A Storied Man

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Nine.

Parts: 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Nine

Leaning over, Bernie wedged her thumb and index finger into the denim-blue, square-toed Annie Kia ankle boot and pulled up the inside zipper. She stood up straight to look at herself in the dirty mirror, but also saw Shonda’s reflection stuffing filthy clothes into a plastic garbage bag. She couldn’t believe she had been wearing those less than an hour earlier.

Bernie loved her new look. Besides the spot between her eyebrows — the makeup thicker there to cover the redness caused by the plucking — her face looked natural. The bra provided a little lift that helped her fill out the gold sweater. The jeans, not an easy item to pick for someone else, fit almost perfectly.

“Now what’s that stuff you put in my hair?” Bernie asked.

“Shaping putty. Mainly at the roots. With your natural curl, you don’t need anything else.”

Shonda dropped the garbage bag and stepped over to the mirror. She handed Bernie a pair of small, gold hoop earrings, then turned on the faucet and started washing her hands. “You look great. The jeans are a little short, but the boots help hide that,” she said. “Your butt looks good. You can always tell an older woman from behind these days because you can actually find her butt. Teenagers have completely lost theirs.”

Bernie laughed. “I don’t understand those low-rider jeans, either. Most of them don’t need to be showing off their bellies, anyway.”

“See, Bernie, all these years separated, and we agree on fashion. We’re kindred spirits,” Shonda said as she yanked a paper towel from the dirty dispenser.

Bernie clipped the earrings onto her lobes and turned her head back and forth slowly to see how they looked. Her eyes were drawn to her hearing aids. “Since I got these, I haven’t had much reason to worry about the way I look,” she said.

“If I didn’t already know they were there, I wouldn’t notice,” Shonda said. She pulled the red handle-ties on the bag of Bernie’s old clothes and cinched it shut. “I’ll carry these. I think I’ve been in this room long enough. You ready?”

“Ready, Freddie,” Bernie said through a smile.

They strolled down the hall, past a handwritten sign that read, “Soaps and clean towels available on request. Deodorant available in store. Thx, Mgmt.”

Shonda turned right, around the end of the refrigerated drink cases. She slid open one of the glass doors and grabbed a 20-oz bottle of Diet Coke. “You want one?”

“Sure,” Bernie said. She couldn’t remember the last time she spent money on a soda. “But I prefer Dr. Pepper, regular.”

“Dr. Pepper it is.” She pulled one out and handed it to Bernie.

They approached the counter together and set their wares next to Pop’s crossword puzzle book.

Pop finished filling in a “G” and looked up. “Together?”

Both nodded, then looked at each other and smiled knowingly.

“That’ll be two American dollars and two bits, lovely ladies.”

Shonda handed him a five dollar bill. Pop made change.

“Thanks, Pop,” Bernie said.

Pop’s mouth opened slightly and his eyes brightened. “Is that you, Little Bernie?”

“A hundred percent. What do you think?”

“Well I’ll be dipped. You clean up real nice. What are you ladies up to?”

“Dinner at the Red Apple,” Bernie said.

Pop looked back down at his crossword puzzle. “Trouble. Starts with ‘t’ and ends with ‘e.’” He pointed his pencil at them, “And you be somewhere in the middle.”

——-

The radio in Jeremy’s 300zx showed 105.1, a station Bernie started listening to when she was 14. She had trouble making it out, but thought she heard the last few bars of Lynrd Skynrd’s “Freebird.” Any time that song was over, she was glad. Shonda took her hand off the gearshift to turn up the volume, and out of the speakers came the unforgettable opening to “Sweet Child O’Mine.”

Bernie had not heard it like that since the last time she and Greg had parked his truck near the lake. She and Shonda sang in unison, every word of every verse and chorus, until Bernie took the “where do we go” background to Shonda’s lead. Worry floated away with the words and freedom found a place in Bernie’s heart.

As they drove down Main Street, every corner held memories for her, but the former site of Whitaker’s Drug, along with the cold, sweet sips of Dr. Pepper, transported her back to 1977. Her first time buying her own soda also served as her first real-world lesson about money.

She sat atop a barstool with a padded red seat — the kind that spins. A skinny, severe-looking woman with short brown hair stood behind the rich, maple wood soda fountain bar, patiently waiting until the seven-year-old little girl finished turning circles.

Bernie stopped and let the dizziness fade, then looked up at the menu. “Cherry ice. Twenty-five cents. I’ll have that, please,” she said as she rubbed the shiny quarter in her pocket.

The woman flipped open a metal lid and scooped ice from under the counter into a glass. Next she poured thick red syrup that divided into thin strands that inched their way slowly over the ice cubes and joined back up at the bottom of the glass. Finally she pulled out a hose with a head that looked like a futuristic gun, aimed it into the glass, and pulled the trigger. Bubbly water filled the glass to make a bright red concoction that tasted like none Bernie had found anywhere since.

“That will be twenty-six cents,” the woman said and set the drink in front of Bernie.

Confused, Bernie pointed to the menu. “But it says twenty-five cents,” she said.

“Well, the extra penny is tax.”

“Tax?”

“Just give me what you have. Don’t worry about the penny.”

From that point on, cherry ice was the only thing she ordered from the soda fountain at Whitaker’s, and she always made sure she had a quarter and a penny.

Bernie wanted to live that way again. She wanted to know the cost, pay the price, and not worry where the money would come from the next time. Although she tried not to get her hopes up, she began to believe that perhaps Shonda was her doorway back into that world.

Beyond town to the west, however, along the same road, she was jarred forward to the day only one year after her first cherry ice. They passed the dentist’s office where she and her brother, Scott, had been playing when the bright blue 18-wheeler roared over a hill and took his life.

Less than a half mile farther along, she saw the hospital where she had undergone the rape exam. At the other end of town was Sugarloaf, where Kenneth Wymer had drawn his last breath. She wondered whether, with or without money, she ever could live happily in a town that evoked so many painful memories.

Shonda glanced at Bernie and then accelerated, slowing little as the road led them downhill, sharply to the right. Bernie’s head pressed back hard against the headrest as they reached one of the long earthen dikes bordering Greers Ferry Lake. The cool blue water that opened up on the right contrasted with the forest on the left. Hardwoods, still standing like gray skeletons, were interspersed with dark green pine trees.

Needing answers, Bernie grabbed the radio’s volume knob and turned down Dire Straits’ “Walk of Life.” Shonda looked over at her.

“You’ve done a lot for me already, Shonda, and I appreciate it.” She took a quick breath and let it out slowly. “I need to know what’s going on. I don’t know that my heart can take coming off the streets and then going back.”

“If you work this right, then you won’t ever live on the streets again.”

“Work what right?”

“I can’t tell you that yet. I want to, but I promised Jeremy I would wait.”

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Eight.

Parts: 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Eight

It felt great to be clean. Soap and hot water, taken for granted most of her life, had become a luxury for Bernie. Before life on the streets, a hot tub or a swimming pool caught her attention. Now, a simple chance to get clean comfortably became more than mere daily ablution. She remembered but could no longer relate to patting an alarm clock’s snooze bar and thinking, “I’ll just wash my hair this morning.”

She wrapped herself in the towel, covering from her underarms down to her knees, and pushed aside the shower curtain. Bernie stepped out and, despite the way she had been living, was scared to guess what might attach itself to her skin. She winced as each thickly calloused foot touched the damp cement floor.

The shower room door opened a few inches. Through it came a pair of jeans and a gold sweater on hangers, held up by a woman’s unadorned right hand. The scent of honeysuckle floated in with them.

“Shonda?” Bernie said. She pulled the door open. It was her new, old friend.

Shonda smiled and said, “Hi, you!”

Bernie reached out to the sweater, but stopped just short of touching it. Even in the dingy, dank space, it almost shimmered. “It’s beautiful. You brought this for me?”

“Yes. It reminded me of you. But I brought more, too,” Shonda said and held up a burgundy duffle bag and a clear plastic zippered pouch. The pouch bulged full of makeup, tweezers, a razor, an eyelash curler, and other tools Bernie hadn’t used regularly in years. “Now, you don’t have to use all of this, but I wanted to bring it just in case.” She pointed at the duffle bag. “Panties, bra, socks, and shoes.”

Bernie felt like she was 17 again, and her friend from down the street had come to help her prepare for a big date. It should be silly, she thought, but it wasn’t.

“Oh, God, hand me those tweezers. How did you get Nathan to tell you which shower I was in?”

“You know how he is.” Shonda crossed the room and hung the clothes on the shower curtain rod. “He puts on a show but can’t back it up with a spine.”

“Sometimes he’s pretty tough with me,” Bernie said.

Shonda laughed as she sat on a folding metal chair. “Because you wouldn’t go out with him back in school.”

“That little creep? You bet your ass I wouldn’t.” Bernie leaned near the mirror and used the tweezers to grab several hairs between her eyebrows. She yanked. “Ouch! But I don’t think that’s Nathan’s only problem with me.”

Shonda’s smile faded. “You mean… Kenneth?”

“Yeah. He was a jock, you know. Even though they never managed to win a game, those boys were close.” She plucked another bundle of hairs above the bridge of her nose, then tapped the metal tweezer on the ceramic sink. “Oh, my God. I was a sasquatch.”

“No, you weren’t,” Shonda said. “You should have seen my eyebrows in my wedding pictures. Pretty scary. I can’t believe nobody told me to do something with those before that.”

“As far as Nathan and Kenneth go,” Shonda continued, “just forget about all that. I thought you had moved on from it.”

“I did. I met a man from out of town. Greg Dumond. He bought out Smithson Ready-Mix and brought me on as his administrative assistant. Good timing, too, because nobody else here would hire me. I practically ran that place. We fell in love. Got married. Folks mostly ignored him at first, but they had depended on Smithson so much that they had to work with him. He made enough friends that they started working on him. He started saying he felt like he didn’t even know me. Like he married a stranger.”

“What did you do?”

“Tried to convince him I was innocent, that everybody was being unfair. You know what Greg said?”

“What?”

“That it didn’t really matter, because I was bad for business.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“That son of a bitch. But how did you end up on the streets?”

“He sold out and moved. Never paid a cent of alimony. I couldn’t find a decent job, but I didn’t want to leave here.”

“What about your folks? Couldn’t they take you in?”

“You didn’t know?” Bernie said.

“No, I really haven’t kept up with the old hometown.”

Bernie set down the tweezers, turned to face Shonda, and sat on the edge of the sink. She tried to make sure she left out nothing important.

——-

Her mother and father won a U.S. Virgin Islands trip by scrawling a quiz answer on a 3×5 index card. It was a bright spot after practically being shunned as the parents whose daughter had hurled a popular boy off a mountainside. Her father finally took some time off from the Aromatique plant, and off they went to island-hop around the Caribbean in a chartered sailboat.

Before leaving they took a short course in diving so they could take advantage of the clear water. While not as clear as that part of the sea, nearby Greers Ferry Lake was a popular spot for Scuba training. Although they were the oldest people in the class, they were in shape and quickly earned their certification.

On the yacht, they at first felt a bit out of their element, but soon discovered much in common with the wealthy vacationers aboard.

“They even met one of the Yarnells,” Bernie said.

“Of Yarnell’s Ice Cream?”

“Yep.”

“Cool.” Shonda pulled out a long black comb and started slowly pulling it through Bernie’s damp hair.

Bernie continued.

She and Greg had just left the high school band’s spring concert. They sat in his pickup, in the parking lot. “I don’t want you to stay there. Two weeks is too long,” Greg said.

“It’s my parents’ house, and they don’t want to leave it empty while they’re gone,” Bernie said.

“You’re my wife. You belong here with your husband.”

“You already told me you’re not sure you still love me. Why should you care?”

“It’s complicated. Look, Bernie, just don’t do this. I don’t want people talking about us more than they already do.”

“Screw them. I’ve learned to stop caring what most people think. There aren’t enough years in my life to please everybody else.”

“You killed that boy.”

“Defended myself, thank you.”

A knock came at Bernie’s window. She turned to see pastor Pete Gist, the man who had picked her up only moments after her frantic trip down Sugarloaf Mountain — the last time her feet touched ground anywhere near it. Her window squeaked in protest as she cranked it down to find out what Pete wanted.

“You two coming to couples’ class in the morning? Ruth has a real special lesson for us.”

“Ruth who?” Bernie said.

“Ruth, from the Bible,” Pete said. “You know, the book of Ruth?”

“Never heard of it,” Greg muttered. Then, louder and with a smile, “We’ll be there, brother Pete.”

“Good to hear it. Well, I’ll let you go on about your business. Have a good evening.”

They said nothing on the drive home. Greg gave a nod to all drivers who met his gaze, a behavior he had learned in the few years since moving there, but avoided looking at Bernie.

At home they remained silent. To pack her things for her two weeks away, Bernie dug out the big suitcase so she could avoid having to come back home. Her Bible sat in a stack of books next to the luggage. She thought again of Ruth. It seemed she remembered that name.

She opened the Bible and flipped the impossibly thin pages to the short book of Ruth. One passage was highlighted yellow. Ruth’s mother-in-law had instructed her and her sisters, whose husbands all had died, to return to their own mothers and remarry. The only one who stayed, Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the LORD deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me.”

That was the kind of devotion she and Greg had sworn to each other. Did promises mean anything? Bernie sat on the bed and cried.

Her first week at her childhood home went fine. Each day she drove into work at the ready-mix plant, and spoke to Greg barely enough to run the business. Back at the house she looked longingly through photo albums from her childhood. Her first Girl Scout cookie meeting, her first Bike-A-Thon for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. Nothing was that simple or that happy anymore.

On the tenth day, as Bernie rummaged through her father’s music collection, the phone rang. Figuring it was Greg, she left it alone, but after seven rings she knew it wasn’t him. Nobody waited seven rings. Something was wrong. She set down Carole King’s Tapestry, one of her father’s favorite records and walked to the phone table in the family room.

She took a deep breath and answered. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Dumond?”

“For now, yes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. How can I help you?”

“Well, Mrs. Dumond, I’m the captain of St. Martin’s Pride, and there’s been an accident.”

“What?” Bernie sat in her father’s old recliner. “What happened?”

“He had a mild heart attack during a dive and got into trouble under water. We got him back on board as quickly as possible and administered CPR, but he had gone without oxygen too long. The only hyperbaric chamber is in a hospital on St. Thomas. We tried our best to get him there in time, but the doctors couldn’t help him.”

“What do you mean ‘couldn’t help him?’ He’s… dead?”

“He didn’t make it.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Dad!” Bernie’s breath quickened. Her heart pounded. “No, no. This isn’t right. Someone put you up to this. This is one of you bastards playing a trick on me.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dumond –”

“Stop calling me that!”

“I just… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Wait. Mom. Where’s my mother?”

“She’s with your father right now. She wasn’t up to talking to anybody just yet. Will you help her make new travel arrangements? Right now their return flight isn’t for another four days, but we knew she probably wouldn’t want to wait that long.”

Shocked, Bernie steadied her hand enough to scribble down the information the captain gave her.

“How awful. I’m so sorry,” Shonda said, now holding the comb still against Bernie’s scalp.

“It was the worst, but I’ve had years to cry over that. You know, even with all the trouble I caused them, that church was full of people just off shift from Aromatique. It was the sweetest smelling funeral in history.”

Shonda continued combing. “So your mother’s still living in their house?”

“She did for a while, but she’s buried next to Dad now. Something about losing him made her lose her will to do anything. They had me when they were older, so by now she’d be about 75.”

“You’ve been through so much.”

“Let’s stop talking about the past,” Bernie said. “Give me that comb. You’re like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters with that thing.”

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Seven.

Parts: 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Seven

“Kenneth! Are you okay?” Bernie yelled. The terror in her voice frightened her.

She stayed there waiting to hear anything — a whimper, a cry, any human sound, waft up from the darkness below the cliff. The call of a distant whippoorwill was all she heard.

After several minutes without any response from Kenneth, she got on her hands and knees and crawled away from the edge. She awkwardly stood and pulled up her pants, tears splashing onto the backs of her hands as she worked to zip and button her shorts. It was then she first realized she was crying. Despite what Kenneth had tried to do, her intent was not to kill him.

She wanted to get away quickly to find help, but from Sugarloaf’s peak that would have meant flying.

Instead she had to carefully work her way back down the narrow crevasse most commonly used by casual climbers, a feat she never had accomplished alone. She jumped across a narrow gap to get to the spot where she could begin her descent. Wriggling backward toward the ledge felt unnatural and scary with nobody waiting below, but she scooted until her feet found toe-holds and only her arms and head remained above the ledge.

Breathing between sobs, she methodically worked her way down the 12-foot drop to an area about 10 feet wide and surrounded by rock. She stopped and took two deep breaths. The rest was almost as easy as walking down stairs.

Once she reached the bottom of the rock, the leaves blocked out most of the moonlight. Relying on her memory of many walks down that hill, she ran the smooth stretches and slowed only when it got rough. Switchback after switchback she did this, before nearly sprinting the final straight downhill stretch. As she emerged from the woods into the field below, the moon set ablaze the dual yellow stripes running up the hood of Kenneth’s Chevelle. They seemed to glow within the dark green paint, parallel beacons of hope.

But Bernie didn’t have the keys.

“Dammit!” She stopped and leaned on the car, her legs shaking and her left big toe throbbing.

Somewhere on the opposite side of the mountain, Kenneth lay dying or dead, and she had nothing but her legs to carry her. If he was hurt, she was sure there was no way she could get help in time.

Seeing no other choice, she ran along hardpan ruts in the dusty gravel road. With the back of her hands she wiped away the streaming tears. She ran a short distance along Highway 110 before Pete Gist, the youth minister at the local First United Methodist Church, picked her up and took her to the hospital. She closed her eyes as they drove past the spot where her brother was killed.

“Nurse, prep a Vitullo kit in exam four,” said Frank McLain. He had delivered Bernie and was the only family doctor she had known. Of all the people who could have been on emergency duty that night, Dr. McLain was there.

Bernie sat in a gray metal chair, a portable stainless steel tray beside her, trying to place the smell in the air. It was unnatural, like nowhere else in the world.

McLain handed her a tissue. “Here, Bernice, take this, but just pat your eyes, don’t wipe.”

“What’s a Vitullo?” Bernie asked. She dabbed her eyes with the tissue.

“It’s a rape kit,” McLain said.

She blew her nose, then set the tissue on the tray. “But he didn’t actually rape me.”

“It’s something we should do, to protect you and your family,” he said. “Barbara will be in there, too. You remember her, one of my nurses? You can wait with her while I call your parents.”

“My parents?” Fresh tears fell. Her tissue spent, she wiped her face with her hands.

“I want to clear the exam with them first. You’re still just 17, right?”

“Yes.”

McLain led her to exam four, which was just one of several hospital beds in the same room. Rings on what looked like a shower curtain jangled along a semicircular rod as he pulled the curtain around one of the beds to form a cramped space.

“You can sit or lie down here while I go call,” McLain said.

Although it was the same doctor, the exam was nothing like her usual gynecological visit. McLain seemed tense and unsure how to handle the instruments. Twice she felt sharp pain and he apologized. Nurse Barbara held her hand and spoke in comforting tones, but Bernie wasn’t listening.

She replayed the events over and over. After just a few minutes of that, questions pushed out everything else. Why had Kenneth turned on her? Had she done something wrong? Would she get in trouble?

When the exam was over, she had no time to think before the police and her parents showed up.

“Tell us exactly what happened, ma’am,” said the young officer. It was Dale Regan, a high school football star when Bernie was in grade school.

Bernie’s mother grabbed her hand. “Oh, my sweet girl,” she said. “It must have been just awful.”

“Now, let Dale do his job, dear,” Bernie’s father said. Then, to Bernie, “Go ahead, honey, tell them everything. We’re here for you.”

She told the truth about what happened that night, but only her parents seemed to believe it. Kenneth was very popular, an athlete talented in football, basketball, and baseball. He wasn’t a mean boy, consensus said.

Though no legal action was taken, for years almost the entire town blamed Bernie for his death. He had trapped her up there on that cliff, had pushed her down and hurt her. He tried to force himself on her, in her. Nobody wanted to hear that she had defended herself, and she didn’t dare suggest that maybe he deserved what he got.

It wasn’t just adults. Even at school she found no respite, reading accusation in all her friend’s eyes.

Everybody except Shonda. Although they never had spoken of it, Bernie thought she saw a look of understanding on Shonda’s face. As if she had some reason to believe.

Now, nearly 20 years after Kenneth’s death, as she dried off with a towel used before by countless truckers, she held out hope that she might finally get some answers.

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Six.

Parts: 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Six

As she ran past the tennis courts, Bernie again saw the couple with matching sweats, now playing tennis. They didn’t notice her.

Not far from them, a young woman aimed what looked like an expensive camera at a park bench. Next she held it so that the end of the lens was within inches of the chain link fence surrounding the courts. Bernie had no idea what the woman was trying to accomplish, but remembered what it was like to spend time doing things that seemed pointless to observers. For longer than she cared to admit to herself, her every action had a clear and practical purpose.

She picked up her two remaining water jugs and filled them, then walked along Main out of town and onto Highway 110. A bottle in each hand, the magnitude of Glenda’s trickery enraged her more with each step. Along with her wagon and two full bottles, Glenda had stolen the plastic crate that doubled as Bernie’s nightstand.

A few miles off sat Sugarloaf Mountain, its distinctive bare rock “loaf” perched atop its steep, tree-lined sides. One of Bernie’s favorite destinations as a little girl, she tried to remember the last time she had climbed it. It must have been that time with the Assembly of God youth group. More than that, she recalled the night she had sneaked out of her house to go there with Kenneth Wymer.

“Come on, baby, please. You’re giving me a rise in my Levi’s,” Kenneth said.

They sat next to each other, their legs hanging over the edge of the mountain’s highest sheer drop, about 100 feet. The moon shone half full in a cloudless sky, reflecting off the Little Red River in the valley below. In stark contrast, in the distance a greenish light reflected off the Greers Ferry Dam’s smooth concrete surface.

“I’m not going to have sex with you on this cliff, for God and everybody to see,” Bernie said.

“Ain’t nobody up here right now.” He unzipped his pants, leaving his desire’s manifestation bound only by tight white underwear. “See what you’re doin’ to me?”

“I haven’t done anything — yet.”

He turned and put his arms around her, his face close enough that beer breath made her crinkle her nose. “It’s so romantic up here. And I’m about to bust out of my BVD’s.”

“Let go, Kenneth.” She grabbed his hands and pulled them off her shoulders.

“Stop movin’ around or we’ll both fall,” he said.

“Shakespeare might think that’s romantic.”

“Hardy, har. Now, come on. We’ve been together almost a year and it’s time to move to the next level.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, drunk or sober, and that’s saying something,” Bernie said.

Kenneth was on her before she could react. The back of her head smacked the rocks. Hard kisses bounced off her face as he tugged at the top button on her jeans.

“Kenneth, stop it!”

“I’m smart enough to know that you’re mine now! Stop movin’!”

His weight pressed her down against the unforgiving rock. Her feet still hung into nothing, leaving her with little leverage.

“No!” she screamed.

The button gave way and he grabbed jeans and panties in one fist and yanked. They moved down, but still didn’t reveal what he wanted. He raised up enough to lift her and pulled again, stripping her bare from her waist to just above her knees. With one hand on her hip, he used the other to free himself from his briefs.

Bernie pulled her legs up and put her knees on his chest and her hands on his head. She closed her eyes and pushed with everything she had.

She heard a shriek, but when she opened her eyes, nobody was there. Her pants still down, she wriggled onto her stomach and crawled to peer over the edge. Dirt and tiny pebbles ground into her thighs. She knew that large boulders, remnants of the mountain’s last sloughing, lay at the bottom, but she couldn’t see them. Blackness stared up at her.

She whispered, “Kenneth?”

Silence.

Louder this time. “Kenneth!”

She had heard of a boy surviving a fall from there, but he had been climbing and was less than half way up.

Bernie drew in the night air and screamed, “Kenneth!”

An 18-wheeler’s horn blew and Bernie looked down to see her right foot on the highway’s white borderline. She shook off the memory and continued on her way.

She crossed over to Pop’s One Stop, a trucker haven managed by another old friend. She feared ever moving from her hometown. If not for lifetime friendships, she wasn’t sure how she could have survived. Only those who had known her before her hardships talked to her like she was a person, and not all of those were dependable any more.

The automatic doorbell pealed loud enough for her to hear as she walked into the store. “Hey, Pop,” she said.

A man behind the counter, with a full head of gray hair and a matching scraggly beard that crawled down his neck, looked up at Bernie. He held a number 2 pencil, poised less than an inch above a newspaper’s crossword puzzle.

She plunked the full gallon jugs on the counter beside the cash register. “The Sun-Times still keeping your brain sharp?”

“As this pencil.” He said as he looked back down and pressed the lead inside a square.

“Okay, Pop, I’ll take your word for it.”

The lead broke. “Shit! They don’t make nothin’ like they used to.” He pulled a small pocket knife from the front of his faded blue Dickies overalls and started whittling the pencil’s tip.

Bernie sloshed the containers. “Mind stashing these back there for me, just for a little while? I can come back and get them tonight.”

“Sure, little Bernie.” He had called her that since her childhood, when he owned the convenience store down the road from her rural home. “You need any empties?”

“Yep. I’ll get them later, too. Is it okay if I use your showers in a little while?

A young man walked in through a door marked, “Employees Only.” He was shaking his head. “No more free showers, Bernie. I gotta follow the rules. Only for paying diesel customers or three dollars.”

Pop had carved away enough of the wood to reveal fresh lead. He pointed it at one of the tiny squares. “Help me with this one, little Bernie. Eight-letter word for ‘jerk.’ Starts with ‘d,’ ends with ‘head.’”

Bernie laughed. Pop was nothing if not crass. Her face quickly straightened. She needed that shower.

“The store might still be named after you, Pop, but I’m the owner now,” the young man said. He belched loudly and waved his hand in front of his face.

Bernie remembered earlier that day, at Lockard’s. “Fine, Nathan, I’ll pay,” she said and pulled out the five-dollar bill Jeannie had given her. “Now, can a paying customer use your phone?”

“No free calls.”

“Let’s see, seven-letter word, ending with ‘hole,’ means –”

“Okay, Pop, I get the hint,” Nathan said. Then, to Bernie, “I’m sure you know where it is.”

Bernie walked around the end of the counter, past the case of various fried foods kept warm by heat lamps. Potato skins, chicken strips, steak fingers. Chimichangas. Her stomach rumbled. She pulled a worn phone book from a slot beneath the register and flipped to the R’s. “Red Apple Inn,” she mumbled.

She cleared her throat and punched in the number. After the first ring, she read aloud a few labels on the impulse items. Started when she was a child learning to read, the habit of blurting out words had never faded. “Instant Energy. Packed with B-12. Alerticap.”

A faint voice came on the line. “Thank you for calling Red Apple Inn, how may I help you?

Bernie pushed a finger over her free ear. “I’ll need you to speak loud and slow, please,” she said.

“Okay, how may I help you?” the woman said, a little louder that time.

“Room 218, please.”

“I’ll transfer you. Thank you and have a nice day.”

“Thank you.” She glanced around to the displays in front of the register. “Ginseng Sammy. Slim Jim.”

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were gone.”

“I’m connecting you now.”

Bernie started figuring what food she could buy for two dollars.

“Hello?” came a woman’s voice.

“It’s Bernie. Is this Shonda?”

“Oh, Bernie, hi!” Shonda yelled.

Bernie picked up a bottle of Ginseng Sammy and turned it to read the ingredient list. “You can just speak up a little. I’m where it’s quiet now.”

“You’re not backing out on our night, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I just… well. I ran into Jeff at the park and — ”

“What did he say to you?” Shonda said, her tone heavier.

“Just that he would like to see me tonight. Why? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, we just have a little secret, and I wanted to be sure he didn’t ruin it.” Shonda sounded less severe. “What did you need?”

“I don’t really have anything that would be right to wear.”

“If you’re worried about it, don’t,” Shonda said, now back to her original level of enthusiasm. “I’ll have a friend lend you something.”

“Thanks.”

Bernie pulled a chimichanga from the glass case and handed Pop her five dollar bill. She wolfed it down and then went about the business of cleaning her dirty, worn body.

In the shower, with nothing to distract her mind, she couldn’t help thinking of Kenneth again. Since that night on the mountain, she hadn’t gone a day without being haunted by it.

(Continue to Part Seven)

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Five.

Parts: 1|2|3|4|5|6|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Five

She looked above the wall to see Glenda, all six-foot-four of her, wearing a red overcoat that somehow outshone her long, tangled, flame-orange hair. Paisley patterns drawn in ballpoint pen ran down her faded jeans to her tan work boots.

Glenda smiled and winked. She grabbed the wagon tongue and bolted for the nearest paved path.

“Dammit, Glenda, come back here!” Bernie shouted.

Bernie dropped the empty milk jugs and dashed up the stairs. Her heart already pounding in rage, she hit the sidewalk in a full sprint after Glenda.

On the flatter terrain of the park’s east side, the faster Glenda easily took a commanding lead, loaded Red Flyer in tow. Within seconds she was 30 feet away.

Bernie’s wagon was her only thing that had never been someone else’s. “Somebody help me!” she screamed.

The tennis courts lay just ahead to the left. A couple stretching in matching gray sweatsuits stopped to look. Bernie fixed her eyes on them. “Please! Do something! She has my wagon!” Bernie thought that sounded silly coming from a grown woman, but still wished someone would step in to help.

The couple leaned toward each other and moved their lips, then smiled, but never looked at Bernie. They held their rackets above their heads and continued stretching.

Bernie’s legs ached. Her lungs burned. She felt her feet slowing as she tried to pump them faster. Glenda turned back and smiled. She seemed tireless. She obviously had been getting plenty of food somehow.

Glenda turned and crossed the intersection of Main and Frauenthal toward a florist’s shop. Bernie knew she couldn’t catch her, so she scanned a shallow ditch for something to throw. An empty beer bottle lay near a rusty, collapsed culvert. She picked it up and cocked her arm to throw.

Someone grabbed her throwing hand. Confused, Bernie whirled around to see a man whose face looked familiar. “What are you doing? She’s getting away!” she shrieked.

“Whoa, easy,” he said. “If that bottle ends up in that florist’s window, then you will be worrying about much more than your quarrel with that Amazon woman.”

She could barely tell, but he sounded almost British. That confirmed that her instincts were right.

“Jeff Stivins?” she said. He still was as handsome as he had been in high school.

“Bernice? Bernice Maven? Is that you under all that filth?”

“Yes. I know I look a fright.”

“Nonsense. I can tell it’s you, the beauty queen of yesteryear.”

“I never won any contests like that.”

“Well, when I left here in high school, you were one of the prettiest in town. And your soul was pure. Now, what did that brute do that had you hurling litter at her?”

“Oh, that was Glenda. I was just here filling up my water bottles and she stole my wagon.”

Jeff tossed the beer bottle into a green metal trash can. It banged hard against the can’s walls, but did not shatter.

“That was inconsiderate of her. Perhaps I should not have grabbed your arm, after all.” He smiled. Bernie grew warmer.

She wondered whether to mention her evening plans. Would Jeff be there with Shonda and Jeremy? Maybe she shouldn’t go. No. Shonda wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t want her there.

She tried to sound calm instead of nervous. “Glenda’s like that. A bully.”

“Wait. You mean that was Glenda Sparks?” Jeff said.

Bernie picked up a twig and started breaking off its tiny branches. “In the rotting flesh.”

“How did you two end up on the streets?”

“I think her temper and the fact that she’s a crazy asshole did it for her. Me… well, that’s a longer story.”

“I would like to hear it. I must go now, but why don’t you join me at the Red Apple Inn tonight? Does seven o’clock sound good?”

Bernie suddenly became aware of how grimy she must look, and thought surely the breeze and the cold were the only things keeping Jeff from holding his nose. She had been willing to visit an old friend, but no way could she make herself look and smell good enough for a date that night. She turned her eyes downward. “You know, I kind of –”

“Nonsense. I want you there, unless you have something that must keep you away.”

Bernie looked up, her eyes brighter. “No, nothing too far from there,” she said. Two invitations to the Red Apple Inn in one day? She didn’t question it farther.

“Good news, Bernice. I look forward to it.”

Jeff walked to a blue Ford Taurus, probably a rental, and she saw the lights blink twice quickly. She could only imagine the familiar affirmative chirp of a car alarm disabling. As soon as he pulled away, she turned and ran. Different from when she was chasing Glenda, however, it was as if Bernie ran toward something good.

For the first time in years.

(Continue to Part Six)

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Four.

Parts: 1|2|3|4|5|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Four

Bernie had learned early in her new life that filling her water containers should be the last task of the day. In the Ozark foothills, the town had few flat spots. Except for Main, the streets didn’t have sidewalks, so even the flat stretches could be rough while pulling a wagon loaded down with four gallons of water.

Some folks didn’t mind when she walked across their front yard; some did. Those who disapproved usually were red-faced by the time she knew about it, because she hadn’t heard their calls from their front porch. Sometimes, she found herself running from dogs.

It sure beat running from Glenda.

At the corner of Main and Eighth Streets, Bernie looked up at the bank thermometer’s bright lights. They showed 2:15, and she had told Dody she would be at the high school at 2:30. The lights blinked out and then lit up to show the temperature — 50 degrees Fahrenheit. She kept her coat on.

Eighth Street was steep, but it was the best route to meet Dody. As Bernie stood at the bottom of “Thrill Hill,” she imagined that whoever named it was not in the habit of climbing it on a regular basis. She checked her milk jugs to make sure they were secure, then started her ascent.

Homelessness would be much easier somewhere on the plains.

Bernie thought of Shonda and her invitation for that night. She had ignored Shonda’s request for her to audition for Quiz Bowl back in school, so why would she not do the same now? Although they had been close friends in elementary school, they hardly spoke past sixth grade. Still, she had seemed sincere at Lockard’s, and maybe she was lonely.

Her legs burning, she stopped about a third of the way, where the road leveled out for a cross street. She leaned over with her hands on her thighs. Recalling her old track coach’s advice, she took long, deep breaths through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. Sweat ran down her chest, some of it pooling in her navel. With labored breaths she worked her way out of her coat and threw it in a heap in the wagon. Movement caught her eye.

A gray coupe full of teenage boys roared up the hill and flew past Bernie about a foot off the ground. It was a Plymouth Fury. She yelled, “Slow down!” but knew there was no hope they would hear it.

The rest of the climb was longer but not as steep. She pumped her legs straight through the next cross street and hiked steadily until she reached the top.

The sidewalk that bisected the school’s front lawn bore the names of past graduates. Any other day she would avoid it, but after her meeting with Shonda, somehow Bernie felt bold. She strolled along until she reached her class’ decade. “Chris Fallow, first boy to kiss me, first grade. First boy to feel me up, seventh grade. First one up my skirt, eighth. Ronald Tracy, first boy I felt up, eighth grade.” She laughed. “Chris sure got mad about that.”

At the last name in her class, her knees buckled. Instinctively, she leaned hard on the wagon tongue for support. The milk crate catapulted out, sending the empty containers bouncing across the names of the many she remembered and the few she wished she could forget.

She glanced around hoping nobody had seen. The front of the school faced her, windows running the length of each classroom wall. Some teen somewhere inside, tired of listening to a teacher prattle on about trigonometry or home economics, no doubt had been gazing outside when this woman and her wagon put on their show.

With what little energy Thrill Hill had left her, she corralled the water bottles back into the crate. Although in a different spot now, her coat still lay in the wagon. She pushed it aside to make room.

Staring straight ahead with her eyes out of focus, she said, “Kenneth Wymer.” She looked down at the name. “I’m glad you’re dead and I hope your soul is frying in hell.” Turning to go, she briefly regarded the Methodist Church across the street. “If it’s not, God, then you’re to blame.”

Something struck her shoulder. She turned to look. Two boys were approaching her, one of them tossing a rock up in the air and catching it. He spoke up. “I said, ‘Hi,’ Wagon Lady!”

Bernie grabbed her wagon handle, turned, and walked away. A rock zinged past her ear and bounced along the sidewalk in front of her. She just kept going. Dody would have to wait. All the way up that steep road to be turned away by hooligans. Where were all those bored kids staring out the windows now?

Deflated and again puzzling over Shonda’s invitation, Bernie headed back the way she came. She took a left off Eighth to the gradual slope of Sugarloaf Street. Clouds blocked the sun, which in every other season would make for a nice, shady stroll. Now it just moved her to put her coat back on and try to forget Kenneth Wymer and the two boys possibly destined to be just like him.

——-

She stood at the corner, looking to the right and downhill at Spring Park. No sign of Glenda.

The park was all downhill from where she stood. Preferring to walk on grass, she shuffled down the terraced landscape, her wagon bumping behind her. With no children at play and no leaves on the majestic hardwood trees, the park made Bernie sad.

A contemporary amphitheater, the site of the local hootenanny and a Miss Arkansas preliminary pageant, sat empty. Two foam cups danced on the cement stage in the breeze. Bernie liked their moves, but wondered whether their answers would satisfy the judges.

She arrived at an open-air, covered spring-house where a hand painted wood sign hung from the eaves. It read, “Black Sulphur.” She had tried the others — Red Sulphur, White Sulphur, Magnesia, Iron, Arsenic, and Eye Water, but mostly came back to her favorite.

Bernie grabbed two empty jugs from her wagon and made her way downstairs to the floor, her eyes level with the top of a stone wall around the perimeter. In the center of the dank space sat a large concrete cylinder, a spigot protruding from its side. She unscrewed one of the blue lids and held a jug under the spigot. Decades of mineral deposits had painted an inverted cone, black in the middle and dark yellow on the fringes, that reached from the tap to the floor.

Although Bernie would have preferred to have a job and a home, she knew that a busier life wouldn’t afford time to wait on the spring spigots. The unfiltered gift from nature trickled into each jug for several minutes until finally they were full.

She lugged them up the stairs and traded them for the two remaining empties. As she again reached the bottom and turned toward the spigot, she saw movement.

All too familiar movement.

(Continue to Part Five)

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Three.

Parts: 1|2|3|4|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Three

Bernie had misheard plenty of utterances since the start of her hearing loss, but this one seemed more important than most. She turned her better ear toward Shonda and said, “I’m sorry, what? I’m not sure I caught that.”

Shonda stammered a bit, then said, “I’m surprised you remembered the name.”

Bernie knew that wasn’t what she had said, but decided not to press it.

“Look, he’s honking, so I need to go keep him from making a scene. I’m in town a few days. Give me your number.”

Bernie started to look down again, but quickly raised her head. “I, um, I don’t have a phone.”

“Well, okay. How about your address?”

Bernie frowned slightly and shook her head. Not being ashamed of herself was one thing, but playing hostess in her shack was out of the question. She wasn’t even sure it would still be there at the end of the day.

“Okay. I’m staying at the Red Apple Inn. Room 218. Come see me at, say, eight o’clock?”

Bernie hesitated. This day started out simple. It was just supposed to be Trout Day. “I suppose that’s fine,” she said finally.

“Great!” Shonda looked Bernie over again. “Just, really, really great to see you.”

“You, too,” Bernie said.

They hugged again and Shonda’s sweet scent faded quickly in the breeze of a passing flatbed truck.

Bernie grabbed her wagon handle and continued to the back of the restaurant. The word “Lockard’s” crawled in messy script across a white door with a greasy black stain around the knob. A few dirty fingerprints fanned out from the knob, as if someone had tried to avoid the filthy core.

A teenaged boy wearing the requisite green apron leaned against the wall, smoking. His arms crossed to help keep warm, he lifted a hand just far enough to pull the cigarette from his mouth and flick the ashes.

Bernie called out to him. “Jim still making you go outside to do that, Dooley?”

The boy nodded and spoke around his cigarette. “Fuckin’ fascist.”

The door swung open. “I heard that, Dooley!” Jim said. He looked at Bernie. “He bothering you, Bernice?”

Bernie laughed. “No, Jim. No trouble.” Since kindergarten, when she had shown him her panties during nap time, they had known each other. Then and now, Jim always called her by her full first name.

——-

She pulled a plate from the stack next to the sink and plunged it through the suds and into the water. Floating flecks of food bounced off her arms as she scrubbed. She set the plate on a dishwasher rack and grabbed the next one from the stack. It was Bernie’s least favorite odd job, but it kept her out of the cold.

Lockard’s lunch buffet made it easy for Jim to sneak food to her. When the buffet ended and they pulled items off to throw away, he tucked some back for her. Depending on business, sometimes she didn’t get much.

He brought her a small plate with three fried chicken wings and a few bites of baked beans. Bernie quickly washed and dried her hands, but slowed herself to seem less desperate. She pushed up the dishwasher’s lever and slid out a steaming silverware basket. The fork she grabbed heated her hand, a welcome change from the lukewarm dishwater it had slogged through for the past two hours.

She sat in a small utility room, where wait staff unloaded a dryer full of clean napkins to roll up the silverware Bernie had just washed. A young, soft hand patted hers as she lifted a bite of beans to her mouth. She looked up.

“Why won’t they let us tip you out?” asked a young single mother named Jeannie.

“I don’t technically work here,” Bernie said.

Jeannie reached into the middle front pocket of her apron and pulled out a wad of cash. “Well, I don’t think it’s right. Here.” She set a five-dollar bill on Bernie’s knee.

Another server walked into the room. He stepped over to Jeannie with a disapproving look. Over the noise of the washer and dryer, Bernie could make out only a few words that had become unmistakable. “Mooch,” and “Bum,” were the easiest to read, and she went back to eating after getting an idea what the young man was trying to convey.

Not long ago, she would have turned up her nose at chicken wings. Now, she relished them and considered a leg an indulgent upgrade. She worked her teeth against the bone to nibble and scrape all the meat. The two servers stopped arguing to look at her. Had she growled like some animal? She had heard herself making noises, but didn’t know anyone else could hear. “Sorry,” she said, and went back to eating in silence.

A minute later Bernie glanced back up to see them still arguing. She held the bill out to Jeannie. “Thank you, sweetie, but you have a child to feed at home.”

“No, please, Bernie. To me, it’s only fair to tip you out a little.”

“You sound set on me taking it, so I will,” Bernie said, and slipped it into her pocket.

Back outside, Bernie secured her coat against the wind as well as possible and grabbed her wagon’s handle.

Jim stood in the doorway and pointed down at the wagon. “You know, I could just fill up your water bottles here.”

“No, that costs money. I don’t want you getting into trouble,” Bernie said.

Jim smiled. “As much water as you waste washing dishes, nobody would ever notice a difference on the bill.”

They both laughed.

“No, thanks. I prefer my source.”

“You know, Bernice, drinking the water from those springs can’t really make you better,” Jim said.

“That stuff from your tap sure can’t, either.”

She walked away humming the chorus of “Afternoon Delight.” If she didn’t make music for herself, then she had no music at all.

(Continue to Part Four)

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Two.

Parts: 1|2|3|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Two

Bernie stopped where Searcy Street crossed Seventh. A lot full of gleaming new Dodge cars and trucks sat to her right, across the street from Plymouths and Chryslers. She recalled that the last car she drove - a 1977 Dodge Aspen she bought for $500 from a local kid, came off that lot brand new. Already 10 years old when she got it, the car ran about a month.

That was when she lost her last job.

She followed Seventh about 1/4 mile. It still was part of Hwy 25 here, and its lack of a turn lane made crossing an all-or-nothing affair.

Jim Flanagan, Bernie’s former high school classmate and now a cook at Lockard’s, waved from the restaurant’s walk-up window across the street. She waved back and smiled at his white paper hat with a red border she called his “racing stripe.”

Cars rushed past. Bernie’s muscles tensed up and she pulled her wagon closer in anticipation of getting hit. It had been her natural reaction ever since an incident from her childhood.

Her father, a laborer at the local Aromatique plant, had let the kids out of his truck that morning and said, “Just don’t get into trouble.” She and her brother Scott, two years her senior, enjoyed the freedom of wandering the streets unabated by adult influence.

Outside a dentist’s office on a hilly, winding road on the west side of town, Scott picked up a used fluourescent light tube leaned against a Dumpster. “Hey, Bernie, it’s my light saber.”

“Light sabers aren’t white, goofball!” Bernie replied.

“For me they are. Get back, Darth Bernie, before I make you disappear with one swipe of my Jedi weapon!”

Bernie waved her hand at him. “You’ve just been force-pushed to the ground and all your bones are broken,” she said.

Scott lowered the glass shaft. “Hey! No fair using the Force!”

The bulb hit the asphalt and exploded, sending out frosted white shrapnel.

“Scott! I can’t believe you did that!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

A young woman with bobbed blonde hair walked out the front doors and gave them a stern look. They ran.

Leading the way, Scott looked back at the woman, an unwelcome presence on their day of liberty.

“Scott, watch out!” Bernie shouted.

A log truck crested a hill.

The next thing Bernie remembered was the sound of the rig’s air brakes releasing pressure as she ran toward Scott, who lay still, face-down across the double-yellow line. The trucker threw open the gleaming blue cab door and started running before his feet touched the ground. That blue was the first color she saw after the dark red flowing from her brother’s body.

Scott never moved again.

Mostly family showed up to the service. Few in their parents’ social circle could take time off work to honor the dead.

Now, Bernie stood on the narrow shoulder of a similar road. Though it was a very flat stretch, an 18-wheeler sat in the middle turn lane, blocking her view of what was coming in the far lane. The driver glanced at the passenger’s side mirror and then waved her across.

“I can make this,” she said. In a blink she stepped off the faded white line and dashed across both lanes. As she reached the opposite white line, a Jeep blew past, its wake chilling her and giving her empty milk containers the shakes. She managed a few more steps before she had to stop.

She closed her eyes a moment to let her nerves settle, then swept her hair from her forehead and set her eyes back on Lockard’s. Not long after she started living on the streets, she had resolved to always walk with her head up and look people in the eye. “Anything else and you’re one step closer to giving up, losing yourself,” she had said.

Jim saw her and signaled for her to go around back. As she turned that direction, her eyes fell on a woman about her age leaving the restaurant. It was Shonda Burke, a former high school Quiz Bowl Team member who always encouraged Bernie to try out. Why did so many people from her school have to come home to visit? Didn’t they know they were supposed to move away when they became successful, and forget this place ever existed?

Bernie immediately tilted her head down and looked at the ground. “Don’t let her see me, please.” She started across the parking lot, her back now to Shonda.

Less than half way around the side of the building, Bernie felt a tap on her shoulder. She jerked around faster than what felt normal, but composed herself quickly and somehow remembered her vow to never be ashamed. She smiled to acknowledge recognition.

Shonda’s kind blue eyes stared back at her. Her hair remained just red enough to get her noticed without seeming dyed. She wore little makeup even though she didn’t need any at all, and her lips were a deep, healthy pink without lipstick. Her beauty was striking from a distance and up close. A woman most others would have hated, but whom Bernie had always respected.

“Bernie? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“I haven’t seen you in years!” She stepped in and threw both arms around Bernie. Bernie awkwardly put her arms around Shonda and they both squeezed. Shonda smelled like honeysuckle.

As they let go, Bernie said, “Are you here alone?”

“No, I’m in town for –” she kept talking as she turned her head and pointed at a parked pale yellow Nissan 300ZX. Bernie lost her old friend’s words in the roar of traffic. Shonda turned back and smiled expectantly.

“Oh, I didn’t hear any of that. You have to look at me so I can see your mouth when you talk. My hearing’s shot,” Bernie said.

Shonda’s face turned from excitement to concern. She used her fingers to comb wind-blown hair behind her left ear, then put a hand on Bernie’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“It’s congenital. It’s why I lost my job and can’t find another steady one.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Do you have hearing aids?”

“Yes, but they’re old and they only help a little in one ear. The other’s pretty much a lost cause. What were you saying?”

Shonda looked her up and down, and for the first time noticed the wagon. Her smile faded. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”

“I’m guessing you’re with whoever’s in that sports car over there.”

“Oh, him. Yes, that’s just Jeremy. Still together. We’re in town to see his brother, Jeff.” Shonda’s eyes opened wider. “Are you understanding me now?”

“Just fine.” She remembered Jeff Stivins as a cute boy who had moved out of town when his parents divorced after his freshman year. Jeremy had stayed behind with their father to remain close to Shonda.

“Wasn’t Jeff that boy who killed a vagrant in self-defense?” Bernie said.

“He’s not that boy anymore, to hear him tell it,” Shonda said. As a loud truck passed, she added what sounded like, “I’d be surprised if the cops believe the same.”

(Continue to Part Three)

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part One.

Parts: 1|2|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part One

She woke to the sun shining through her room window. “Well, Bernie,” she muttered to herself, “you lived to see another day.”

She sat up and straightened her arms above her head to stretch. Her shoulders popped. Her eyes still fuzzy, she could just make out her water bottle, a plastic gallon milk jug. It sat on an upside-down blue plastic milk crate bearing faded white letters spelling out “Coleman Dairy.” She grabbed the jug and twisted off the blue lid, then pressed it against her chapped lips and tilted it up.

Nothing.

Holding the jug at arm’s length so she could focus, Bernie saw a thick layer of ice on the water’s surface. It was a sign that her humble surroundings had again surrendered to nature’s hasty march into winter. She shook the jug to break the ice and took a long, refreshing draw. Pain shot through a lower left molar. She tilted her head to the right to re-direct the cold water as she continued drinking.

When only broken ice remained, she set the jug back down on her impromptu bedside table. Two more of the containers sat empty in a corner.

“Time to go get refills,” she mumbled.

Despite the sun’s warming light, her sore arms shivered. All night she had curled up to fight the cold; her thin blanket, riddled with holes, had carried her through October fine, but November’s chill proved too much. That night, she knew, she would have to use her coat as cover, unless she could find a blanket before then. Her self-inflating, insulated sleeping pad made sleeping on bare ground acceptable for most of the year, but soon she would need more layers underneath, too.

A gap glowed orange between two gray wall boards. Dust twinkled in the resulting shaft of light. Bernie stood slowly, hyperextended her knees, then relaxed them for a joint-loosening pop. With just a few steps she crossed the dirt floor to a blue Maxwell House coffee can, peeled back its plastic lid and plunged a hand inside. Her thin fingers, their once carefully manicured nails now worn to nubs, pulled out a gob of rust-colored, muddy clay. Bernie kneaded the stiffened muck until it was spreadable, and then packed it into the gap between the boards. The repair finished, she flicked the excess clay into the can and replaced the lid.

She looked at her fingers. “Damn.” They were dirty now, and she had no water to rinse them before eating breakfast. “Well, girl, you’ve eaten worse with dirtier hands.”

A bread loaf container sat next to her bedside table. Bernie popped the blue lid off the end and poured out an assortment of individually wrapped snack cakes and crackers. She rifled through them, muttering, “Granola, granola. Come on.” Unsuccessful, she settled on a Mrs. Freshley’s bear claw two months beyond its expiration date. The cellophane gave way easily to her strong fingers, and though a little tough, the first bite was sweet. She set aside a Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pie and snapped the lid back on the container.

Unsure what day it was, she consulted her calendar. November’s picture was titled, “Hemmed-In Hollow.” From a high cliff wall clung icicles as tall as oak trees and, where they clung to the rock, as wide as cars. The text above the calendar grid called it, “The site of the tallest waterfall between the Appalachians and the Rockies.” Hoarfrost coated leafless branches of trees below. On the top left corner, along the bluffline, a bible verse overlaid the picture. “By the breath of God ice is given, and the broad waters are frozen fast. — Job 37:10.” Bernie carefully ripped off the verse and wadded it up.

She pushed the wrapper farther down the bear claw and took a large bite. The empty calories satisfied her hungry stomach, but she hoped the calendar would reveal something much better in store for that night.

Tuesday was the last square crossed out, and she smiled when she saw her own neatly-written text spelling out “Trout Day” inside Wednesday’s square.

Her itinerary was turning out to be rather simple, in number of tasks if not in difficulty. Every day included the usual quest for money and food. She had all that down pat. Her special missions were get a better blanket, refill her water jugs, and enjoy Trout Day.

And avoid Glenda.

She dressed quickly and stepped over to a full-length mirror hanging on the wall. With renewed disbelief Bernie’s deep brown eyes took in her two-dimensional clone. Tangled strands of brunette hair reached her shoulders. Thick, nearly black eyebrows, once meticulously groomed, thinned only slightly as they curved down to meet each other. High cheekbones sat atop shallow cheeks. Dark gray semicircles spread out below her eyes. She knew she was still pretty, but couldn’t imagine anybody finding her attractive.

The one thing that remained constant through good times and bad? The pencil lead dot from seventh grade that still shone through below her left temple. Analise Thompson, who had tried to stab her, was a successful neurosurgeon now.

Bernie wore a cardinal red, long-sleeve t-shirt encouraging, “Go Panthers!” in white across her chest. A recent acquisition from the Cleburne County Cares program, it still appeared brand new. Her jeans, considerably older than that, were almost threadbare in the knees. A few inches too long, they overlapped her Reebok shoes (also from CCC) and rested on the dirt behind her heels, frayed white threads trailing each step.

She flipped over her bedside table and placed four empty milk jugs inside, then set the crate in her only brand new possession — a shiny Red Flyer wagon. She grabbed the black tongue’s handle and walked over to the door. Sliding open the lock, she stopped and drew in a deep breath, held it for few seconds, then noisily exhaled. It hung as fog before disappearing almost instantly.

Her old coat, a black synthetic blend, hung on a nail beside the door. She lifted it, thrusted her right arm into its sleeve, and winced as she worked her left arm into place and fastened the large plastic buttons up the front. The night’s stiffness lingered.

“Oh, almost forgot,” she said. She walked over and picked up the Oatmeal Cream Pie she had set aside after breakfast, then opened her coat and tucked it into the liner pocket.

Back at the door, she took another deep breath. “How close are they now?” she wondered, and pushed the door open. Its rusty spring stretched to allow her to pass, then yanked the door shut behind her.

Bernie’s eyes squinted against the bright sun and took in the small dirt field spread out before her. A bulldozer marked “Got a Lot, Inc.” pushed down one of the few remaining trees about 50 yards away. As it fell, the blackjack oak’s roots pulled up a dry, crumbling cake of beige soil, leaving behind a crater deep enough to hide in standing up.

A new sign stood between her and the bulldozer. It read, “Future site of the US Department of Housing and Urban Development.”

“Must have put that in this morning,” Bernie muttered.

She turned back and gave her shack a forlorn look. Steeling herself against crying, she shook off the thought and ambled toward Searcy Street, a two-lane road that on this side of town was lined with low-rent duplexes and nearly forgotten homes. Her wagon bounced dutifully behind her.

(Continue to Part Two)