Joshua Mohr - Some Things That Meant the World to Me

"Took her where?" little-Rhonda said.

"Upstairs, I think."

"What are you going to do?"

"Should I kill him?"

"How do you know he took her?"

"The guy at the liquor store heard Lyle tell her he needed to talk."

"So they're just talking."

"Why would he come back just to talk?"

"I don't know"

"Help me figure out what to do."

He flipped his light, off, on, off, then left it on. "Go up there."

"I'll go up there."

"Go up there, knock, and see what they're doing."

"I'll knock and see what they're doing."

I walked toward the door and picked up the knife.

"Leave that," little-Rhonda said.

"I'll leave it for now"

My feet moved and my legs moved, carrying my crooked arm, my buzzing hand, my legs carrying every part of me, and I could kill her husband because no one was going to hurt her. My feet and legs carried me to the stairs and I sprinted up the stairs and I sprinted down the hall, sprinted right up to their door, pounding on it.

No answer.

I pounded.

Nothing.

Pounding.

Then footsteps.

Then old lady Rhonda's voice talking through the door, "Who is it?"

"Are you okay?"

"I can't talk right now"

"What's going on?"

"I can't talk."

"Are you all right?"

And I heard Lyle yell, "She can't talk!"

And the footsteps retreated from the door.

There were whispers between them.

I pounded again.

No answer.

Pounding.

Nothing.

Pounding.

Nothing.

I said, "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on."

Footsteps.

Old lady Rhonda said, "I'm fine. I'll talk to you later," and I said, "Will you open the door?" and she said, "I'll talk to you later," and I 'said, "I need to talk to you now.-

Footsteps, heavier, jabbing their way toward the door, and Lyle saying, "Get out of my way"

"Leave him alone," she said.

"Then tell him to get out of here."

A feeling in my good hand like its walls were being pulverized by a sledgehammer.

"I'll talk to you later," old lady Rhonda said to me.

"I want to know you're okay," I said.

Someone punched the other side of the door. "Leave us alone!" Lyle said.

I punched the door back, creating gunshots in my good hand.

Old lady Rhonda told him she'll handle this and to please go back in the other room, and the cruel noises of his feet as he stomped away.

"Rhonda, don't," old lady Rhonda said. "Please go."

"I don't want to."

"But I need you to."

"You have my wallet."

"I'll give it to you later."

"But — "

"Go!" she said, and her footsteps retreated back into their apartment.

I stood there, my good hand in a fist to pound on the door again, but I didn't know what to do. Was I crying? I needed the knife, and old lady Rhonda said she didn't need my help, but I didn't believe her. She did need it. She was just scared. Maybe he'd hit her. Or threatened to. She only told me to leave to protect herself from another of his attacks, but she couldn't protect herself, I needed to protect her. Me, Rhonda, I needed to make sure nothing else happened to her.

I bolted back downstairs to my apartment and threw the door open and little-Rhonda said, "What happened?" and I said, "He's got her trapped in there," and he said, "Did you talk to her?" and I said, "He's got her so scared," and he said, "How did it end up?" and I said, "It hasn't ended yet "

I picked up the knife and turned toward the door, but littleRhonda said, "Talk to me," and I said, "She needs me," and he said, "Sit down for a sec," and I went over to the burned couch and sat down next to him, holding the knife in my hand.

"So you're going up there to kick the door down and stab Lyle?"

"Yes"

"That's your plan?"

"That's my plan."

"You'll go to jail."

"She needs me."

"She doesn't need you in jail."

"She needs someone to rip that animal out of her life."

He turned his helmet's light off. "But we love her. Don't do something so we'll never see her again."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Help her, but not this way"

"How can I help her?"

"We'll think of something," little-Rhonda said, but he didn't know, and I didn't know, and we went quiet, sitting on the couch. I still had the knife in my hand.

Right eye. Can we talk about your mom, he said. Sure, I said. Did she call, I said. Does she want to visit me, I said. Left eye. She didn't call, he said. I knew she hadn't called. She'd never called. Never written. Never trained a carrier pigeon to fly to Angel-Hair's window and drop a message on the floor that I'd pick up on my way back to my room, a message I'd read over and over, never stopping, just reading. What if she had called, he said, and asked to speak with you. What would you want to say to her, he said. I'd ask where she's been. Where do you think she's been. I think she's mad at me. Right eye. She'd never written, never called, never stood outside the hospital's walls with a megaphone, screaming at me, asking me how I was doing. Never learned sign language and flashed me messages through the windows. Why is she mad at you, Angel-Hair said. Because of what I did, I said. She'd never played the game Telephone with a bunch of the kids from the hospital. Remember the game Telephone? I said. You whispered a secret to someone and then they told it to someone else who told it to someone else who told it to someone else, and by the time the last person got the message the words were wrong. My mom could have told a kid who lived at the end of the hospital's hall, who could have passed it on, the message snaking from kid to kid until finally someone came up to me and told me they had a message from my mom and the kid would whisper in my ear, I've always loved you. What did you do to make her mad, Angel-Hair said. I remember my first Christmas and my first birthday in here with Angel-Hair. I remember wondering if my mom still lived in the drifting house, or if she fled. I remember thinking that maybe she was somewhere missing me because now I was somewhere she couldn't see me if she decided she wanted to. Left eye. I hurt Letch, I said. How'd you hurt Letch, he said. Never wrote, never called, never thrown her voice like a ventriloquist into one of the orderlies or nurses or teachers walking up to me and saying, Baby, it's me. I'd ask, Mom. She'd say through some other person's mouth, Yes, baby, it's me, I've missed you. I'd ask, You have, you really have. And she'd say, Of course I have. Right eye. Angel-Hair said, What did you do to Letch. I said, He hurt me. Angel-Hair said, What did you do to Letch. Maybe my mom could hire a pilot to write her message in the desert sky so I'd be able to see it no matter where I was, words sprawling in the air. Angel-Hair said, You're not answering my question. My hands felt heavy with rocks, like they were going to stretch my arms and drag on the floor. When he'd ask me about Letch I'd get these fireflies jittering in my periphery and a feeling like I might faint. Right eye. Did you hurt Letch, Angel-Hair said. My mom used to write me messages all the time. She'd write them on the backs of old pizza boxes in a black magic marker. They'd say, Back on Friday. They'd say, See you on Tuesday. They'd say, Have a great weekend, and next to her messages there'd be money thumbtacked to the old pizza boxes, money so I could order new pizza boxes. Whenever Angel-Hair asked me about what happened to Letch, my hands turned into tiny cement mixers, weight spinning and flopping and shifting around inside of them. And there would be fireflies dancing next to my eye sockets. And I'd feel like at any second someone might bury me in sand. Left eye. One of her notes on a pizza box said, Gone fishin', and when she got home, I thought it would be funny to ask her if she caught any fish, but all she said was, What the hell are you talking about. Angel-Hair said, Please tell me what happened to Letch. I never knew how fast cement mixers could spin until my hands turned into them, until I felt my hands spinning faster than tires on the highway, the cement tumbling so fast. And there were the fireflies flying next to my eye sockets. And I felt like someone might bury me in sand. My hands went wild with wet cement. I looked at them and I looked at AngelHair and he said, Are you having those feelings in your hands. I said, Make them stop. He wrote something down. He said, Can you tell me what you were thinking or feeling right before they started. I watched my hands. I said, What were you saying about my mom. I said, Is she coming. I said, Did she write. I said, Does she still blame it all on me. Can you answer my question about your hands, he said. But there was no way I could because the cement mixers started going faster than space shuttles and all the fireflies flew right in my eye sockets and I couldn't see anything and couldn't feel anything except my hands and I fell out of my chair and Angel-Hair ran over.