The Ferry
By Lisa Hapney
Kara turned onto Route 16, leaving
Terswood. The old place had changed over the years, losing its small town
flavor. She looked over at the vacant General Store, its paint peeling and
awning askew. It had been there her whole life, up until two years ago. The
store had been replaced by the new mini mall at the heart of town. Kara slowed
for a familiar dip in the road, and then gunned the engine, dropping into
fourth gear.
Bad Company came on the oldies station
and she began tapping her fingers on the seat. Headlights shone out of the fog
ahead, momentarily disorienting. She squinted to focus on the lines and pressed
the gas pedal toward the floor again. A couple more miles up the road, Kara
pulled into Charlie’s gas station, one of the last vestiges of small town life.
There were no self-service pumps; just Charlie in his greasy blue coveralls.
“Where you off to, Kara?” he asked as
he cleaned her windshield.
“I got a new job up in Walker. I was
thinking about looking for a place there. It’s an awful long drive from
Terswood every day.”
“Yep,” he said, wiping off his
squeegee. “You might as well get out of town before the whole place goes to
pot. Ever since the Aluminum Factory got taken over, there’s hardly been enough
money around to keep any of us working.”
“Charlie, don’t talk like that. You’ve
got the only gas station in town. I know you’re making a profit.”
“I won’t be for much longer. They’re
putting one of those new fangled convenience stores in, with the gas pumps,
down by the new shopping plaza. I figure I’ll just close up and move to Florida
when it’s done. I’m sure old enough to retire.” He walked around to Kara’s
window. “That’ll be twelve dollars.”
Kara fished in the ashtray for the last
dollar and smiled. “It’s getting close to the end of the month.”
“Now, Kara, you keep that money and pay
me later if you need to. You’re good for it.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” she said. “I sure
appreciate it.”
“No problem, now get out of here,” he
replied.
Kara turned back onto the road. How she
would miss this place. All the people that she had known all her life were
here. It hadn’t been the same since Chet died, but it would always be home. Up
ahead, she spotted the time weathered sign for the ferry and flipped on her
turn signal.
The ferryman guided her in behind a
beat up Chevy pickup with primer on the side for decoration. Rick glanced in
the rearview mirror and then leaned out the window. “Wonder of wonders, I
didn’t think I’d ever see you on this old tub,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said.
“Hey, that’s not nice. What’s going
on?”
“Not much, just out looking for a
place,” Kara said, grinning.
“So you got the job in Walker, eh? Maybe
I’ll follow you up there and try to find me something,” he said, winking.
“You are such a silly man. I don’t know
why I ever fell in love with you,” Kara said, mischief filling her eyes.
He laughed and said, “Must be my
devastating good looks and charm.”
“You have something,” she shot back. “I’m
still not sure it’s charm, though.”
“I know you hate this thing,” Rick
said, more seriously. “You want me to come back and keep you company?”
“You sit right there. I can’t go meet
the apartment manager all askew, because of your manhandling. I’ll be perfectly
fine. Besides, it saves me an hour of driving time.”
Rick turned around in his truck, back
rigid and a wide grin on his face. The ferry moved away from the dock, the
ferryman throwing the moorings back to dry land, lumbering out into the river. Kara
laid her head back on the seat, eyes closed, sprinkling rain blowing across her
face. She hit the window switch, feeling the whine of the small motor as it
strained to push through the broken weather stripping inside the door. She
pulled the keys from the ignition and looked at the picture she carried of her
and Rick. He was such a trip, but really a good guy.
Kara woke seconds before her head
struck the steering wheel. The world lurched and she slid across the seat as
her car tilted and slid toward Rick’s Chevy. “Oh God,” she said, frantically
searching for the door switch, wiping blood from her eyes. She pounded on the
steering wheel. “Where is it?” At last her fingers located the switch. Nothing.
The keys. That’s what she got for letting them rig her door locks, she thought,
reaching across the seat for the keys.
The ferry lurched again as Kara’s
fingers slid across her keys. She fumbled with them, feeling for the ignition,
blood and matted hair blinding her. Rick’s truck slammed against the front of her
car, ramming her back against the seat. Through a crimson haze, she watched
Rick climb out the window of his truck.
Kara felt her car sliding, as it took
on the full weight of Rick’s unrestrained truck. Rusty water splashed over the
rear window. Kara jammed the keys into the ignition. “Come on, baby, just a
little juice. Do it for me,” she pleaded. The car slid the rest of the way into
the water, bobbing as the current began dragging her down river. She hit the
window control. “Damn!”
Up river, Rick was swimming toward her,
his clothing dragging through the water, slowing him down. Murky water rose
over the windows. Kara took a deep breath. “Stay calm.” She climbed over the
back seat, searching for her boots. Her fingers brushed the soft leather and
she sighed, as she kicked off her pumps and pulled them on, before scrambling
back into the front seat. Bracing herself against the seat, she kicked the
windshield, crying out at the pain in her knee as the kick was brought to a
jarring stop.
Tears streamed down her face. She
turned, holding onto the steering wheel for support, kicking with all her
strength against the driver’s side window. The glass broke free of the torn
weather stripping. Muddy water spewed through the crack. Kara kicked again,
losing her grip on the wet steering wheel. “Please, God. Not this way.”
Kara dug her fingers into the leather
interior, ripping the nails from her fingers. Blood pounded in her ears, pain
numbing her arm. She lay down on the seat, kicking with both feet. “Come on!” Cracks
appeared in the glass, moving toward the edges. Again, harder, she kicked out,
adrenalin pumping through her. The glass shattered, spraying her face and arms.
A piece caught her in the throat. She pulled herself through the window,
shredding her hands.
Above, she could see light. Straining,
she pumped her legs, thrusting herself toward the surface. Her lungs burned
fiercely. Kara fought back the urge to inhale, kicking harder. Blackness
embraced her as she gasped, tasting the dirt in the water, as it flowed across
her tongue.
Water filled her mouth and nose. She
gasped again, unable to fight the urge any longer. The cool water filled her
body, dragging her back to the bottom. Her chest heaved, one last time, before
she relaxed into the cool, dark water.
“Kara. Kara,” she heard Rick calling
from somewhere above on the river. It was too late. Too late. If only she could
tell him.
Rick burst through the bathroom door,
flipping on the light. Broken glass cut into his knees as he knelt next to the
tub, shoving what was left of the shower doors out of his way, pulling Kara
from the bloody water. “Oh, baby,” he said, tears streaming down his face. He
hugged her to him, his muscular frame shaking uncontrollably.
The ambulance drove without lights
across the county line into Walker. There was no reason to hurry. They pulled
up to the Medical Center, taking the time to ensure that the back was lined up
with the emergency room doors. Jim put on the brake, hopped out and lit a
cigarette. A light came on as he walked to the rear of the ambulance.
The emergency room doors burst open
behind him, the medical team rushing to relieve him of his burden. “There’s no
reason to hurry, folks,” he called out. “This one is a D.O.A.”
“What happened?” one of the nurses
said?
“Not really sure. Her boyfriend said he
found her when he got home. Get this, he said she had drowned in the bathtub
and that she probably had a nightmare.”
“That must have been some nightmare,”
the doctor said, his eyes traveling over the blood soaked sheets.
***
Yesteryear
By Lisa Hapney
Here I sit, holding her hand and
knowing that very soon I will lose my oldest and dearest friend. She sleeps now
and has during the day for weeks now. Later, the dark coolness of twilight will
wake her. So soon will she die that she shuns the light of day, preferring to
live out her short past, once more, during the darkest hours.
Last night she woke just as dusk began
fading into blackness and starlight. "Ah, Emily, you are still here. How
good you have been to stay with me."
"It's no problem," I
responded, my throat choking off and tears glistening like stars at the edge of
my eyes.
"You're not a very good liar, Em. You
never have been," she said patting the hand that clasped hers. "You
should sleep during the day as I do. Oh, what a beautiful sunset."
"Yes, it is, isn't it," I
said, embarrassed, as I sniffled like a child.
"It reminds me of my
grandparents," she said, a slow smile spreading across her lips, her eyes
losing focus as she slipped into the past. "There was no better place in
the world."
For some time, she lay there, staring
into nothingness. Recently she has begun drifting off more and more, so it came
as no surprise that she seemed to have forgotten me and our conversation. Delicately,
I slid my fingers from her grasp, reaching for my book to fill the interval of
her side trip.
"Years ago," she began, her
voice startling me out of my reverie, despite its soft velvety tone, "I
used to go to my grandparents. It seems likes several lifetimes have passed
since my father ruffled my hair to wake me."
"Get up Snicklefritz," my
father said, "we're going to see Grandma and Grandpa."
A smile sprung to my face as I pushed
past my father to get out of bed, bouncing all the way to the dresser and
scrambling into my clothes. Days at the farm were always the very best and I
could not wait to get ready and on our way.
Spring was in the air at the farm. More
so, it seemed, than anywhere else in the world. Dew still stood on the grass,
wetting the toes of my canvas shoes as the morning sun crept up, waking the
morning glory's full to bloom after their long sleep. Wonderful aromas filled
the air at the farm. Fresh, sweet smelling hay in the stalls, wildflowers along
the bank, newly tilled earth in the garden and the musky scent of horses
combined in a way that made your heart and soul sigh. It was Heaven on Earth.
It was the most beautiful and special
place in the world. Whether others would ever agree, or not, I did not care. Their
house was not extravagant, or costly, yet it was perfect, nestled in that
wonderful valley full of color and fresh air. It was just a little white farm
house with paint peeling here and there, a rusted red tin roof and black
shutters. There was no better place in the world and I could not understand the
people who lived in skyscrapers in jungles of concrete and crime. Why anyone
one would want to live in a city, with places like the farm around, I never did
come to understand. They could not even get free to walk safely around their
homes.
I ran toward the creek, my father
quickly warning me to be careful as I happily bounded across the old wooden
bridge and up the front steps to the house. Grandma Legg was waiting, holding
the screen door for me, a smile lighting her ever serene face. Just as hard as
I could, I hugged her around the waist, inhaling the fresh scent of her
perfume, until she laughed and told me to take it easy. She hugged me back then
taking my hand, led me into the living room where Grandpa sat watching
television.
As always, he said, "There's my
girl. Come give me a big kiss." More than willing, I hopped up on the arm
of his chair and wrapped my arms around his neck, giggling as he tickled me. He
pulled me down on his lap and clasped my hand, palming a dollar bill to me, as
he reminded me to stick that in my pocket for a rainy day. "Never know
when a little girl might need some money of her own."
Mom and Dad finally caught up to say
their good-mornings and let Grandma know when they would be back from shopping,
as I went to get Grandpa's shoes. As far as I was concerned, they could not
leave fast enough. I did not want to share one moment of my time with anyone,
except Grandma and Grandpa. Never was there enough time in the world to spend
on the farm.
It seemed like forever before we
finally headed to the field to feed the horses. Grandpa and I measured grain
and corn into their feeding buckets, and then toted buckets of water to the
trough as they ate. Patiently I waited for Rigger to finish his meal.
When, at last, he had finished, I
patted and made over him, before I started brushing him. Grandpa didn't ride
anymore, but as always, he said, "The farm just wouldn't be the same if we
didn't have horses. Besides," he reminded me as he saddled Rigger, "I
have plenty of healthy grandchildren to exercise 'em for me."
For hours, I rode around the field,
sometimes getting off to pick a flower or just for Rigger to take a rest. The
sun rose higher in the sky, approaching noon. Though I could have ridden
forever, I turned back toward the house. Grandma would worry if I were gone too
long and Grandpa would be waiting to unsaddle and rub Rigger down, so we could
eat.
Slowly, we made our way back to the
barn, as much to give Rigger a rest, as to delay the inevitable. If I could
have, I would have lived on the farm and ridden every day. That was not an
option, though, so we took the most round-a-bout way possible back to the barn.
When we got there, Grandpa was already waiting. He relieved Rigger of his
saddle and gave me the lead rope to walk him around for a few minutes.
After we had brushed Rigger down,
Grandma joined me and Grandpa in the yard under the apple tree. The cool shade
felt wonderful after riding in the hot sun. I sat on the swing, drinking
lemonade, the tart sweetness caressing my throat, as Grandma broke out her
watercolors and set two pieces of heavy paper on the picnic table so we could
work in the shade. Grandma's paintings were always way better than mine, but as
usual she didn't fail to make a fuss over my pitiful attempt. At that point in
time, I thought that maybe someday I, too, could be an artist, just like her. Minutes
flew by as we worked our dreams out on the page. The shade of the apple tree
cooled us, leaving the patterns of the tree's leaves on my paper as the sun
snuck through its full limbs. Grandma touched my shoulder gently, her
fingertips barely grazing my shirt. "That's beautiful," she said, her
voice flowing over me like the soft current of the stream. "Let's eat, I'm
starving. How about you?"
"I could eat a horse," I told
her, my childish voice squeaking with my enthusiasm.
Remembering all my favorites, as usual,
Grandma served lunch on the picnic table, saying, "We could all use a
little fresh air." When we were done with our sandwiches and cucumbers,
Grandma ducked into the house, returning with three heaping plates of
strawberry shortcake. Life could not have been better. It was such a simple
time.
At last, when we were full and
everything was cleared away, Grandpa took me back inside and broke out his doll
that danced on a board. I squealed in delight, clapping my hands, as he took
his harmonica out of his pocket and arranged the contraption that held it
around his neck. Dancing Joe was my favorite. Grandpa played and made Joe
dance, jiggling him this way and that, until he swore he was out of breath and
could not play another toot.
As Grandpa settled in for his after
lunch nap, Grandma and I did the dishes and cleaned up our lunch mess. Why that
chore was such a delight in her company, I will never know, but it was. When,
at last, we were finished, Grandma woke Grandpa up, "Ulysses didn't you
and Amy need to go out and work on the well?"
"I believe we do, Sylvia. Do you
still need to put a brick on my well, little girl," he said, winking at
me? I bounced all around the room. Every brick on Grandpa's well had a name
carved on it. The names of children, grandchildren and loved ones long since
past were set in stone in Grandpa's front yard. Grandpa said it was how he kept
his memories fresh. He once told me that he went out to the well every morning
and chose a different person to reminisce about.
It took us all afternoon, but we
managed to carve my name and birth date into the stone with a small chisel. At
last, Grandpa let me spread the mortar and set my stone against the rest. I
just knew Grandpa would never forget me since I was finally on the well.
Not much later, Mom and Dad made their
way back to the farm. Grandma stopped them at the well and showed them my
handiwork, making sure that they were properly impressed. Dinner was a quieter
affair than lunch had been, but the food was every bit as good. Dusk started to
fall and then everyone got hugs and kisses. Grandma made me promise to come
back soon, so I crossed my heart and hoped to die, if I didn't.
That was the last time I got to see
Grandma and Grandpa. The next day Grandma had a massive heart attack and died. Grandpa
followed her three weeks later. To this day, my dad and I agree that Grandpa
died of a broken heart, from losing Grandma. When
they first told me that Grandma had died, I did not believe them. Later, when
they told me Grandpa had died in the hospital, I was sure they did not know
what they were talking about. Even when I went to Grandma's grave, I did not
consider that proof that she was gone.
Mom and Dad would not let me go to
either of their funerals, but after Grandpa's they took me out to the farm with
the rest of the family. I ran out to the barn, but the horses were missing. I
remember thinking that maybe Grandpa had decided to go for a ride, but even to
me that did not sound right.
As fast as I could, I ran to every room
in the house. I just could not believe that I would never see Grandpa again. It
had all just been a terrible mistake, I assured myself. Surely, I could find
him and he would be all right. The last room I went to was Grandpa's. My throat
tightened up and my heart broke, tears welling up in my eyes as I looked across
the room. Dancing Joe and Grandpa's harmonica were lying on the dresser,
covered in a thick layer of dust. Grandpa would never have let that happen.
Once again, she drifted off, her eyes
staring unfocused out the window at the sunset. "That's a beautiful story,
Amy," I offered, squeezing her hand gently. "It sounds like it was
truly a wonderful time."
"Oh look, Em," Amy whispered,
"There are Grandma and Grandpa now."
I looked out the window, shielding my
eyes from the sunset, but there was no one on the street in either direction. Convinced
that we weren't about to have company, I turned back to face Amy. Her gaze
looked blankly into the room. "Amy," I said, rushing to her side,
cupping her hand in mine. Time stood still, for just a moment, as the sky's
last rays stole her from me.
***
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