I am running through the rain in the night. The water soaks through the hood of my sweatshirt and runs down my head, my neck, my back.
I say her name to the rhythm of my wet steps. “Seemy, Seemy, Seemy.”
I take a side street that is empty except for a car that I can hear chugging along behind me, but it never passes. It coughs, like a dying thing.
And then I am tearing down the alley to the carriage house, scrambling over the fence, across the muddy front lawn, and up the warped front steps. “Seemy Seemy Seemy.” Inside I scramble up the ladder to the hayloft. The storage closet door is closed, and I run to it but don’t open it up.
I close my eyes, and pray her name. “Seemy Seemy Seemy.”
I open the door.
She lies crumpled on the floor, her body bent to fit the confines of the closet. I drop to my knees and with one hand cover my mouth and nose from the stench and with the other lay my fingers against her neck. Her blood pulses my name. Nan, Nan, Nan.
She is alive.
“Seemy.” My tears make it sound like I am swallowing the word, so I say it louder, “Seemy!”
Her eyes stay closed.
A car drives down the street outside, chug, chug, chug. It doesn’t pass by the alley. It stops and idles. Chug, chug, chug. I stand up and go to the window but can see nothing in the dark. Chug, chug, chug. Like a cough. Like a dying thing. Like the car behind me earlier today on the way to bring Chuck his pizza, and then on the way from Duke’s to Saint Marks. Like the car that drove behind me all the way here.
I look down at Seemy and cover my mouth to keep from screaming.
I led them right to her.
—
It’s too small in the closet. Too dark. I stand awkwardly with one foot by Seemy’s knee, the other by her head. My right hand holds the door shut against the weight of Seemy’s body.
I can hear the car still chugging on the street.
There is a click and a creak as the barn-style doors are shoved apart. Footsteps on the stone floor. The creak of stall doors as they are pulled open one by one.
Turner’s gravelly voice, a sick singsong calling out, “Oh, girls, I’m home!”
I stay still, blinking away the sweat that is pooling in the corners of my eyes. I stay still except for my eyes. They move with each step he takes across the first floor, like I am watching him instead of staring into the dark.
He calls out as he walks. “Are you in the first stall? Hooch has the car all warmed up for you.” There is the sound of the doors being kicked open. “No, not in that one.”
“Are you in the second stall?” I hear the groan of the stall door. “No, not in that one either.”
He does this for each stall. “Well,” he says loudly, “I guess nobody’s home.”
I know he’s screwing with us. I know he knows I can hear him. I hear the front door squeak. “I guess I’ll just go, then.”
He doesn’t even finish the sentence before he scrambles up the ladder. Every drop of blood in my body is screaming at me to run. But I don’t. I stay still. My hand on the doorknob is cramping. I squeeze the knob harder to keep from shaking.
Mom says bodies like ours are made to cast large shadows. She says we’re meant to lift the world up on our shoulders and spin it round. She says we’re meant to roar through our lives and kick up dust.
He is in the hayloft with us now. He is walking quickly across the floor.
My fingers wrench as the doorknob is turned.
I hold on to the door, and Turner pulls harder. I hold on for a moment and then just as he starts to rasp, “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I slam myself against the door so that it crashes open, and then I am tumbling with Turner across the room. It strikes me then how horribly intimate fighting someone is. I can smell him, feel his breath on my face as he grunts, feel the texture of his palm as it grips the curve where my neck and shoulder meet, feel his other hand in a fist, gripping the fabric of my sweatshirt, pulling me close to him until we are chest to chest. He twists both hands; I realize he’s trying to push me off balance, and I struggle to stay upright. I’m surprised at his strength, scared of how solid he feels, terrified of feeling his weight on top of me. His laugh is dry and gleeful, and I fight to stay standing, until he kicks my feet out from under me. I land hard on the floor, my right hip and elbow taking most of the weight of my fall. It hurts.
But my body is my battleship, and I will not be sunk. I kick up, hard, right between his legs and then roll away as he doubles over, his arms shooting out to grab me. I scramble up to my feet.
Turner tries to stand up straight, but I’ve hurt him and he has to hunch. He’s ten feet away. We both sway a little, waiting for the other to move. There is quietness in fighting for your life. There are only the sounds of our feet on the dusty floor, of our breathing, of our clothing rubbing against itself. Turner breaks the silence. “Big girl’s got a big kick,” he says.
I don’t answer. I just watch him, my body tense and ready to move. I vibrate with fear and adrenaline and the realization that comes again and again: This is really happening. I want to scream for help, but I’m afraid Hooch will hear. I can’t fight them both.
“How’s little Samantha?” Turner asks, looking past me to where Seemy lies half in and half out of the closet. He moves a little closer. I step back, closer to the closet, my body shaking in expectation. “How’s she feeling right now?” He steps to his right, forcing me to step away. “Because I’d guess she has just a couple more hours until it’s lights-out.” He moves again, and I have to move too, and then our positions are reversed and he is by the closet door, between me and Seemy. He keeps talking. “We might have gave her too much. But that girl can drink! You know that, right? You, though, you and your little sips, it’ll take longer for you.”
I need to keep him talking, I need to keep him from turning his attention to Seemy. I ask him, “What do you mean?”
His laugh is almost soundless now, a wet rush of air. “You been walking around dead all day and you don’t even know it!”
Behind him, Seemy stirs a little.
I can’t help it, I look at her face, and while my eyes aren’t on him, Turner says, “I’m just going to have to speed it up for both y’all.” And then he lunges at me. I force myself not to move and let him grab my shoulders. I put my hands on top of his, grip hard, and spin hard to the right, yanking him off balance. I keep spinning and then let go, hoping he will fly across the floor. He doesn’t. He stumbles only a few steps, but when he looks at me he doesn’t look like he’s having fun anymore. He looks pissed. He recovers fast, raises a fist, and comes at me again, but this time I move so he runs right at the empty window frame. He stops short, turns and spits at me. “Clever girl, but I ain’t going out the window.”
He comes at me again and there are sounds of footsteps coming up the front steps and into the house. My heart drops and Turner sneers at me in triumph. “Up here!” he yells, and I know in a minute Hooch is going to come scrambling up the ladder and I’m going to have to fight them both, and I’m probably going to lose. I look at Seemy, lying still on the floor, and I’m filled with such sadness. And more than that. Bubbling up through the sadness, snaking up and breaking the surface, is rage. Anger is a gift. My body bursts into flames. It doesn’t matter that Turner can’t see them. I am on fire.
He’s surprised when I grab on to his wrists, and I can see him trying to figure out what I’m doing. I can see him for the first time feeling my weight, my strength, my power. I wrench him forward and he laughs, moving his feet fast to keep from falling over. I yank harder this time, swinging him a little, and he’s caught off guard, so this time he leans back, trying to pull me off balance. For a moment we are suspended like that, holding each other up. And then I let go. He falls against the windowsill and as I’m dropping to my knees he gives me this look like, Nice try. I grab both of his feet, pull them up off the floor, and flip that monster out the window.
I turn just as the top rung of the ladder creaks.
I am ready to fight again.
Toad bursts into the room, fists raised in an almost comic stance. He screams, “Where is she?”
“What . . . what are you doing here?” I shout, all of the breath and fire in my body escaping. I am so relieved to see his stupid face I could cry. “What are you doing here?” I ask again.
“Saving Seemy!” he says, looking around wildly.
I can’t even speak; I just point to the window.
He walks over uncertainly, and we both look outside. Below, Turner’s pale face glints in the moonlight. He landed on his back, the soft mud sucking him in so his arms and legs stick up a little, like a roach stuck on its back. He moves one arm a little and then his howl of pain travels up to us. Toad leans out and spits on him. The front yard is lit up then. First by police car lights reflecting down the narrow alley, and then by flashlights sweeping across the front lawn. We watch one light settle on Turner and grow more intense as the police officer approaches and leans over him. She calls into the radio on her shoulder for an ambulance. Another beam of light travels up to where we stand in the window. We both raise a hand, shielding our eyes, and back away.
I hurry over to Seemy and drop to my knees.
“I came here and looked for her. Before, I mean. Before you came to see me.” Toad says, staying by the window. I glance at him. He looks terrified. His words rush out. “I swear it, Nan. I came here and I called out for her. I checked the stalls. But I didn’t come up here. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it. I just . . . I should have come up here. And then after I saw you, I remembered. Like, like, flash. Boom! I remembered the hayloft . . .” He trails off, raises his chin and asks with a quivering voice, “Is she dead?”
I shake my head, almost smile. “No, she’s not dead.”
He walks over, drops to the floor next to me. We each take one of her hands. I can hear the carriage house doors being pushed all the way open.
“Are you okay?” he asks me.
I shake my head, the darkness creeping in. “Tell them to help Seemy. Tell them to help her.”
Toad looks at me. “What’d they give you?”
Darkness.