Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

“Well,” Mummy offered a hand to help Tracey up from her perch, and then gathered the basket that she had filled, “I listened very carefully to what my mummy was saying, and she gave me lessons, too. Every day we studied the Bible. I repeated the words of God until I knew them all by heart—and when I didn’t read it right, or I pouted about learning my teachings, I got punished, too. So, you see, Tracey, the bad spot helps you remember what’s important, what you need to learn, and how you need to act.”

“You did?” Tracey asked, relieved. She sat on the mattress and pulled her socks over her cold feet, then stepped into her boots.

“Yes, I knew that I had to learn how to talk to God the right way in order to be saved. I would read and read, even when we weren’t having a lesson. My mummy was very proud of me. Some nights, I read until my eyes stung and all the words on the page just ran together in one big blurry line.”

Tracey couldn’t imagine reading that much. Tracey would try, but she wasn’t very good of a reader yet, and that worried her, but she’d do just about anything to stay out of the bad spot.

“Don’t you worry,” Mummy said, turning away from Tracey, who had crouched over the chamber pot in the corner of the room. “I’ll make sure that you know exactly what to say to God. We have a lifetime together, and many, many years to learn to do it right.”

Tracey wiped herself, pulled her pants up, and straightened her sweater. The basket Mummy held now had a lantern and candles in it as well. She carried a backpack over her shoulder, and Tracey wondered what was in it. They must be traveling far, she thought, to need all of those supplies. They were leaving the chamber and entering the first tunnel when Mummy asked Tracey to wait for a second. She headed back toward the chamber, and returned quickly.

“Here,” she said, handing Tracey her new doll. “I don’t think you want to leave this behind.”

Consciousness arrived with the sound of the shower. Molly rolled over in bed and reached for Cole. Her hand flopped across the empty, wrinkled sheets. She sighed, relieved. The tension between them the evening before had been too thick to bear. Cole had hounded her over the threatening note and her determination. She’d escaped the argument by going to bed earlier than he had, and feigning sleep when his head finally hit the pillow. She stretched, throwing her bare legs over the side of the bed and wishing she were still folded neatly away in the dream that she could no longer remember.

She sauntered sleepily toward the bathroom, nervous for the first time in many years, and pushed open the bathroom door; steam greeted her like warm mist from an ocean, clearing the morning chill.

“Hey,” she said hesitantly. Cole’s silhouette paused behind the shower curtain, then moved once again. He did not respond. Molly turned away, feeling hurt, torn. She brushed her teeth, then turned back toward the shower, mustering courage. She slipped out of Cole’s t-shirt and dropped it into the hamper. She parted the shower curtain looking pensive. Cole stared at her, and she’d worried she’d made a mistake. A heartbeat later he reached for her hand and led her gently under the stream of water, falling softly across her breasts and dripping down her legs. He washed her, lovingly caressing every fold of her skin, every dip and curve that was her body. His touch never failed to arouse her, melting away any upsetting thoughts she might have had. He turned her around, slowly soaped her back, and ran his large, strong hands along her bottom, her thighs. Her breath caught. He bent down to soap her calves, kissing her lower back, her sides. He stood, pulling her against him—the spray of the shower binding them like a love song.

Hannah pulled into the parking lot of the Boyds Post Office just as Newton was walking out of the building. She parked her car and hurried over to him. He scanned the parking lot, walking quickly toward his car even as Hannah approached him. “Newton,” she called out to him. “Thank you for bringing me all those clothes and things the other day. Carla said that they were just perfect!”

“Oh, it’s no problem, Hannah,” he said, looking down at the ground, then back up at Hannah. He fidgeted with his hands. “We all have to do what we have to do, right?”

“Yes, I suppose,” she said. Hannah felt the weight of the world resting on her shoulders and was thankful that Newton and Carla were there to help her carry the burden.

Newton opened his car door and lowered his elderly body slowly into the driver’s seat. Hannah leaned down, whispered, “Do you ever worry, Newton? About…well…you know?” she asked.

Newton put his hands on the steering wheel, gripped it tight, staring straight ahead. He looked up at Hannah for just a second, as if he were going to speak, took a breath, and then looked away again, rolling his lips tightly between his teeth. Hannah was used to his odd mannerisms, his constant state of unease. She also understood his ability to keep silent, as they had decided they would do so long ago. The pact , Hannah thought—a silent, unspoken pact, but a pact all the same. She knew she was now breaching that pact. Out of fear? Out of self preservation? She wasn’t certain, but for the first time in twenty-some-odd years, she felt the need to be free of it, to be released from the confines of the secrets that had become her life. They had all held up their ends of the bargain, did what they were duty bound to do. It had taken its toll on each of them, first Carla, then Newton filling in when Carla had her crises and had no one else to turn to, and then, her, of course, because who else had Newton known so intimately? Who else had he known for so long that he trusted with his own children? Who else could he possibly have had watch over his wife during her gall bladder operation and subsequent infection? Newton was like a brother to Hannah. More so, in fact—he was like the husband that she’d never had, the one that would have been kind and caring, the one that would never have taken her for granted, screamed at her, or given her up. He’d tended to her in her time of need, reading medical manuals and calling his colleagues in other cities, the ones that he’d known from his military tour, for medical advice, guidance. He was a gracious man, and Hannah knew she had put him in a horrible position, something he would never do to her. As he turned to her to answer, opening his mouth to speak, she interrupted him.

“Wait. I’m sorry, Newton. I didn’t mean to…you know...to speak of it. Please, don’t say anything. Somehow if we do, it makes it more real, more difficult. What we’re doing seems so right, most of the time. Yet sometimes, it seems so very wrong.” She watched his eyes hunt for something, his mind formulating an answer, an apology maybe? Again, she stopped him.

“Newton, it’s rhetorical. Keep your peace.” Hannah turned to leave and felt his hand gently touch her arm.

“Hannah,” he said, his eyes apologizing, empathizing, agreeing with her thoughts. Newton sat nervously, opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it again. “You are a good woman, Hannah. Charlie was a fool.” He looked up and said, “What we’ve done? It’s been necessary.”

Though she knew he was right, she wondered, as she had so many times before, how and why she could have let herself become involved in such a life of deception.

Molly ran past the old Victorians on White Ground Road. She slowed as she came to the manse, the house where Rodney Lett had been beaten. She stopped in front of the ordinary-looking red brick house. It was not much different than the others on the street, though notably the only brick Victorian. Molly knew the idea that pressed her forward was probably not a good one, but she let her legs carry her across the street and to the rear of the property. The back of the house was also quite typical, save for the windows—three stories high with ornamental, old wavy-glassed panes. Three steps led to a small screened porch. The screening, stretched and gapped, as if it had been pushed out from the inside and pulled tightly in other places. The stairs were constructed of 2x8 pieces of wood, gray with age, streaked with fine lines, yet sturdy. The door to the porch was made of plywood and screen and had a small, rusty metal handle, which Molly drew open, cringing at the sound of the door creaking. She stepped cautiously onto the porch, eyeing the newer window to her left, wondering if it was the window that the attackers had broken through. She put her hand flat against the cool glass, surprised that she wasn’t met with some sort of energy—there was no vision snaking its way from the glass to her body. She leaned forward and cupped her hands against the window, peering into the kitchen. Surely the interior of the home would have changed since the Lett murder, the floors would have been refinished, the walls repainted. Molly thought about the odd couple who lived there now. Who could move into a home that had such a ghastly event take place within its walls? She went back to the steps and looked around at the small green yard. Molly rubbed her arms against the cold air that had broken through the heat of her perspiration. She rounded the house and looked up when she reached the road. Pastor Lett stood across the street in front of the church, glaring at Molly.