guess what’s coming next. Now that my mother and Rebecca are gone, now that there’s nobody to see or hear, Jeremiah can use all the leverage at his command to get what he wants out of me. Hopefully all he wants tonight is the money. From the look in his eyes, he’s expecting to enjoy this.

Jeremiah clenches a fist, starting to cock his arm back, and I press a hand against his chest to keep him at arm’s length. It’s pathetic-- his arms are so much longer than mine, and my attempt to protect myself will not matter if he swings at me. Just before he strikes, I try to pacify him by telling him why I had put money in my pocket instead of in the cash box.

“It’s for Brother Jonathan,” I tell him, naming the church’s bookkeeper. “I don’t know why he needs change, but he always asks me to break down some of the larger bills for him, and I do. You know I’m always happy to help. I’ll do anything for the good of the community.”

His arm slowly comes down and the anger on his face eases back to only mild annoyance and suspicion. My explanation is so easy to check. It would be stupid of me to lie to him about something like that. And the best part of it is I’m not even lying. It’s the exact truth. Brother Jonathan really
does
want change in small bills. I simply don’t give him all the change I bring back.

“So, yeah, Nathan saw me set some money aside, but it wasn’t for me…” I keep on pleading because his mood could swing back to anger in a flash. The truth of my explanation will save me from consequences
later,
but nothing will protect me from a black eye or a bloody nose if I piss him off
now
.

“I see,” he says as he turns away, absently surveying the devastation in my home. “So. I’m pleased to discover that my dear little brother simply misinterpreted what he saw. I would hate to know my wife was a thief.”

His detached tone fills me with dread.

“Where is Daniel?” I ask, softly. What are you plotting now?

Jeremiah turns his back to me and reaches for the door. For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore my question and just leave, but he’s only pausing for dramatic effect.

“He and my father are having a serious talk about the future tonight,” he tells me, without even a backward glance.

As the door swings halfway shut behind them, I want to scream. My knees are weak, shaking. They won’t support me much longer. I lean against the doorframe, hugging myself for comfort, and let myself slide to the floor. For one brief instant, I’m tempted to kick over the kerosene lantern and set this miserable little hell on fire.

Resting my head on my knees, I sob quietly. I can’t take this anymore. Daniel, how can you be so perversely loyal to your brother? Do you think he’ll hesitate to pay you the wages of what he says is a sin? I couldn’t bear to see you stoned to death, even if it didn’t mean I’d be given to that monster afterward!

My getaway fund isn’t huge, not yet. I’ve only managed to hide away a couple hundred dollars. I don’t know what a bus ticket costs, but I’m sure I don’t have enough to get away even to Portland, never mind somewhere far away, and certainly not enough to live on for more than a day or two. Portland isn’t far enough, not to get away from these people. Boston, maybe. Or New York City? I don’t know if even London or Berlin or Shanghai would be far enough away to hide.

I need to go. Somewhere else.
Anywhere
else.

I need to be free.

* * *