85

When I was ten, a guy opened the front screen door and caught me by surprise while I was watching Tom and Jerry in the afternoon. It seemed that I moved so slowly, like you do in those terrible dreams, and my head was still turning towards him as he straddled me on the old sofa. My step dad threw that sofa out while I was still in the hospital. I came back and we had a new, blue sofa from that warehouse that sells crappy sofas and crappy mattresses. It was the first time I recognized being grateful to anyone for anything.

The guy moved fast while I moved slow. My legs and right hand were pinned and my Kool-Aid spilled on the carpet. I shouldn't have had it on the floor, I thought; Mom would be mad. Even though my left hand was free, I somehow didn't think about it and it lay there, useless. The only thing I did do was yell. I had great lungs and I really let loose. The guy got so mad, he screamed at me to shut up, shut up, or I'll slice your throat.

Well, that was it; I heard he'd slice me and I screamed even more. I drowned him out, the TV out, the traffic out. I screamed and screamed--it was the only part of me that worked. He stopped trying to pull off my pajama pants, the ones with the perky princesses on them, and pulled out a serrated knife. I didn't think it possible, but I screamed even louder. I suppose that was good because the neighbors who visited the hospital told me that scream was what made them come down. The guy sliced my throat.

You figure you'd die. It stung terribly for a second then, nothing. I gushed blood all over him and he hopped back. I grabbed my throat, one finger going into the slit, and out again. Mr. James, our upstairs neighbor, squeaked open the screen door, and the guy freaked. He freaked and ran. Mr. James breathed, "Oh, my God." I'd never heard a grownup sound scared, but he sure did. I thought Mr. James left, but I guess he found a towel in the bathroom. He rolled it up like I would for swim class and pressed it to my neck. "Hold this here, Bria. Hold it tight. I'm going to call for help."

We didn't have any phone, so he ran back outside. I was scared the guy with the knife would come back, but other neighbors started looking through the screen. I sat on the old sofa with the towel on my neck. I heard Mr. James yelling outside, "Help! We need help! Call an ambulance! There's a girl hurt! Help!"

There's never a cop too far away in our neighborhood, which in this case was good. Mr. James held the screen and a younger cop strode in until he saw me. He must not have believed Mr. James or thought he was exaggerating, but when that cop saw all the blood and me with a bloody bath towel and with the red Kool-Aid on the floor and sound of Tom running after Jerry, he skidded to a stop. The older cop that came in behind him didn't hesitate. He knelt down by me, right in the blood and cherry Kool-Aid, to tell me it would all be okay. He asked me if I could talk. I nodded, though I wasn't sure. He asked me what happened. I swallowed, but it hurt and I cried a little then. I held the towel tighter and told him about the guy with the knife. I saw my pajama bottoms were on the floor, and I cried again. I can't believe it, thinking back, but I was partly embarrassed to have my pants off, and partly upset because those were my favorite PJ bottoms.

84

Jere pulled back the door's curtain just as some kid walked up to ring the bell. The kid screamed and dropped the raffle tickets he was holding.

"Sorry," said Jere. "I didn't mean to scare you." Jere's bare feet came into the kid's view. The toenails were dirty and long. A mangy cat sped out of the house and scattered the remaining raffle tickets.

"It's okay, mister. I'm okay. I was just..." The smell from the house hit the kid and he gagged on his words.

"Let me help you," said Jere, squatting and picking at a ticket. Jere's short robe rose up his rashy thighs and the kid gagged again, turning his gaze away too late, too late. For the rest of the kid's life, the image of scabby knees spreading wide as Jere squatted before him would resurface whenever he was under stress, and once when he looked in a pot of boiling roast.

83

Aaron drove his new-to-him truck to work in the dark. It wasn't dark because it was the crack of dawn; it was dark because he worked the overnight, and it was winter. Dark came early in winter.

He was very pleased with his truck because it was the newest vehicle he had ever owned, and the driver's side door didn't squeal embarrassingly when it opened and shut. He hated working the overnight. He hated his job. He hated his tie.

The door to Aaron's truck swung open silently. He was already picturing the reluctant trudge into work as he slammed the truck door firmly shut, more energetically than was necessary. The force of the shove, an unusual show of muscle for Aaron, caused him to slip on the ice. His midnight lunch flew comically high in the air as his feet slid out from under him. Aaron hit the ground with lung-clearing force, and the sheet of ice carried his body completely under the cab of his truck. He heard his lunch hit the ground behind him.

Tonight was not going to be a good night.

82

The woman who owned the bookstore was obviously addicted to the Mary Jane, though she undoubtedly thought it didn't show. Her artwork was terrible and it hung in random places, like it was supposed to be a pleasant surprise, but was more unfortunate than that. Books were generally overpriced and hard to browse because of their haphazard stacking. The college students in the eclectic neighborhood thought it was wonderful mainly because they hadn't cultivated any astute judgment yet. What was well thought out was not yet appreciated; rather, if they were told it was "cool" then it was.

81

The fall air was gold and crisp and it carried the eye for miles and miles. Golden sun warmed where it shone while the sharp shadows held the cold promise of frost to come. Evenings were heralded by woodsmoke fires as the light faded and left the summer-lovers surprised still. Willows yellowed, oaks held fast, and maples dressed in bright finery to be waxed and pressed by those who remembered in time.

80

As the barista deftly scooped the remaining foam off her no-foam latte, Margaret listened to the conversation occurring at the table closest. Normally, you couldn't hear anything, but it was eerily quiet. She realized the ever-present, ultra-hip compilation CD wasn't playing. Now that it was gone, she missed it.

"I can't make decisions. It's because of my mother. She never let me decide when I was young. My father worked all the time and I developed an unhealthy attachment to men who would abandon me."

"Mmm," said the man.

"One no-foamsoychailatte?"

"Thank you," she said, abandoning the woman herself as she was sure the man would, too.

Margaret sat at a small, round table near the front windows. Another woman with a lap full of computer sat in one of the upholstered chairs. The woman kept laughing at something she was watching. Eventually, Margaret had the idea that the woman was not laughing at something on the computer, but rather something playing in the woman's own head. The realization made her notice the woman's clothes, which didn't match, and her short haircut, which was uneven and quite possibly self-inflicted.

Her chai was hot, but not overly so. She sipped cautiously to make it last.

79

Sarah wasn't looking forward to working with Merrilee. Despite her name, Merrilee was one of the most miserable people she had ever known. The other performers would take bets on what Merrilee's first complaint would be once she arrived, late, as usual. The most popular were: "It's so early," "The drive in was terrible," "It's hot/cold," "It smells in here." Today, Sarah won the bet with, "I was stuck behind a truck the whole way."