Painted Boots (22 page)

41

I HOLD MY
breath to keep from crying.  Tears won’t help me now—I need traffic. I need a car to pass.  I need a cell phone.  I feel around for Kyle’s phone, searching his coat pockets.  Nothing.  Except for the trickling sound of water, the night is silent.

I
’m on my own.

Kyle’s
head rests against his window.  For all of Em’s threats, he hasn’t moved.  I gather his hand in mine, aching to pull him down to safety in the foot well with me.  But if Em sees him shift she might think he’s trying to get away.  Who knows what she’ll do then.  “Kyle, please,” I whisper.  “Please wake up.”  I kiss his fingers.  They’re warm against my lips.

Warm has
to mean he isn’t dead.

I reach across him
, find the thin black knob I know stands like a golf tee next to his window and, pressing it down, lock his door.

Then
I inch toward the gaping passenger exit.  The truck shifts with my weight, settling against its perch like a cautious bird.  My heart falls with it, landing heavy on my ribs.  Em yells, “I’m not waiting on you much longer,” and I slip from the cab, dropping into a narrow space created by the running board, the awkward position of the open door and, I think, a guard rail.  Around me the air feels hollow, almost empty, like I’m crouching in a void.  The sound of water is louder now.  Nearby, there must be a river.

Som
ething bashes against the truck and I jump.  Was it the butt of Em’s gun?  Her boot?  She screams, “Get the hell out here!”  She beats the truck again and I slip under it, returning for a second to grope beneath the passenger seat.

It’s
right where Kyle left it the day he had to change out the flat tire for the spare.  The tire iron.

On my elbows and knees,
I crawl beneath the truck army-style, clutching the cold iron in my hand.  The ground stinks of oil and gas, and it’s slippery.  When I reach the other side I’m inches from Em’s boots, but I dare a peek.  Her white coat practically glows.  Her arms are steady, one bent tight at the elbow, one held straight out from her body, pointing what I have to assume is a gun at Kyle’s door.  My stomach heaves.  I’m almost sick, thinking on what she might do.

“
You know I’ll shoot,” she says.  “You know I will.  And it’ll be your fault, Kyle, just like it always is.  You don’t have to get me this upset.  You could have returned my calls, or my texts or my email.  You didn’t have to come over today and pick a fight!  But maybe this is what you want, huh?  Maybe it’s your dream to die clinging to a steering wheel, just like your stupid brother
.
”

For
the first time ever, I hate her.

I
launch the tire iron like I would throw a really heavy Frisbee.  Em screams.  Her gun clatters somewhere as she drops to the ground, howling like a wounded dog.  I roll from under the truck and jump on her.

We both go crazy
—thrashing, scratching, hitting.  She crams her hand up under my sweater, digging her fingernails into my back.  I grab her hair and yank.  She yells, “Where’d you come from?” over and over.  She claws my face.  Then she grabs my scarf, pulling me close as she twists the fabric tight around my neck.  Suddenly, I’m hacking for air.

“
You’re an annoying little thing,” she hisses.

I make a fist and punch
, catching her on the jaw.  She screams.  My knuckles explode with pain.  My thumb feels broken.  Without thinking, I cradle my hand against my chest.

Em
tucks her elbows and rolls, pitching both of us toward the truck.  I slam against the snow-encrusted running board then sit there, confused and startled.  My left leg lies trapped beneath Em’s body.  Her arm is pinned between me and the Ford.  She hits me in the crotch—with her knee or fist or the palm of her free hand—I don’t know.  I almost pass out for how much it hurts.  She yells, “I’m gonna kill you, Retro.”

“Not if I kill you first!” 
I slap her so hard my hand burns.  While she screeches I pull the scarf clear of my throat and toss it away.  If I’m going to die, it won’t be by strangling.

M
y body throbs.  My knuckles and thumb hurt to where I almost can’t bend them.  My head aches and I’m dizzy.  I want to crawl off and nurse my wounds.  I want to know if Kyle is okay.   I yell, “I want you out of my life!”

Em
tries to punch me and I push her arm away.  Then I lunge at her, hitting her with wild, clumsy fists, feeling blind with fury.  I don’t know how to fight.  But I can let go.  So I beat on her, screaming crazy things and hoping, as I wail like a tantrum-throwing three-year-old, that what I’m doing will be enough.

42

I GET OUT
from under Em only to have her find the tender place where she kicked me just a few weeks before.  The more I try to defend myself, the more she lays into me.  We spill onto the road, me trying to re-group, Em attacking.  Her fists grind against my ribs.  I taste blood.  She screams, “You . . . are . . . going . . . to . . . die,” each word delivered with a punch.

I swing at
her and miss.  It’s the pain in my side, maybe.  Or the freezing cold.  I can’t feel my fingers or toes.  The air is shrapnel in my lungs.

Em
shoves the butt of her hands to my shoulders and I’m suddenly airborne, flying onto my back.  My head whacks the pavement; my thoughts glitch.  She grabs my hair and drags me to my feet, yanking so hard I swear I’m being scalped.  She whips me toward the side of the truck.  I collide with steel and my left wrist cracks.  Hurt travels all the way to my elbow.

For a second
, I give into crying.  Kyle’s right there—right there!—his head still slumped against the glass.  I try to open the door. 
Why did I lock it?
  I pound the window.  “Kyle!  God!  Kyle!” 
Did he move?
  I can’t tell.

“
I hope he’s dead!” Em says.

I spin round
to face her but she’s bent away from me, her white coat gleaming in an inverted L.  I plant my foot on her butt and kick her to the ground.  She rolls to her back and I kick her again, but there’s something there, dark against her coat.  She wraps her arm around my leg and I fall over her, thinking she’s found her gun.  It’s the tire iron.

Screaming, w
e wrestle for control, though we sound different from how we did at first.  More tired.  Desperate.  We tug the cold metal between us, grunting and crying as we roll across the icy road.

Em twists the
iron and one end makes contact with the side of my head.  I tumble away from her, flecks of light dancing behind my eyes.

I jump up
, just as Em shoves me.  She’s yelling how I’ve ruined everything and how I’m going to pay.  I stumble sideways, wondering
With what
, as I crash into Kyle’s door.  I can’t find my balance and pitch forward, the Moon boots clumsy on my feet.  I bash against the guard rail and cut my hand trying to steady myself, then slip along the corrugated metal until I’m on the ground.  Em throws the iron at me.  It hits my shoulder.

It’s weird, but
I can’t remember where I am.  I feel like I’m in the hall at school, like I’m lying stripped and bleeding on the floor.  I swear I see the rectangular lights evenly spaced above me.  But this time I don’t feel anything; I’m numb, just an observer.  Em screams, “I hate you!  I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

Her voice is ugly,
and for some reason I think of dead fish when they wash ashore from sea.  Something white moves across my vision, drifting like mist, back and forth, back and forth.  The white takes Em’s shape, standing in front of me and pointing.

M
y thoughts crystallize.

She
says, “Bye, Retro.”

A
blast of brightness, a booming crack and pain, shearing hot pain, rips through my left calf.  I scream and scream.  Warmth soaks into the fabric of my jeans.

Em
runs toward me.  She steps on my knee, then my thigh.  She drops onto me, her weight slamming my shoulder to the ground.  Her gun comes down hard on the rail, just above my head.  She scratches the side of my face.  Her boots dig into my legs.

I shove at her
.  I want her off!  I don’t want to die like this; I won’t!  I push against her body.  I punch her; I fight.  She squirms and shrieks and rips at my hair.  I push and push and push.  Then she’s just . . . gone.

Icy wind
chills the tears I’d forgotten were even there.  I shiver, and catch a glimpse of Mom.  I call to her, though when I look at her directly she disappears.  I’d get up to search for her but I’m tired, so I lie down.

Light
s spin in the distance.  They’re much lower than the stars.  I could watch the lights forever, but a shadow falls from nowhere to block my view.  The shadow forms a heap, shifting until it’s the shape of Devil’s Tower.  The lights are gone but now, glowing all around the tower is an aura—red and blue!  It’s the “Close Encounters” aura from when the aliens and the humans played music together.  Mom loved that part so much.

The
tower moves, inching forward, growing bigger and bigger until the aura disappears.  It scares me—all that darkness coming near.  I scream, “Get away!” but the tower doesn’t stop.

Maybe
the tower is death.  Maybe it has come for my spirit.  Maybe if the tower touches me I’ll be engulfed in nothing, a prisoner, trapped in dark and cold. I struggle to crawl, pebbles and ice cutting into my skin.  I yell, “Leave me alone!” It hurts so much to cry.

The tower’s
inky shadow stretches out.  The shadow takes hold of my hand.

*
***
*

43

I DREAM OF HER
, sometimes.  We’re facing each other on an abandoned road like two players in an old western show-down.  Lacy, black shadows swirl around us like sooty snow.  It’s cold—but I don’t feel it.

Em falls in the dream,
tumbling for the river just like she did the night she shot me.  The dream-sky crackles and turns white.  Stars appear then rain down as fiery spears.  The river becomes an icy creature.  I watch its long, jagged fingers reach round Em and pull her into its grip.  She begs for my help, though I confuse her words with gurgling.  Her hair slowly freezes into a pale gold halo.  Her lips turn purple-blue.  Her dead eyes meet mine.

I wake,
terrified.

Like all the other times I’ve dreamed this dream, I’m sweating. 
Not the cold kind I used to get when I had nightmares as a kid.  This sweat is fire, prickling and hot across my flesh.  I’m crying too, though my throat is so tight I can’t make sound.  The bedside clock says three fifty-three—still night, by my standards.  I slip from beneath my covers and wander out of the room.

W
hen I see the dim light of the kitchen, I feel better.  Ray Thacker is there, like he is every morning by four, sitting in the window seat and drinking coffee.  “Morning, Miss,” he says, as I enter the room.

I pour myself
a cup, breathing in the fragrant brew, then sit next to Ray. He puts his arm around me, pressing the cool dampness of my night shirt against my skin, patting my shoulder and my back before he draws away to lean on his elbows.  I’ve been around him long enough to know that this is his way of giving comfort.  He’s quiet as I pour cream and sugar into my coffee.  He watches as I slowly stir it into caramel-brown.

After a while he asks,
“Rough sleep?”

I
nod.

“You
want, I’ll drive you out to see your dad.  Won’t take more than an hour.  The horses will tolerate the wait.”

I glance toward Ray from the corners of my eyes.

I don’t see much of Dad these days.  We hardly speak.  After Christmas, I moved in with the Thackers.  I needed a lot of help healing and Angella volunteered and I’ve been here ever since.  Once Dad realized I wasn’t coming back he sold our house and moved with Jesse to a forty-acre ranch some twenty miles outside Gillette.  It’s the ranch where he spent his summers growing up, the one he inherited when his mother died three years ago.  Until he moved there I had no idea the place existed, let alone that the grandmother I never knew was dead.

Mom must have known, though. 
Just like Dad she kept it secret, and for reasons I’ll never learn.  She probably had thousands of secrets like that—large and small—things like her abusive boyfriend and Dad’s willingness to fight, things she culled from my view as I grew more aware.  Mom knew how to protect the past and paint it fresh.

I smile to myself. 
Maybe we all do that, in our own way.  I mean, I still paint Kyle’s boots.

It’s taken me a while to accept that
I’ll never completely know my mom and dad.  I’m sure that would be true even if Mom had lived and we were still together in Portland.  Back then, Mom and Dad were starlight.  Now I know it was their light that was familiar.  They kept their source hidden in some faraway place I can’t begin to imagine.

If I think of
Dad that way he’s not so different from Ray Thacker.  I know bits and pieces, but I’ll never know the whole of what made either one of them the men they are today.  Like starlight, their pasts are places that no longer exist.

“
I’ll see him this afternoon,” I say to Ray, then take a sip from my coffee.  “He’ll be at graduation.  For now I think I’ll just go back to bed.”

Ray gives me a parting pat-pat hug.

With my warm mug in my hand, I wander back to my bedroom.  I set the mug on the nightstand then pull my sweat-soaked nightshirt over my head and drop it on the floor.  Groping around for the lip of the covers, I slide into bed.  Kyle rolls toward me.  His hand finds its way to my bare stomach.

“You not
sleepin’?” he asks.  His voice is beautiful in the morning—gravely and deep.

“I had coffee with your
dad.”

Kyle yawns. 
“I should maybe help him with the horses.  We won’t see another morning here, not till fall.”

I touch his face, running my fingers into his hair.
  Dad and Kyle don’t talk much, but I’ll admit, Kyle tries harder with Dad than I do.  On the rare occasion they get into what happened, they’re patient.  They respect each other under all their anger.  They share a curious amount of common ground.  “I need to tell you something,” I say.  “About Em.”

Kyle
’s quiet and then, “I’m listening.”

Like
every other time I’ve stepped onto the threshold of this conversation, I don’t know where to start.  Kyle and I have never talked about that night on Garner Lake Road.  Not really.  We talk about the surface stuff—his broken leg and mild concussion, the bullet scar I’ll always have in my calf.  But I’ve never been able to tell him what happened between me and Em.

At first it was because I couldn’t find the words.  I only had the dream and how it made me feel. 
But the words surfaced—in truth, the words have been there for a few months now, as clear to me as a bright, wintry sky.

I
avoid them.  I occupy myself with other things.  I want the words to go away.  I want them left unsaid.  But my silence has only made the words stronger.  They’re a constant, unwelcome companion, pounding every thought around them into dust.

I need to give the words away.

I hate examining that night directly!  I still feel the shock, and the way my body melted into pain.  When I think back on it, I still feel the biting cold.  On that night, and for months after, I buried the bitter details of Em’s death deep within me, like a private funeral.  It was self-preservation, probably.  But the facts haunt me, rising up from my sub-conscious as ghostly, sour dreams.  The largest of them all is that, “I killed her.”

Kyle shifts, bunching his pillow under his head.  “
How do you figure, girl?”

“You came round, right? 
In time to open your door.  A domino thing happened after that.  The gun went off.  Em stumbled forward and fell across me.  It was an accident she tramped the leg she’d just shot, but I didn’t know that at the time.  I was too cold and too hurt and I believed I was back in the hall at school.  I kept flashing between what was happening and what had already happened and I couldn’t tell the difference.  I still can’t.  All I know for sure is that when Em fell across me I thought she was attacking.  I thought she was going to kick me to death.”

“Maybe she was,” Kyle says.

“No.  She wasn’t trying to kick me.  She fell.”

Kyle’s
fingers lightly trace along my shoulder.  “I woke confused,” he says.  “In pain.  I didn’t know where you were.  I can’t say I knew where I was, at least, not at first.  Then I saw Em, standing close to the truck—I recognized her coat.  The sight of her made me furious.  I hated her, just then.  I wanted to tell her to get lost but the door was locked and that only fueled my anger.”

“I did that,” I say.  “I locked your door.”

“All I know is by the time I got it open, I was so bent on hitting her I shoved it as hard as I could.  The gun fired.  You screamed and screamed and I realized you’d been shot.”  He pulls me close.  “God it cuts me, thinkin’ on it now.  I thought you were dead.”

“I thought I was, too. 
But Em didn’t attack me.  She fell.  Her boots beat into me.  She’d been yelling how she hated me.  She screamed about wanting me dead.  I didn’t want to die like that, up against a rail.  I only wanted to protect myself.”

“
It’s all right, girl.”  He touches my cheek.

“It’s not!” 
Tears stream into the fine hair of my temples.  “I hear her, Kyle, in my dreams.  Her screams are different.  Scared.  Em fell across me.  I think she landed on the guard rail.  It was icy.  She was screaming for me to help her.  Instead I shoved her over the edge.  I pushed her into the river.  I killed her.  Em is dead because of me.”