Skinny Dipper

The blue-brown water crept up the swimmer's legs and mud oozed between her toes as she shoved into the lake. The water reached her waist and then her shoulders. When she could no longer touch the muddy bottom, she began to swim, holding her head up out of the water like a water snake as she moved her arms and legs the way her grandmother had taught her to do.
            She wanted to see where she was going, to avoid the submerged tree branches, remnants of last year's tornado. The lake was also home to turtles and fish, ducks and snakes, but the waterlogged limbs of the trees frightened her. Those limbs could catch her legs. Those limbs were the danger.
            She peered ahead, seeking the profile of the island. It was many swim strokes away from the lake shore, visited by the occasional boater seeking a picnic site. It was not ideal for picnicking; the beach was rocky.
            Now the island was bathed in early morning light. Mist rose through the oaks and willows huddling on the rocky shores. Her eyes caught a movement in the thicket. Deer? She had seen them on the island before, seeking the sweet willow leaves and supple branches.
            The swimmer scissor-kicked her legs in the water, spreading her toes so that the coolness tickled sensitive skin.
            She looked over her shoulder and saw her shirt, a bright flag of red, flapping in the same breeze that rippled the water around her. Her bra hung on a limb next to it, her shorts and panties on a limb just below that. She hoped the breeze wouldn't strengthen, wouldn't cause her clothes to fall to the ground. Ants might crawl in, as well as spiders and other biting creatures. She hoped the clothes would stay in the tree until she returned.
            The lake’s water caressed her body.
            The rocky bit of beach where she had left her clothes was just below the derelict cabin she called home this summer. The park department had determined an entire row of these cabins were not suitable for renting. However, the structures were in good enough shape to house the summer staff. She, like most of the other college students, had seen the state of the once-rentable lakeside cabins and agreed that as long as they were clean, had beds and refrigerators, and were relatively free of critters, simple things like broken locks on the doors, a cracked window or missing shingle didn't really matter.
            She flipped over onto her back and fluttered her arms in her favorite swim stroke, letting the water lap over her breasts and up her cheeks. After a few strokes, she stopped and let her body sink a bit before she twisted to look once again toward the island.
            The island didn't seem to be getting any closer. And the sun was brightening the sky.
            Something nibbled on her toes, and she jerked her feet, then laughed. The little fish were not piranhas. She'd encountered these fishies often enough whenever she swam in the lake. The tiny minnows nibbled at dead skin on her toes and on the bottoms of her feet. They weren't a concern.
            She turned her focus on the island, forging ahead in the water, feeling just a twinge of tiredness in her back. Her heart beat faster.
            She wished she had grabbed the life preserver.
            How could she have forgotten the true distance to the island? She and her family had come here often in their motorboat, even on the jet ski. It wasn't too far to swim, was it?
            She swam on, counting the strokes of her arms, the kicks of her legs. At 100, she stopped and looked toward the island. It was nearer, wasn't it?
            Her legs tread water, let her heart slow and her breathing deepen. She could do it. Another fifty strokes, and then another, and surely she would reach the island.
            By the end of the fifth set of fifty, she could no long deny the ache in her hips and thighs. How was it she had gotten so out of shape? She was busy, working every day, playing volleyball with the kids, taking them on hikes, teaching them how to kayak and shoot a bow and arrow. That was exercise, wasn't it?
            It wasn't like this - wasn't like swimming a mile - surely she hadn't known it was THAT far - to a stupid island in the middle of a lake. She looked back toward the rocky beach below her cabin. The red flag of her shirt was just a distant speck. And the low cloud behind - the one that had been early morning pink when she started her swim – was now white.
            The swimmer turned back to the island and struck out again, pulling through the water with her arms, kicking with her legs.
            She was into it before she realized, a branch, floating underwater, a branch that was too heavy, with too many long limbs reaching deep beneath the surface. 

            Her arms caught; her legs caught.
            She couldn't pull her head back above water.
            She flailed. 

            Bubbles rose around her. She looked up through the murky water.

            Her pounded heart beat in her ears.

            Her lungs cried out for air, then screamed for it.
            The blue-brown lake water lashed at her struggling body.
            And then, something was in the water with her, something dark, something swimming as frantically as she was. It pulled at the black branches, tugging them this way and that, until finally, finally, the one that held her beneath the water's surface snapped in two.
            The swimmer shot to the surface, her head full of stars and swirling black as the last bit of her oxygen disappeared.
            She gulped for air, and then, the dark form was beside her, nudging her. She grabbed a wooly coat and let the form pull her toward the shore of the island, closer, closer, until her feet touched the muddy bottom and she fell to her knees, gulping air, the muscles of her arms and legs quivering.
            The dog stayed with her, long tail wagging, nosing her as she crawled up the beach, then the animal lay half submerged on the rocky shore, chest heaving, looking up at the blue daylight sky.
            A boat motor roared nearby. A bass fisherman. 
            She hoped he had a towel.

             She stroked the black water spaniel's curly coat, and pulled him in front of her body as the fisherman trolled nearer.

Persistent Downpour

            From her seat at the kitchen table, Grace glanced up at the weatherman on the 10-inch television, and laid her spoon down. “Hear that, Fred?”

            The heavy-set bald man across the chrome table from her gulped another spoonful from his bowl, then crunched into a stack of saltines. Crumbs showered down on the yellow oilcloth that covered the table. Some flew sideways to land on the warped green linoleum floor.

            The hound in the corner scrambled up and darted for the crumbs.

            “I said, did you hear that, Fred?” Grace pointed her sharp chin directly toward her husband. She rattled her spoon against the side of the ceramic bowl.

            “Humph.” Another spoonful of the chunky soup made it to Fred’s thick lips. She noticed that a small chunk of potato had been speared by the whiskers above his upper lip. He shifted his body to look out the window over the kitchen sink. Pregnant black clouds hung low in the twilight sky. Norton's Light flashed on the point, two miles away along the coast.

The gulp of Fred’s swallow boomed in Grace’s ears. “For God’s sake, wipe your mouth.” Grace looked up at the yellow pine board ceiling of the small room. “Spotty flooding. Likely right here in my own kitchen.”

            “Weathermen know-it-alls. Likely won’t even rain.” Another stack of crackers disappeared into his open mouth and crunched. More crumbs spewed out onto the table and the floor.

            “We’ll just see, won’t we Fred Braman? And that roof you ain’t fixed, and that window you ain’t replaced, and that wash off the front porch you ain’t filled . . . Be lucky if this house don’t fill up with rain and we ain’t washed to the sea by mornin’”

            Fred slammed his meaty palm down on the edge of the table. He lowered his head and leaned over the bowl as he spooned more chowder into his gaping mouth.

            Silver sparks flew from Grace’s gray eyes.

The weatherman repeated his warning. “Heavy rains are expected with this latest cold front. This slow-moving weather is likely to cause flooding in unusual areas as persistent downpours – perhaps as much as 10 inches of rain per hour – may occur. Remember, never drive through flowing water.”

“Persistent downpours.” Grace said in a flat tone. “And me, married to a persistent do-nothing-at-all.”

“Woman!” Fred bellowed. His spoon clattered in his bowl as he shoved back from the table, then stood to tower over her.

More sparks flew from her eyes. She ladled the creamy liquid into her mouth.

Fred settled into his chair again. “Told ya I’d get to it. I will. Tomorrow.”

Her husband picked up his spoon, tilted his bowl, scraped up the remaining clam chowder and then shoved it into his mouth. The remaining stack of crackers followed, and once again, crumbs showered the table and the floor. A large cracker crumb made it across the table to land at the rim of Grace's water glass.

Her hand darted out and one finger flicked the crumb back across the table. She carried her bowl across the room and watched it sink into the soapy water that filled the old ceramic basin.

Thunder crashed. The clouds broke open.

Grace’s yellow slicker hung from its hood on the wall coat rack. Beneath it sat her purse. She eyed them, her back still turned to the room.

Behind her, Fred’s spoon clattered into the empty bowl. His chair screeched as he shoved it back. Heavy footsteps sounded. The TV blared in the living room.

She snapped her fingers and the dog scrambled to her side. Outside, in the yard after stepping off the cement porch, the rain splashed her shoes.

Persistent downpour.

She knew all about how a strong current could wash you right off a road.

The Liar - Part 3

I remembered her house, all storybook-like, sitting on that wide lot with the flowerbeds and the trees. A man in a grey uniform climbed out of the moving van in the driveway. Was she moving? It couldn’t be!

“Hey! Is Mrs. Morrow inside?” I called. I ran for the front door.

“Round back, I think. In the kitchen.”

I jerked the front door open and went in. The hallway led to the back of the house, where I could see windows with cheery yellow curtains, and a white tile floor.

“Mrs. Morrow? Are you here?”

I dashed down the hallway past stacks of boxes. She really was leaving! She was my only hope, and she was leaving because I had lied and gotten her fired.

“Kendra?”

Mrs. Morrow’s voice came from behind me.

I whirled and threw myself at her. I sucked in little breaths, trying to keep my aching side from hurting any worse. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry.”

Mrs. Morrow’s hands touched me gently on the shoulder, petted my hair, and wiped a tear away from my bruised cheek. “Kendra. Tell me.”

“I lied about you, and I didn’t mean to. I don’t know why I do that. I want everything to be different. You are perfect. You have everything. And my life is… My life is… My life - “The sob broke out of my throat.

“Shhh.” She rubbed the sides of my arms. “That’s not what I mean. I mean the bruises, and your little brother’s arm. Who is it?” She peered into my face.

“He’d just doing what his dad did to him. And I provoke him. I’m so stupid. Just like the lying. I’m so stupid. Everything is my fault.”

“Kendra, do you believe that, really believe that?”

“That I’m stupid? Yes.”

“Think again. You make good grades, when you have the time to do the work. You’re not stupid.”

One of the movers hustled into the kitchen with a dolly, stacked up a few boxes, and then wheeled them out. A shiver shook me. How could she just leave?
          
“What about the other part? That it’s your fault?” she asked

“It IS my fault. I told the lies. I got you fired.”

“Fired? Who told you that?”

“There was a substitute in your class, and when I went to the office…”

“I quit. I’ve taken a job in Smithtown, not far.”

“But you can’t. I need you… need your help,” I stammered.

She peered into my blackened eyes. “Do you think this is your fault?” She touched the bruise on my cheek.

“Sure it is. Because I’m stupid. I provoke him.”

“Kendra, think this through. You’re father is a grown man. He’s bigger than you are, stronger. You think you MADE him do this?”

I chewed my lip. “If I didn’t, then why does he do it? Why does he---HURT---Sam and Mom and me?”

“Even if he is just doing what his dad did, that doesn’t make it right. And deep inside, he knows that.”

I let that thought sink into my brain. Could it be true? Could it really be true that neither my brother nor me, not even my mom, was responsible for Dad’s behavior?

“You mean . . . You mean . . .” I couldn’t wrap my thoughts around it. If I didn’t make him hit me, if it was his choice to hit me . . .Who would choose to hurt their children? Their wife? I’d seen the fairy-tale TV families. Most of those families were as screwed up as mine, but they kept the beatings off camera. And never talked about them. Never.

It occurred to me that maybe there were no beatings happening in those families. Maybe hitting wasn’t the norm, except when people were messed up. Was my dad really messed up? “So, if that’s true, what do I do? How do I get him to stop?”

“He has to decide to stop for himself. But meanwhile, you don’t have to live there. You and Sam can go into foster care.”

“Together? ‘Cause it would have to be together. I can’t be apart from my little brother. He’s too small, and he’s too used to me being there. It would have to be somewhere together. And where would Mom go?”

“That’s up to your mother. If she chooses to stay with your father, there’s nothing anyone can do. She might choose to separate from him, live somewhere else for a while. Maybe this is just what your father needs to help him see that his choice of behaviors is not good for his family.”

The thought overwhelmed me. Mrs. Morrow was telling me that I could choose to live someplace else. And people would help.

I closed my eyes and saw my mother’s face. Her eyes, like a startled dog’s, her head, tucked down into her shoulders like a turtle ready to pull back into its shell. Suddenly I knew that Mom didn’t want Dad to treat us like this either. If she’d leave, maybe the three of us could stay together.

“What if my mom leaves, and takes me and my brother with her?”

“That’s an option. If she’ll leave. Certainly it’s the best option. But someone has to convince her. She’s been living with it for a long time, hasn’t she, Kendra? And she’s never filed a police report.”

I chewed my lip. This was something else I didn’t understand. If my mother could have stopped it, why hadn’t she? My thoughts spun around in my head. Then Sam’s face, as I held him on the way to the hospital with his broken arm, floated out in front of me like a ghost. Maybe I was the only one who could do something.

“Can I make a police report? If Mom won’t, can I?”

Mrs. Morrow nodded. “Yes. You can. But you might have to testify in court. Could you do that?”

I nodded. “Will you help me?”

"If you’re sure this is what you want.”

I looked around her perfect house, and thought about how I’d thought it was impossible for me to ever live some place like this. It wasn’t only other people that I told lies to, I’d been telling them to myself, too. Life didn’t have to be scary, like mine. I didn’t have to be afraid every day, and neither did Sam, and neither did my mother.

“Can we go by the house and get Sam, and then go to the police station?”

Mrs. Morrow nodded, and grabbed her purse. “I’ll drive.”

 

The fresh oil spot in the driveway was right where my dad’s car had been. The front door glided open with only a slight push. Sam was right where I’d left him, in front of the television, watching "Teletubbies" now.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked.

“She’s still sleeping,” Sam said.

I hurried down the hallway and opened the door to my parent’s room. My mother looked up at me from the bed, her eyes nearly swollen shut, worse than mine. I rushed to kneel beside the bed.

“Mama, my teacher’s here, Mrs. Morrow. I want you to get dressed so we can go to the police. Daddy just can’t do this anymore. Come with me.”

I helped her get out of bed, and then helped her pull on jeans and a sweat shirt. I brushed her hair. She could hardly walk from the room. In the living room, we found Mrs. Morrow watching television with Sam.

Mrs. Morrow took my mother’s hand. “You’ve got a brave girl, here, Mrs. Campbell. Things are going to be better now.”

My mother cried, and pulled me to her in a gentle hug.

 

(I hope you are enjoying these short stories. If you are, please pass the word along about my blog. Next week, I'll be taking a break as I'll be working hard at a writer's workshop all week. I'll be back on July 22 with more stories.)

The Liar - Part 2

Monday, the black eye I had from the weekend was not easy to hide. I did my best with makeup tricks. I hoped Mrs. Morrow would be absent again.

 

“Is Mrs. Morrow here today?” I asked Emily after first hour.
She nodded. “Yeah. She parked her car just as my mom dropped me off. Can you believe she came back! Mrs. Keefer took that note from me, where I wrote Jenny about what you saw. Everyone knows!”

“Emily, did you say who saw them in the parking lot?"
 “Well, sure. I couldn’t just say that some little bird told me, could I?”

My stomach ached and I wanted to throw up. Mrs. Morrow would know I started the rumor. She’d be so mad at me for telling lies she probably wouldn’t even care about the black eye.

In fifth hour, she never even looked at me. She’d been nice to me before, but I’d taken care of all that by telling lies about her.

Supper wasn’t ready when Dad got home, and Sam was the closest to the door from the garage when Dad came in. His fist hammered into Sam. Sam bounced off the table and onto the floor, his arm bent underneath him. Something stuck out through the skin and blood oozed out.

Mom and I carried him to the car. I patted him and rocked him in my lap while Mom drove to the emergency room. We checked in and took a seat in the waiting room.

Mrs. Morrow walked in, passed right through the room, and went through the doors into the back. I had a chill, like I was the one in pain, with a bone sticking out of my arm. She hadn’t seen us.

“Sam Campbell,” the nurse called. I picked Sam up in my arms, careful not to touch anywhere near the awful break. Mom and I crowded into the examining cubicle. Minutes later, a doctor in green scrubs walked down the hall to the cubicle. Mrs. Morrow walked beside him. They stopped right in front of us.

She glanced at us, then grabbed the doctor’s arm with one hand and reached for me with the other.

“Kendra! What happened?” She peered down at my brother’s chalky tear-smeared face. He looked up at her, eyes red and swollen. She glanced at his arm, and then at my face. “Steven, this is one of my students, Kendra. Mrs. Campbell?”

Mother nodded and then looked away. She hated the hospital, and imagined, like me, that everyone talked about us behind our backs.

“This is my husband, Steven Morrow. He’s working evening shift here, now.”

Mom and I both nodded. We wouldn’t come to this hospital any more, I was sure. I chewed my lip.

Mrs. Morrow smiled. “See you tomorrow, Kendra. Steven will get your little brother fixed up fast. Nice meeting you.” She walked away.

I wanted to run after her, wanted to shout, “Can’t you see what’s going on here? Sam and I are going to get killed one of these days.”

But I let her walk away. There wasn’t anything I could do anyway, and besides, what did she really care? I was bad news, stupid, and a liar.

Dr. Morrow took Sam to an operating room, and an hour later, he was back, his arm covered in a white cast. “Okay, Sam,” he said as we started for the door. “You get that thing covered with autographs from all your friends. Mrs. Campbell, here’s some samples -- for the pain. One every four hours for the next three or four days. Call me if you need more and I’ll write a prescription.”

On the way to the car, Mama handed me the pills. “Tuck them in your jeans’ pockets.”

I did. If I didn’t, Dad would grab them as soon as we came in the door.

“Pain’s good for you,” Dad always said whenever any of us cried after he’d hammered us. “Makes you appreciate how soft you’ve got it. I learned that from my old man.”

I didn’t much see how pain was good for Sam. He was only six.

The next day at school, Mrs. Morrow didn’t look at me in class. But when history was over and we all filed out the door, she called my name. I dropped back and went to her desk.

“How’s your brother doing today? Did he sleep much last night?” she asked.

I had heard Sam whimper and cry out once in the night. Then I heard Dad go in his room. “Shut your baby yap or I‘ll break your other arm,” he’d yelled.

 I looked up at Mrs. Morrow and said, “Sure, he slept great with those pills. What’s in those anyway?”

I hurried on to my next class before she could say another word.

After school, Emily stopped me in the hallway by my locker. “What’s new? Seen Mrs. Morrow doing it with anybody this week?”

I shook my head.

“Yes, you have, you’re just not saying.”

I shrugged and hurried on down the hall.

“Who was she doing it with in the parking lot today?” she yelled after me.

I glanced back. Mrs. Morrow stood behind her, in the doorway of the teachers’ lounge. I shook my head. A group of kids stopped in the hallway. They snickered and stared at Mrs. Morrow. She turned and walked away.

 

My stomach clenched. My heart pounded. I liked Mrs. Morrow. I didn’t want to hurt her. And I was really worried about Sam and me.

Thing was, I didn’t know what to do. Mrs. Morrow was the only adult I could even think about talking to. She was the only one who seemed to care. But I’d ruined it with my lies.

I peeled potatoes for dinner while Mama fried the chicken. My heart hammered against my ribs. I’d been unable to eat all day. Who would Dad hit tonight?

“Mama, I’m worried about Dad, and Sam. He’s so little, and—”

Mama cut me off. “Kendra, I love your Dad, and you know how much he loves you and Sam. He just doesn’t know how to cope with anger. His dad beat him; it’s the only way he knows. He gets upset when business is off. Remember, it won’t be long now before you’re grown and out of the house. It’s not like he’d seriously hurt either of you.”

I looked at my brother’s arm in the cast and wondered. How serious was a broken arm to my mom? How much worse would it have to get? I had to last another year and a half. Sam had to last twelve more years.

Dad came home early. “Chicken’s not even fried!” he roared. “What you been doing? Potatoes not mashed, not even cooked!” He swung at me. I ducked and bumped into the recliner. “You’re useless!” He kicked at me, and caught me in the shin. “You’re worthless, and you can’t even learn how to cook!”

He chased after me. I shoved him away when he got close. He grabbed my arm and slung me into the wall, then punched me. After awhile, I quit fighting back. I lay on the floor where I had landed. He kicked me.
Mama cried, “Stop!” He turned to her, and she dashed for the bedroom. He raced off, hot on her heals. I heard her crying, then moaning after he’d pounded on her.

Sam lay on the sofa, a pillow over his head.

“It’s all right, Sammy. It really is. Mama said Daddy won’t hurt us bad.”

His wide eyes looked up at me. “Daddy scares me.”

Something snapped inside me. “Come on, honey.” I carried him into my bedroom to my bed and tucked him in. Then I grabbed the covers off his bed across the hall and made a pallet for myself on the floor.

I could barely open my eyes the next morning, they were so swollen and sore. Bruises covered my arms. My ribs ached.

I crept to the bathroom, then back to my bedroom. Sam opened his eyes and stared at me. I shook my head and held my finger to my lips. “Don’t wake Dad,” I whispered. I could picture what would happen when Dad got up. He’d look at me, and then get mad because of the bruises. He’d blame what he’d done on me for being stupid, say that my stupidity made him beat me, and had caused Sam’s broken arm.

I poured some Kix into a bowl for Sam, and then got dressed. The house was so quiet. I planted Sam in front of the TV, and then turned on “Sesame Street”, with the volume really low. I slipped out the door.

 I ran most of the way to school, only stopping when the stitch in my side got so bad I couldn’t breathe. I dashed up the steps and down the hallway to Mrs. Morrow’s classroom.

A substitute teacher sat at the desk.

“Where’s Mrs. Morrow?”

“I’m just the substitute, but I heard this teacher won’t be back.”

I whirled, ran into the hallway and straight into Emily.

“Kendra! You look terrible! Did you have a car wreck?” she asked. She stared at my face. Then she grabbed my arm, “And oh, did you hear about Mrs. Morrow?!”

“She never did anything! I made it all up!” I shoved her away and raced down the hallway; I zigzagged right and left to avoid people walking to class. I ran to the front offices and to the closed door of the principal’s office.

“Where’s Mrs. Morrow?” I shouted as I threw open the door. “You can’t fire her. It was all a lie. I made it up!”

Mr. Bartholomew, the principal, stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Morrow never did anything wrong. I lied about it all. You can’t fire her. And I need to see her.” My quivering voice became a squeak. “My brother and I are going to get killed if she can’t help me,” I whispered.

The school secretary and the security guard rushed in.

My hands covered my blackened eyes and bruised face. I hurried from the office, out into the hall and down the front steps. I had to see Mrs. Morrow. Now.

(Part 3 of "The Liar" will be posted this Wednesday, July 10.)

The Liar - Part 1

The first day of my junior year, I walked into my Oklahoma history class and saw Mrs. Morrow. She smiled at all of us like she was so sweet, but I knew she couldn’t be, just like I couldn’t be. She wasn’t really sweet, and I didn’t trust her perfect smile.

People screw up. Other people get in the way of being good. Even parents don’t always do the right thing. My dad’s a prime example.

There’s nothing anybody can do about it.

            Dad had told me about his fourth grade teacher, the one who took him out of his class and beat him with his belt in the boys’ bathroom.

            “Don’t let a teacher ever do that to you, Kendra. Hear me?” he said. And then he smacked me in the face.

I knew Mrs. Morrow wouldn’t be any different from the rest of the teachers I’d had. They expected the worst from the majority of us. We never disappoint. 

Dad may have had a really rotten teacher, but he finished high school and opened his own mechanic shop. Now, he expected me not only to graduate, but to make the honor roll. I’m not smart enough, but I am good at lying.

I decided that things would be better for me if I got rid of Mrs. Morrow. She looked like the person I wanted to be, but couldn’t be. It would be real hard to see her every day.

“I saw Mrs. Morrow wink at Coach Hayes,” I said to Emily Coates that first afternoon.

Emily giggled.

I followed Mrs. Morrow from school on the second day to a neighborhood a few blocks away. It was actually on the way to the ice cream store where I worked on the weekends. Little stone houses with grass and flowers growing in the front yards sat on wide yards with big trees. Her house looked like a picture in a kid’s storybook, with white curtains in the front windows and flowers and bushes growing everywhere.

            My heart sank into my stomach. I wanted a house like that, someday. Mrs. Morrow had that house now. She was so much better than I could ever be.

The next day in history, it was hard to look at her. I wanted her life so bad, and I didn’t see how I’d ever get it. She was a constant reminder of what I could never have.

            The next day morning, I saw her talking with the football coach. They stood close together near the door to the gym.

            “I saw Mrs. Morrow touching Coach Hayes in the hallway just before lunch, and he wasn’t minding either,” I whispered to Emily Coates. You could count on Emily to spread just about anything as far as it would go in the school. And it didn’t end up the same as when it started. By the time Emily had spread it around, Mrs. Morrow was touching him inappropriately and there was no stopping the rumors.

I added fuel to the fire when I told Jacey Michaels the next day that I saw Mrs. Morrow wipe something off Coach Hayes’ face as they walked in from the parking lot before school. By fifth hour, I heard that Mrs. Morrow’s lipstick had been all over Hayes’s face in first hour.

A few more small words, dropped here and there, and stories about Mrs. Morrow raced through the school.

Mrs. Morrow began to have this kind of pinched, pained expression on her face. She seemed pale, and couldn’t seem to think straight. I felt kind of sad, because I knew why she was rattled, but you know, I was glad. At least she didn’t seem so self-righteous.

One Saturday night I had a run-in with my dad. He pounded on me and my little brother. Mama locked herself in the bathroom. Monday morning, my makeup didn’t hide the bruises on my jaw bone very well, so I wore my hair loose and tried to let my hair hang over the bruises.

Mrs. Morrow pulled me aside after class. I was all worried it was something to do with the rumors, like maybe she had heard who had started them. She pointed to a desk at the front of the room next to her desk and then slipped into her chair.

“Please sit down, Kendra. I’d like to talk to you a minute.”

I made myself look at her. “I’m trying as hard as I can in here, Mrs. Morrow. It’s just hard for me because sometimes I don’t get too much time to do the reading homework. I’m working some for my neighbor lady after school and taking care of my little brother. Then I work weekends. I just don’t have time.”

“Kendra, your school work is okay. I wish you had more time to do your homework, I think you could easily make an A. You’re smart. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,”

“It isn’t?” My foot started tapping, and I couldn’t stop it. Here’d come the part about the touching and the lipstick and all the other stuff I’d made up about her and the coach.

“No. I want to talk to you about that bruise on your face.”

My hand flew to cover the mark on my jaw bone, and I ducked my head.

“Sometimes I see bruises on your face and arms. But you’re not playing any sports. Has someone been hitting you? Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

She bent over to try to look me in the face. I sank lower and lower in the chair, chewed on my lip and wondered how I could get out of here. I couldn’t tell her about Dad. He’d beat me dead if I did, if anyone ever came around to the house to talk to him about beating up us kids.

“No.” I sat up straight again in the seat and flicked my hair over my shoulder. “Just a misunderstanding with a girlfriend. We got a little carried away.” I laughed. “Doesn’t hurt or anything. Really.”

Mrs. Morrow’s forehead creased and she peered at me, almost like she was my mother or something. My stomach got weird, all sick like. Here she was trying to be nice to me and I’d slammed her behind her back. I wished I hadn’t said those things, but I couldn’t take them back. Maybe the rumors would die down if I didn’t start anything new

“You seen anything else going on with Mrs. Morrow?” Emily asked the next day.

“Yeah,” I said. I couldn’t keep myself from making something up. Mrs. Morrow was too pretty and too snoopy. I couldn’t risk her saying anything to anyone about my bruises. My little brother and I were done for if she did. The faster she was gone from the school, the better. “She and Sampson were hookin’ up in her car before school today. Sunk down in the seat and everything. Disgusting, huh?”

Emily’s eyes widened; she rushed off to spread the latest about Mrs. Morrow and the geeky science teacher. By lunch, the school buzzed with the latest. By fifth hour, Mrs. Morrow could hardly hold her head up to look at us.

I felt bad. I stopped by her desk after class and asked her if she was feeling all right.

“I’m fine, Kendra. Thanks for asking. Sometimes it’s just tough in a new school, that’s all.”

That night, Dad got drunk and beat me again, but better me than Sam. One of these days he was going to hurt my little brother really bad. We’d already been to the emergency room twice this fall, and with no insurance, some hospitals didn’t want to let us in. I wondered how much longer they’d buy the bit about bike accidents or falling out of trees. They must think that even for a six year old, Sam was really accident prone.

As I dressed for school the next day, I put on long sleeves, even though it was Indian summer. My right forearm was covered with a huge purple bruise from where Dad had grabbed and shook my arm. Luckily, he hadn’t touched my face, but the back of my head had a lump from where I’d hit the wall.

Mrs. Morrow wasn’t in class. The substitute wanted to get through the day. Period. None of my other teachers noticed anything. I hurried home so I would be there with Sam when Dad got in from work, and to help Mama with supper. It seemed like if food was ready to go on the table when he got home, he wouldn’t have time to drink a beer and get mad at all of us.

Mrs. Morrow wasn’t there the next day either. Rumor had it she’d been suspended for “working the parking lot.” I knew she hadn’t been working any parking lot with anybody. In my head, I saw her sweet smile and the concern in her eyes when she’d asked me about the bruise on my jaw bone.

(Watch for Part 2 of "The Liar" on Monday, July 8.)

The Light Gatherers

Here's a short story to enjoy, complete in this post.

Somewhere in a galaxy far, far away...
            Aviva lay in bed and waited for light to seep around the drapes covering the windows. The knobby joints of her hands and feet ached.
            A sleek black dog leaped onto the bed to lie beside her on the pile of down-filled comforters. He huffed, then poked his long muzzle into the covers. She reached crooked fingers to ruffle the fur around his thick neck and brush hair from his brown eyes. “Not yet. Not quite yet.”
            Aviva hoped it wasn't cloudy on this shortest day. She wanted no rain or snow, only bright sun.
            Outside in the meadow, everything was ready. She had been gathering and arranging the pots for weeks, some open mouths tilted to the east, others to the south, still others to the west. Every second of sunlight must be gathered. It was her gift to her people, the only gift that she, old woman of one hundred and forty-seven years, had left to give. This would be the last year she could.
            The dog stiffened and vaulted off the bed. At the door, he growled.
            “Aviva?” A soft voice called.
            The dog looked back at her and wagged his tail. She crawled from under the covers and slipped into her skins, threw on a shawl and went to the door.
            “Tarquin. I didn't expect you.”
            The boy hung his head. “Sim can say what he likes. I won't hear him anymore. I'm here to help.”
            Aviva nodded and placed her hands on the boy's shoulders. She peered deep into his eyes. He reached his hands up and placed them on hers. Around them, firefly lights flickered in the pre-dawn darkness. The dying embers of the fire glowed, and crackled. Minutes passed.
            “Do you understand?” Aviva finally asked.
            His nod was quick. Tarquin pulled in a breath and glanced at the open door and the now graying sky. ”It's nearly time.”
            The two of them, and the dog, burst from the little house, running to beat the sunrise to the meadow.
            Meanwhile, the boy called Sim waited among the giant lower branches of the elder tree. Stupid woman, stupid Tarquin. The pots were strewn everywhere, as if her ridiculous story of gathering light for the long winter nights was true. Everyone knew electricity came from the Plant. The whole idea of collecting pots of light, if it could even be done, was ludicrous. It was myth, surely.
            And no way the ancient hermit could know anything about it.  Hadn't she lived just beyond the town for more than eighty years? No one even remembered when she moved there, who her sons and daughters were, or what had happened to them.
            Just this past week, outside the youth house, she'd been telling tales, the same tales he'd heard years before from a grandmother or great elder. Fables. Myths. Catch the sun rays? Who was she kidding? And on Short Day? It made more sense to collect on Long Day, but then, light was plentiful that time of year.
            The tall once-green meadow grass, now long faded into gold, rustled. A figure stepped into the field of pots. Paloma?
            The girl glanced from side to side, then her look swept the edges of the meadow, searching. Sim held his breath. In the dawn, with soft light whispering across her skin, she was even more beautiful. His heart pounded. He  shifted his weight to step from beneath the branches to greet her, then pulled back. Two more people and a dog burst through the tall grass and into the meadow, not far from where Paloma stood.
            The three of them looked at one another, then the dog wagged its tail as the old woman lifted her arms and folded them around the girl.
            The sun rose over the horizon. The three of them moved to the far eastern side of the meadow.
            As sun rays filled each jar in turn, one of them tamped the jar lid into place and set the jar upright, then moved on to the next. Hours passed; they worked on, row after row, after row.
            Sim stood under the tree watching, his arms folded, his face dark.
            Paloma laughed as she rushed from pot to pot next to Tarquin. Hours and hours later, they reached the last row. The sun, now low in the southwestern sky,  glowed orange. Quickly, they capped the final jars then dropped to the ground beside one another. Fatigue lined their faces, and thirst thickened their tongues. Tarquin reached for Paloma's hand and clasped it to his chest, just above his heart.
            Under the tree, Sim's blood boiled and anger filled his head until he didn't even hear the winter chickadees calling from the trees. Only then, when the old woman moved, did Sim see the long, low platform transporter at his end of the meadow. His fists clenched and unclenched. Where were they taking the ridiculous empty pots?
            Aviva walked beside the transporter. As it hovered just above the ground among the rows, the three gatherers lifted the pots onto the platform. Light began to fade from the sky, as the clouds turned shades of pink and purple and orange, finally fading into gray.
            It was only when the device, and the people, returned to his end of the now-dark meadow that Sim finally came out from under the black branches of the elder tree. “So where are you going now? Your pots are useless and your day wasted. They are empty!”
            His arm swept out and knocked two pots from the transporter. As the pots fell to the ground, the intense light from within them blazed into Sim's face. Every ray collected in each pot shimmered into his unguarded eyes.
            Sim flapped his hands in front of his face, then wailed , “I can't see!” Tears flooded from Sim's blinded eyes.
            The old woman shook her head. Tarquin and Paloma wrapped their arms around each other. The jar lights blazed bright, then faded. In the northern sky above, a star twinkled.
            “Come, then. They're waiting for us at the Plant.”

            Aviva led Sim onto the transporter. Paloma and Tarquin climbed aboard, too. The machine moved across the long meadow and over the forest.  

 

(If you are enjoying the stories you are reading on this blog, please pass on the link. And also, become a follower! If you like to read about nature, check out my nature blog at http://blog.marymcintyrecoley.com  Thanks for reading.)