The Knowing: Awake in the Dark (8 page)

Maggie was smart enough to keep to the ditches at the side of the roads and, while I could guess where Maggie would go, I did not tell.  After driving randomly for a time, Milda headed to Teresa’s house. Teresa was Maggie’s best friend.

Teresa knew Maggie from school. She lived alone with her mother in an old house on a lot of hard cracked dirt. The only sign of life was a giant tree that grew in the middle of the barren sprawl.

Milda swung the truck under the tree bouncing over the curb. She stumbled when she stepped down from the cab and made her way to the front door. She banged on it.

“Well, my God,” Teresa’s mother said, as she opened the door. “It’s kinda late, ain’t it? What’s wrong?”

Teresa’s mother was in her nightgown, her hair ratty. She was a large woman and her multiple, chins quivered as she spoke. She knew all about Milda-- the letters to school-- the drinking—the whole story. She knew, too, that Maggie was sitting high above our heads in the tree, but she pretended not to. It was late and very dark outside and, Teresa’s mom did not turn on the porch light.

Milda never saw Maggie’s small form in the headlights of the truck as we pulled in, but I did.

Scared and angry, Maggie sat perched high in the limbs of the tree until we left. Maggie stayed at Teresa’s house until our father picked her up a few days later.

Like so many events in the past, I never heard my father speak of the beating or its ramifications. It was as if it never happened.

Milda never beat Maggie violently again, although none of us could escape Milda’s wild swings that left red marks and bruises behind. I hid my marks in shame, while Maggie secretly showed hers to anyone who would look. Maggie stayed in constant contact with our mother through the counselors at school secretly. It was through that avenue, the proof our mother needed, was gathered to force our father to return her daughters home.

One afternoon, I was unexpectedly summoned to the principal’s office. I pulled the heavy, office, door open and the sounds of voices and ringing phones whooshed toward me. The air was laden with a faint scent of fresh ink and school lunches. I laid my blue slip on the counter.

“Oh yes, honey,” the secretary said as she pointed down the hall, “you go on down to see Mrs. Fielding, the counselor.”

A feeling of nervous jitters took over. I was surprised when I entered the room and saw Maggie sitting in a chair next to the woman. The counselor sat rigid, hands clasped, perched on the edge of her chair. Her hair was dark and hung in tight curls on her forehead, softening the harsh rim of glasses that monopolized her face. What happened next was unexpected and dreadful. I felt deeply betrayed by Maggie.

“Come on in and sit down, sweetheart,” the stranger said to me
. I am not going to sit down and I am not your sweetheart,
I thought bitterly.

“It’s okay,” Maggie said, “She knows.”

She knows what?
I thought.

I stood in stony silence as another woman entered the small office. She quietly shut the door behind her. She carried an instamatic camera in her hands, the kind that spits out a photo as soon as you take it.

Sweat coated my palms and my stomach churned.

“It’s okay,” Maggie said, again. “They just want to take some pictures of the bruises on your back.”

Anger and embarrassment flooded through me. I looked at Maggie,
How could you tell
? I could not believe that Maggie would humiliate me this way, in front of people. The embarrassment moved like an electrical current from head to toe and I glared hatefully at my sister who sat with silent, tears, gliding down her face.

The next several moments went by in a blur. I cried and lifted my shirt exposing my shame. The cameras flash exploded and though I heard voices, tears pooled in my ears, drowning out their words.  In truth, Maggie saved us both with the boldness of her actions.  Maggie had allowed pictures of herself all along, showing the results of Milda’s random swings. Our mother used the pictures as leverage to force our father to return us home. My mother threatened to turn the evidence over to the authorities unless he cooperated.

Our mother called our father with an ultimatum. “Dell, you bring them home or I’ll call the authorities so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

“And just what do you think you can do, Caroline? These girls are better off with me.”

“I have pictures. The counselors at school took them, Dell. They are clear evidence of Milda’s handy work. You should see them, bruises all over Nita. And let’s not forget the little incident with Isla last summer. I have pictures of her too and a documented police report. I’ll have that bitch thrown in jail for child abuse. Don’t push me, Dell. Bring them home.”

A week later, we were delivered home.

What our mother didn’t know was that year, at age twelve, Maggie began to steal Milda’s vodka and bring it to school where she hid a bottle in her locker. It was the beginning of years of struggle with alcohol abuse and drugs. Maggie had become a warrior and protected me at every turn. She would eventually give up drinking and drugs but not before a long and tiring fight.Maggie still carries a look in her bright, blue eyes that warns others to tread lightly. When the school year ended it was agreed Maggie and I would return home to our mother.

Our father was driving trucks after being laid off from his position with the airlines. A few weeks later, he loaded us up, and drove us across country, in a big rig to our mother who waited with steely determination.  She didn’t know how she would support us because my father would never pay a cent in child support. She couldn’t know the dangerous roads that lay ahead.

When he regained consciousness, bile rose in his throat and his body shook in a violent spasm. Intense pain radiated from his right arm and delivered him unconscious again.

The nurse hurried into the room where the young man lay. She reached for the thick bandages that covered his right arm just as his doctor came in.

“How’s the patient this morning?” he asked.

“He had a restless night, but he is stable now, doctor. I was just about to change his dressings.”

The young nurse loved this doctor, swooned over him really. He was the best surgeon in the state and had saved the young man’s arm in a ground- breaking surgery. His arm would have been amputated by any other surgeon. The young man’s elbow was now a solid piece of bone and steel rods, fused together with nuts and bolts. He would never be able to bend or unbend his arm again. But, he would have an arm and a hand that, with any luck, would function. 

“I want him monitored carefully, we don’t want him to become unstable and lose what took a miracle to save.”

The surgery had been innovative and would change the practice of amputations, nationwide. The procedure would offer surgeons alternatives to the removal of badly damaged limbs. The doctor knew this procedure would change his patient’s life and he knew it would change his too.

“No, of course not, doctor. We’ll watch him.”

Months passed while the young man lay in the hospital desperately trying to heal. He was in significant pain and had no memory of how the accident happened. When his mother would visit she talked non-stop about how “they would pay.”

“Don’t you worry none. I got a lawyer who’s gonna get a settlement and those susabitches u’ll pay.” Bernadette promised.

“But nobody did it, Ma. I can’t remember what happened, maybe it was my fault.”

“Oh now, don’t you worry. You just get better so’s you can come home. I’ll take care of it.”

“But what about all the school I’m missin, Ma?”

“Theys probly gonna have to send you to school and pay for that too. Don’t worry.”

The young man began to pass the time fantasizing about going to school and learning to be an ace mechanic. He loved working on cars - was intuitive about taking them apart and fixing what was wrong.
Maybe I’ll open my own service station
. The young man pictured the whole thing as the nurse administered more painkillers.

Bernadette spent those months fighting and negotiating a settlement from the gas station where her son had worked. The tire machine had malfunctioned sending a metal rim flying into the air maiming her boy.

The final settlement would take two years, but eventually a large check was sent to Bernadette for her son.  It didn’t matter that he was now nineteen. His mother cashed the check and her son would boil with anger, that he never got a penny.  The anger would turn to rage and it took all his strength to hide his disgust and fury at his mother.
She is a
conniving and devious cunt who
needs to be punished
. The thoughts tumbled in the dark recess of his mind.

I fished a quarter from the pocket of my jeans and fingered its warmth before slipping it into the jukebox. I knew what song to play.

He’d played it before, looking in my direction first, but pretending not to.

I was considered “jailbait” at thirteen. He was twenty-one.

Aaron was his name. He had green eyes that were bright against a summer tan and auburn hair. He was medium height and lean. He had a certain charisma that drew my attention.

I watched as he bent over the pool table and made his shot easily. He didn’t pause as he moved from one shot to another. Two ball in the corner pocket. Six ball off the bank to the opposite corner. One ball in the side. He tipped his pool cue, pointing to each destination before making his strike. He never spoke the intention out loud.

Dan, his creepy roommate, rubbed the tiny, blue cube of chalk against the tip of his cue, waiting for a turn he knew wouldn’t come. His blond, wavy hair was loose to his shoulders like Jesus. Blue eyes bulged on his face and his energy was wild and unpredictable.

“Hey there, Sugar Drawer’s.” he said, looking at me with a filthy smirk.

“That’s enough of that language.” Pappy said, from behind the grill, his back to Dan.

“Shit. She knows it, Pappy. She brings it in here every day. Prick teasing and flaunting it right under our noses. You think we can’t smell it?”  Dan said.

“Shut up, Dan. Leave her alone.” Aaron said, sinking the black eight ball in the side pocket, finishing their game.

“Mmm, yeah. Okay,” Dan said. He laid down his pool stick and acknowledged his loss.

We were in Tuck’s that day, a neighborhood grill that served burgers, hot sandwiches and homemade coleslaw.

Shiny, chrome barstools with bright red seats sat fixed beneath a countertop where most people ate. A jukebox and the new Pac Man game sat near the entrance. Beyond the counter and scattered tables, toward the rear exit and bathrooms, was a pair of pool tables that were always busy.

You’d place fifty cents on the table’s edge, write your name on the chalkboard affixed to the wall behind them and wait your turn.

Pappy and his son Robert owned the place. It was Pappy’s fatherly influence that first drew me back, day after day.

Behind the counter, Pappy slid a red plastic basket of hot, crispy fries to me with a wink. “oops.” He said. “My mistake. You eat them.”

Suddenly from outside, a man screaming profanities interrupted the easy mood of the lunch crowd inside. Everyone looked toward the front of Tuck’s through the plate glass window.

A man in baggy jeans and a wife beater t-shirt with wet stains beneath his armpits stood shouting at a young woman. His loud voice interrupted the mood in the grill.

“What the fuck! Who do you think you are? You stupid skank!”

He grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him. “I’ll knock the snot right out of you, woman!” He threatened with his arm raised ready to backhand her. She ducked her head, raising her forearm in a protective gesture. “No, Ray!”

“You know I’ll do it!” He screamed.

His energy field looked thick and sluggish, like he was high. The anger moved sharp and tight in the slush.

Aaron gently laid his pool stick on the table and went to the door. “You don’t want to do that here, buddy. Let her go and walk the other way.”

“What’s it to you?” The man hissed.

Aaron stood silent, the glass door resting against his back. He locked eyes with the stranger. “I mean it, buddy.” Aaron said.

The man was bigger than Aaron and angrier, yet he let go of the woman with a shove. She stumbled backwards.