Lost Girls of Kato, page 3
Trailing behind him, I decide the thing I want to fix the most is the six-foot-something, insanely attractive man lumbering through my new home.
3
JACKIE - 1986
Since finding J.R. on the river bank, we’ve met up dozens of times. Sometimes it’s planned, and sometimes we run into each other in the very same spot where we met. He doesn’t know I go there every single day, hoping to see him. I can’t get enough of the warm, tingling feeling that stirs in my belly whenever he’s near. And with Becky gone, there’s no one else I can hang with anyway. I swear I hold my breath the entire time I’m with J.R., waiting for him to declare he doesn’t want to spend time with me anymore because he’s found a group of friends his age.
The day after I met J.R., his dad appeared on channel 12 KEYC’s evening news, asking for the public’s help in finding both Becky and Shannon. The first thing I noticed about his dad was that he shared the same brown hair and beautiful eyes as his son. He was so tall and utterly handsome, wearing a black suit jacket over a stark white shirt and red tie, voice deep and commanding. By the time the Mayor took his place behind the podium to announce a 7 o’clock curfew was in effect for anyone under the age of 18 until further notice, my cheeks had warmed with the idea of J.R. growing up to be even more attractive, like his dad.
Exactly a week from the day we met, J.R. spends the entire afternoon rambling on about something he keeps calling an “Atari.” He even declares he’s going to teach me all about “Asteroids.” I’m a little unnerved by the idea after he told me it’s more addictive than crack cocaine. At school, we sometimes watch videos on a TV brought into the room on a rolling cart. In one of those videos, the First Lady told us about the dangers of drugs—including crack cocaine—and said we should “just say no” to any kind of drugs, so I’m confused by J.R.’s intentions. But when he gives me directions to his house and tells me to sneak over after my mom leaves for her night shift, I convince myself that my new friend wouldn’t pressure me into doing anything I don’t want to do. When I asked what would happen if I was caught after curfew, J.R. said as long as I stick to the shadows and stay off the main roads, the police cruiser going up and down the streets won’t be a problem.
My mom is in one of her foul moods when she stops home between jobs for dinner. She stomps around the kitchen in her high heels, slamming doors and swearing under her breath. Before going out to talk to her, I change into my Garfield nightgown to make her think I’m getting ready for bed. My sister’s nowhere to be seen, so I assume she’s at the arcade.
Even though my mom always looks as if she hasn’t slept in a long time, she’s still super pretty. We have the same strawberry blond hair and blue eyes the same shade as my favorite crayon out of the box of 64 Crayolas I got from Santa last Christmas. I almost never see her narrow lips without her favorite fire-engine red lipstick, or her eyelids without her usual robin blue eyeshadow.
Whenever she’s on her way to dance at the club like tonight, she wears her bangs feathered with a stubby little ponytail and hoop earrings that touch her shoulders. She once told me she has a hard time finding clothes that fit right because her body has more curves than most other moms. The satiny pink dress she wears is so tight that I’m able to see every line of her large breasts, and the material dips down low enough that I can see the deep line running between them. When she bends to grab a plate from the cupboard, a little bit of her black panties covered in lace stick out from underneath her dress.
I once asked if I could watch her dance, but she told me only grown ups can enter Mettler’s. A few times she’s been in an extra good mood when she’s home and will dance to really old songs on the radio with me and Diane. She sure likes to shake her hips a lot.
“Is there anything I can help you with, Mom?” I ask, half hidden behind the refrigerator wall. She has never hit me or my sister, but she has made me cry more times than I could count. I don’t want my eyes to get all red and puffy before I meet with J.R.
“I don’t have time to make you girls supper,” she huffs while opening a bag of Wonder bread. “I have to be at work early tonight.”
I don’t tell her that Diane and I already ate at Pizza Hut. She might think we weren’t being thoughtful by bringing her something back. The personal pan I ordered was free, thanks to the BOOK IT! reading program I signed up for at the library. Diane had to use babysitting money for hers, because she thinks she’s too cool to read books now that she’s in high school.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “We can make our own supper.”
I move into the kitchen to hand her a butter knife and a nearly empty jar of Skippy. She bends to kiss the top of my head. “You’re my angel.”
In a matter of minutes, she’s scarfed the sandwich down and she’s heading for the door, fumbling with her purse and keys. She pauses to look back at me, her eyes heavy with concern. “Don’t talk to any strangers, especially men, and steer clear of Becky’s dad. There’s a rumor going around that he bought a gun after Becky disappeared and he’s been threatening to shoot people.” Her eyes darken. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you or your sister.”
“We’ll be careful,” I promise, trying to hide my surprise. Would she even notice if me or Diane went missing like Becky and Shannon?
Once I can no longer see the taillights of the old station wagon, I strip out of my pajamas and throw on a sweatshirt with jeans. After slipping into the $5 pair of white Adidas my mom bought at the secondhand store that are two sizes too big and marked with countless scuffs, I head out the door.
As I’m walking my bike through the trailer park, a crushed Hamm’s beer can rockets over my head and clunks into something metal at my side. I stop dead in my tracks as a gruff voice demands, “Who’s that? Who’s there?”
Cold fear sends my stomach into a deep dive. Becky’s dad. My pulse quickens as I remember what my mom said about him having a gun. I decide to step into view of the yard light to avoid getting shot. “It’s me, Mr. Myers. Jackie Tanner.”
“Who?” He waddles down from his broken porch to get a closer look. A stained white tank top barely covers his grossly round belly, and his light-colored pants are black with filth. My eyes quickly jump from the beer can in his fat hand to the butt of a gun tucked into his waistband. The dark shadows under his eyes shift when he frowns. “What’re you doin’ out this late, little girl?” His words are slow and slurry enough that I’m certain he’s been drinking all day.
“I have to run an errand for my mom,” I lie, praying he doesn’t run into my mom anytime soon.
“Yer not s’posed to be out after dark,” he reminds me.
“I’m just going to the gas station to get milk. I’ll only be gone for a couple of minutes.”
“Ain’t you scared of them demons?”
A cold ripple grips my spine, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “What demons?”
“The ones that came for my Becky.”
My teeth begin to chatter. I know there’s no such thing as the boogeyman, and I always thought that covered monsters and demons too. “I—I have to go,” I tell him, hooking a leg over my bike.
“Watch out for them demons!” Becky’s dad yells after me.
When I pull up to the Brady Bunch style split-level house with green shutters and a picket fence, sitting on one of Mankato’s many hills, I know something’s wrong. Two people-shaped shadows appear behind a thin curtain—one’s really tall, the other shorter and skinny like J.R. From their muted shouting, I’m guessing he’s in the middle of a serious scolding from his dad. Goose bumps break out across my skin. J.R. recently admitted his mom left years ago because his dad has a mean side.
I jump off my bike, my feet becoming fixed like tree roots with the sounds of their argument. If I were to ring the doorbell, it would probably only make things worse, especially as I’d get into serious trouble for breaking curfew. But I feel as if I need to do something to stop J.R.’s dad…to save my friend.
There’s a roar of, “God dammit!” before the bigger shadow hits the smaller one, sending it sailing down out of sight. I slap my hands over my mouth, quieting a surprised cry. The dad-sized shadow spins away to leave the room as J.R.’s shadow rises from the floor. I stash my bike inside a set of bushes and sneak around to the backside of the house, crouching outside of the window in the corner like J.R. said. My heartbeats shake my entire body as I wait for him to come find me.
The sound of a door slamming drifts through the crack in his bedroom window. My chest hurts with every tight breath as I wait for him to come to me. For several minutes, everything becomes still. Then I hear faint crying. Even though it sounds as if he’s holding a pillow over his mouth, his sobs are raw and deep.
My heart hurts, heavy with pain for my new friend as I try to decide what to do. Why was his dad so angry? Would J.R. hate me if I let him know I’m worried? He once told me the thing he likes best about hanging out with me is the fact that I don’t act like a “girly” kind of girl. Do I pretend I didn’t see what just happened? What if he’s seriously hurt and needs to be seen by a doctor?
Eventually, I decide to tiptoe away from the window and head back home. If J.R. finds out I heard him crying, he might not want to be my friend anymore.
The next morning, a Saturday, J.R. shows up on the steps outside our trailer house. “Can we hang out in your room?” he asks.
I hesitate. If I left him in, he’ll realize we’re dirt poor and I’m far more girly than I let on. He’ll maybe even decide I’m too much of a baby to hang with any longer. But when I notice the bright red mark under his left eye, my heart won’t allow me to turn him away. At least my sister is babysitting the neighbors’ kids all day and my mom won’t be home until after 3 o’clock.
I nod and open the door. My heart thumps extra hard as we pass the brown and tan couch with ugly flowers and a wood frame that my mom brought home after my grandma Anna died. When you sit in it, you can still smell a trace of my grandma’s menthol cigarettes. I can only pray that J.R. doesn’t pay it any attention as we pass it and head into the narrow hallway leading to my bedroom.
“Why didn’t you come over last night?” he asks.
Glancing back into his pretty brown eyes, I wonder what answer will make him happy. “What happened to your eye?” I counter.
He looks past me into the hallway. “I ran into a cabinet in the living room. Guess I’m still not used to the new house.”
Even if I hadn’t seen his dad hit him, I’d know it was a lie. “My mom once got punched by some jerk while she was dancing.”
A snort rips through his nose. “Where was she dancing?”
“At Mettler’s. She works there.”
“My old man told me about that place.” His dark eyes grow wider. “Your mom’s a stripper?”
Sickness stirs in my gut as the warmth drains from my face. I have a small idea of what a “stripper” does, but my mom has never mentioned taking off her clothes in front of strangers. Could that be the reason the older boys call her a whore?
“It doesn’t matter,” I snap, gritting my teeth. “I’m just saying…her eye looked exactly like yours after the man hit her.”
His lips tighten. “So what?”
I pause in the doorway to my room. “You can tell me the truth, J.R. We’re friends, aren’t we? I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
He drags a hand through his hair, making it stick up like he just rolled out of bed. “Sometimes my old man gets pissed off about stuff. It’s not a big deal.”
“But he works for the police,” I protest, mirroring his scowl.
“And that’s exactly why you can’t tell anyone else, Jackie. He could lose his job…go to jail. And then they’d throw me in a foster home.” He nudges past me, studying every nook and cranny of my small bedroom. I enter behind him and hold my breath, waiting for him to comment on it being a baby’s room with its faded Rainbow Brite bedspread and second-hand collection of My Little Pony dolls. Instead, he pages through my small sticker book before pointing to a watercolor painting of the neighbor’s dog pinned to my wall. “Did you do that?”
“It’s just something I scribbled in Art class.”
“It’s gnarly.” He points to another painting of the spot where we often meet by the river. I painted it one night when I couldn’t sleep because he was on my mind. “That too. Looks just like our hangout.”
A hot blush fills my cheeks. At least I didn’t try to paint his face like I wanted. “Do you paint?”
“Only when forced. I’m not any good.” He throws himself down on my bed and stares at the translucent stars stuck to my ceiling. “Those glow in the dark?”
“Not anymore. My dad won them at the fair when I was really little.”
“Do you see him often?”
I step over to my window and glance outside. “He left my mom when I was two and a half. He hasn’t come back since.”
“Do you remember him?”
“Do you remember stuff from when you were a toddler?” I reply.
“You’re lucky,” J.R. grumbles. He motions to the creased poster of Jason Bateman, the teenage actor, taped next to my paintings. It was something I had stolen a few months earlier from an old Teen Beat magazine in the dentist’s waiting room. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but I thought he was super cute. I know stealing is bad, but sometimes I get jealous that I never get anything fun. “You watch Silver Spoons?” he asks.
“Once or twice,” I lie. We don’t have cable, so all I ever get to watch are lame shows that come in on UHF, like Mash and Little House on the Prairie. I like Laura Ingalls, and Almanzo is handsome, but I don’t like how the show pretends they live nearby in Southern Minnesota when nothing looks like it does in real life, even though it was supposed to have happened forever ago. When my grandma Anna was still alive, I often stayed at her house on Friday nights, and we’d watch Dukes of Hazzard. Long before I met J.R., I would fantasize about marrying Bo Duke.
J.R. stares back at the ceiling. “Do you ever dream about running away?”
“Like running away and never coming back?”
“Yeah.”
“I wouldn’t have anywhere to go,” I say. “And I don’t have any money.”
“Doesn’t matter. You could totally find somewhere to work.”
“Who’s gonna hire a kid?”
“Lots of people,” he tells me. “But if money wasn’t a problem, would you leave?”
I consider his question for a minute. There are so many places I’ve seen on TV and in magazines that I’d like to visit. “Only if my mom and sister came with.”
J.R. forces out a sigh. “That defeats the point of running away.”
“Would you leave your dad to live on your own?”
His eyes darken and he makes an expression that makes me think he’s in pain. “Yeah,” he grunts through clenched teeth. “I would.”
4
STERLING - 2018
After Theo hand-delivers a relatively reasonable quote two days later, I write him a check on the spot for the deposit he requested. Early the next morning, as I’m preparing a pot of coffee before my first day with Human Services, he returns with a fairly new pickup truck full of tools. I wait in the open doorway as he’s climbing out from the driver’s seat, eager to have any connection with another human before reporting to my new employer.
Another dream involving the little girl being fearful of something tore me from a deep sleep. After once binging a ghost hunting show with Stefan, there was a period of time in which I considered I could have some kind of a psychic ability. Then I came to my senses and realized my aunt Constantine’s new age beliefs were the only reason I’d entertained the idea in the first place. I’ve wondered if I should speak with a psychologist to discuss the dreams, but it seems unnecessary considering I studied more than my share of psychology in college. I’m well aware my brain is likely compensating due to the stress of moving and starting a job in which I’ll once again be working with abused children. I’m eager to focus my thoughts on something else for a little while, even if the only way available involves pestering a prickly carpenter.
"Good morning,” I call out as Theo starts towards me with buckets of tools dangling from each hand. In a royal blue t-shirt, sleeves cut off, and a worn pair of tan carpenter pants marked with small splashes of paint and stain, he’s the kind of rugged handsome that would have women in L.A. dropping their designer panties. “You’re here bright and early.”
The slightest bit of interest sparks in the dark pools of his eyes when they skim across my silky pink blouse and cream skirt that falls past my knees before landing on my suede kitten heels. My heart skips a little when I take my turn in appreciating the thick muscles lining his arms and chest.
“Mornin’,” he grunts back before stepping in past me. He promptly squats in the center of the living room and begins removing tools from the buckets, arranging them in neat piles. When the coffee pot whirls to a stop, I pour myself a cup and begin to reach for another mug. “Would you like some coffee? I don’t have any creamer, but—”
“Plumber’s coming by later this morning,” he says without looking up from the floor.
I laugh under my breath before taking a sip of the deliciously dark brew, briefly closing my eyes as it warms a path down to my stomach. “You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
“I’m here to work, not make conversation.”
I snort in response to his stubbornness. Although he’s clearly not interested in getting to know me, I refuse to let it deter me from somehow finding his softer side. “So much for that adage about Minnesota Nice,” I say quietly. My watch vibrates on my wrist, reminding me it’s time to leave if I want to arrive halfway early. I grab a travel mug from the cupboard and fill it to the top before securing the lid and reaching for my keys. I remove the extra key Carol gave me for the front door and slap it on the counter.
