Short Story Winners

November 2007

Since no one submitted a short story for our Early Access November opening, I figured I would just win by default!!

Exempted by Carlene
©2007 Carlene Jones

He walked up to an old blue Chevy and opened the door, motioning for Jeanine to get in the car. She poked her head inside. Soured milk vied with mildew and Jack Daniels from somewhere within the litter of fast food sacks, newspapers, and clothing that filled the back seat.

“Get in,” he ordered.

She did as she was told, holding her breath, knowing she would have to release it within seconds. The seats had been white vinyl once. Now they were black with grime–grime that would be transferred to her white linen skirt, but never from it. A wire spring poked through the back of the seat and caught her blouse. There was the slight sound of ripping cloth. She reached behind and tried to disentangle the silk.

“Blue don’t look good on you anyways,” he said then slammed the door.

Jeanine jumped. The tear in her blouse widened as the spring sliced flesh. A drop of blood slipped down her back. She peered through the splintering cracks in the windshield then at them as he made his way around to the driver’s side of the car. The cracks pushed outward. No flying rock, or bullet for that matter had made this scar. It had come from within. Her hand instinctively reached for the handle. It missed. Keeping her gaze fixed on him as he fingered a small confederate flag attached to the antenna, she groped for freedom, patting the side of the door, and found nothing but a few more holes in the upholstery. She turned. A tear fell down her cheek as she choked back a cry. There was no handle, not for the door or the window. A small round metal casing sat vacant at the top edge of the door’s panel. The lock had been removed.

The driver’s side door opened hard. Metal grated against the hinge. His weight tilted the car in his direction. Her hand started for the door handle and then as if remembering on its own grabbed the edge of the seat instead, landing on something sticky and still wet. She gasped, but held on tightly not knowing what squeezed through her open fingers.

He didn’t speak as he ground the car into reverse, but offered her a slight grin as he looked behind him. The car coughed then slowly followed his command. Jeanine forced a smile then looked down at her shoes, black suede, newly brushed and now marred with oil from a rag stuffed into a hole of the floorboard.

Pavement quickly turned to dirt as they veered off the main highway toward a small pass between two mesas, barren of life, except for one tall saguaro cactus, its arms raised in warning. Rocks littered the hills like thorns—sharp knives waiting to cut, to tear those not cautious in their escape. Waves of heat raised from the dry land as the last vestiges of moisture evaporated, leaving her skin and throat parched.

“It’s been a long time coming. Had to wait for Pa to die.” He turned and looked at her. She didn’t answer. “It was his liver,” he said after a pause. Jeanine nodded her head. Her chin began to quiver.

“I’m sorry.”

“He was mean,” he said then turned his attention back to the road. “Ma says I’m just like him.”

“No, I’m sure you’re not.” Jeanine said as she leaned closer toward the door.

He slammed the brakes. The car stopped. “How would you know,” he asked not looking at her. “You and all your fancy clothes. Bet no one ever slapped you around, ever sliced your finger open while playing a bar game.” With fists clenched, knuckles stretched tight against callused skin, he lightly pounded the steering wheel. It started slow, but as with his breathing, the pounding increased in speed and force as he stared out the window. “Held a rattler up to my face when I was little then lowered it to my ass so it could bite me. Said I needed to get the first one done with so I wouldn’t be afraid. I still dream about that, but it ain’t my backside it’s sticking.”

He let out a small laugh, but caught it. His hands relaxed a little. “I ain’t mean like him. But Ma’s so whipped she thinks talking back’s gonna be followed by a fist. She’s afraid of me.” He looked out the side window away from Jeanine.

“Should she be?” Jeanine asked.

He shook his head slowly. “I ain’t never touched her. Beat up a few cactus and barflies, even Pa once, but I ain’t never laid a hand on her. She’s had enough of that.” He turned and looked squarely at Jeanine. His eyes were the same color as hers, dark blue sapphires, his star dull and faded. “Anyone ever hurts her again.” He paused then pulled a knife from his boot, ran his finger along its edge then placed its tip against Jeanine’s chest, not hard enough to break the silk of her blouse, but she felt its point. “I’ll kill them,” he said then raised the knife to under her chin. “Even if it’s a woman.” He withdrew the knife, wiped the blade on his jeans as if to clean her from it then placed it back in his boot.

“I’d, I’d never hurt her.”

“Just you coming here’s gonna hurt. You should’ve stayed lost.

“I needed to know.”

“That’s what she said.” He put the car in gear. “It weren’t her fault.”

“I know,” Jeanine said, finally finding the courage to let go of the seat edge and look at what had dried in her hand. It was white and chalky—she didn’t want to know.

He laughed a little. “Sorry,” he said then veered the car up a side road that looked more like a wash, and headed toward a small beaten trailer. It was less than thirty feet long, more of an RV than mobile home. Its wheels were flat. A metal door stood open, waiting.

“Is she here?” Jeanine asked trying to see past the cracked windshield and into the trailer.

“Who, Ma? Yeah, she’s always here. Hasn’t been to town in years.”

Dust rose from the tires as the car pulled up and swerved harshly. Jeanine fell into him, putting her hands out so only a piece of her would have to touch him. He laughed hard, grabbed her by the back of the neck and forced her face into his. Hot stale breath mingled with hers as he brushed his lips against her mouth, then cheek and neck. She slapped at him and tried to pull away. He pressed her chest against his, inhaled deeply then pushed her with enough force that her back hit the handless door.

“Welcome home,” he said then shoved his door open and got out.

Jeanine caught her breath and moved quickly, afraid she would fall backwards when he opened her door, but he didn’t. She looked around the clearing in front of the trailer. There was a burnt out shell of a truck cab, a stack of treadless tires, a rusted tin barrel—halved and supported by metal legs, a grate covered its length—and various parts to things she couldn’t place. It was an abused piece of land, exposed to things much harsher than the desert sun.

It could have been her place, her home, her butt scarred by the fangs of a venomous belly crawler or a mean drunk with a bad liver. Her chin began to quiver again, but this time not out of fear. The door pulled open. She jumped, holding back a small squeal accompanied by the bitter taste of bile.

“She’s ready,” he said then stepped away.

Jeanine’s legs shook as she pulled herself from the car. He moved past the trailer and whistled. A large black dog came from somewhere beyond the clearing. Its backend swayed with the whipping of its tail. He bent down and let the animal lick his face then he patted its head and the two of them headed for the desert.

The open door led to darkness, a past only fantasized about, hidden in a shadowed cave too dark for exploration. She turned back toward the road. It was a scorched path, merciless and without hope. Truth was beyond the door in the guise of a woman in whose arms Jeanine had never been held.

“Mrs. Randolph,” Jeanine said tentatively as she broached the opening. “It’s me, Jeanine Scott.”

“I’m back here,” a weak, yet soft voice said.

Jeanine pulled herself up onto the single step, held her breath and stepped inside the trailer. It was dark. There was a cooler blowing down from above, but it was inadequate against the brutal still air that filled the narrow space. There was no litter, no clutter, just the lingering odor of spent cooking oil. The sink was clean of dishes, but everything was stained: the dinette, the curtains, the thin rug. A single light showed through a parted curtain to her right and she stepped towards it. A small frail hand pulled back the worn material, exposing the woman Jeanine had sought for over fifteen years.

She was older than expected, in her sixties at least. Her silver hair was pulled back in a misshapen bun, loose hairs framed her weathered face. She leaned against two embroidered pillows. A small throw in a faded Aztec pattern covered her legs.

Jeanine stood back, afraid to get too close, staring at the woman who had birthed her, whose body had nourished her for nine months then dispelled her and turned its back to leave her in the hands of strangers. “Are you Lilly Randolph?” she asked.

“You’re beautiful.” It was a whisper then a gasp. “So beautiful.” The old woman began to cry, softly almost inaudibly. “I knew you would be. Please,” she said, patting the bed.

Jeanine sat. The mattress was soft, comfortable. There were no odors of contamination, no sense of sickness, yet the woman was frail, damaged, teetering between this life and the next.

“I’m glad—”Jeanine started, not knowing what else to say.

“Shhh, the woman said. She reached behind her, pulled out a shoebox and handed it to Jeanine. “These will explain everything.” Jeanine opened the box and looked down at what appeared to be over a hundred letters—a miniature filing cabinet where nothing had been thrown away. “I’ve written to you all your life. My life, the boy’s, his father’s, it’s all there.” She rested her head back on the pillows. “Were they kind to you?” Tears fell freely down eroded washes of dried cracked flesh.

“Yes,” Jeanine said holding back her own. She looked down at the box in her hand knowing she would never have the courage to read them. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was for the best. I couldn’t save the boy, he knew about that one, but I kept you a secret. Went to stay with my sister, the boy and I did, so you could be free. I had them cut me that day, so there’d be no others.” The old woman’s hand reached over and took Jeanine’s. “I’ve always loved you. The boy and I used to go for walks to get away from his father and we’d make up stories about what you were doing. We envied you your life. You were our secret, our hope that one of us survived. And look at you, you’re as beautiful as we imagined.”

“I used to make up stories about you, too.”

The old woman laughed, but it quickly turned to a cough. Jeanine reached over and held her, patted her back until it subsided. “I did good,” the woman said. Two thin yet somehow muscular arms wrapped around Jeanine’s shoulders and held her tightly. “I wish I had done the same for the boy then maybe—”

“She needs to rest,” a voice said from the front of the trailer. He stood in the doorway, blocking the light. “I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

Jeanine started to stand, but the old woman held onto her. “I’ve dreamed so many times that I’ve held you, and now that you’re here, I can’t let go.”

Jeanine returned the embrace, holding on to the ghost of a woman, afraid to break her, but more afraid to lose her. She brushed the woman’s silken hair then kissed her cheek. A hand landed heavily on her shoulder and she turned.

His eyes were moist sapphires with a warm illuminated star. His chin quivered. “It’s time to go.”