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 Two.

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.

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)