Little, Part Five
July 2, 2009
She knew the way from her mother’s boyfriend’s house to the variety store, but it was dark. She was afraid to go alone to get the bottle of pop they wanted. She reviewed the route in her head: down the street, past the church she went to on Sunday mornings with her brother. The overgrown grass and old trees were deep shadows in the dusk. Deep breath. Deep breath.
“Now here’s five dollars,” Boyfriend folded it and placed it in her palm, “I want the change, okay kiddo? Just get the big glass bottle of regular Coke and tell the girl to double bag it so the bag don’t rip.”
Her mother was sitting in the green lawn chair Little had been playing in earlier that day. Her hand cupped a drink on the white plastic armrest where Little’s Barbie had sat in the sunshine. The frayed nylon on the side of the seat was sticking out below her mother’s bottom like a bird squawking out beneath her. Little and her brother had played cards in the lawn chairs, heads hot from the sun, sticking the cards between the fat nylon weave and trying to guess what cards the other had hidden. The metal frames were perfect for hanging their licorice over as they giggled in the grass and dirt.
Now Little’s brother was in their makeshift bed that Boyfriend made up for them, and she had to go to the store by herself. She was more than terrified but excited that Boyfriend and Mom both thought she was grown up enough to run this errand in the dark. She wanted to prove she wasn’t just another stupid kid.
The smell of cigarettes faded as she left the backyard, walked down the driveway, past her mother’s black Monza, the motorcycles belonging to Boyfriend and his buddies and a blue pick up truck that was owned by the smallest guy in the group. He had red hair. So did boyfriend. Little had no idea if they were related but she had caught her mother in each of the mens’ embraces, more than once. Seemed they were never around at the same time. One was Boyfriend and the other was simply Lonnie.
The street was much quieter than the backyard and Little could hear the party behind her as she crossed the street and started by the church. The whoop of her mother’s laughter, the clink of beer bottles, the roar of the announcer of the classic rock station as he said the call letters: “Q-Q-Q-Q one oh seven, classic ROCK,” then the guitar intro and John Cougar Mellencamp singing ‘Little diddy, ’bout Jack and Diane…’
By the time Little got to the end of the street where she was supposed to turn, she couldn’t hear the party anymore. Her ears were peaked, straining to hear any hint of her mother or the music, but there was nothing but crickets, a distant bark of a dog, the occasional car. As she turned the corner she could see the faint light of the variety store on the corner about four blocks away. She was walking as fast as she could given her jelly sandals were tight. She hated jelly sandals but all the little girls were wearing them and Woolco sold them cheap. Hers were a piss dirty yellow and when it was hot, her feet slid inside them and pinched where the plastic met the top of her foot.
The night air was warm and still. Even so, every rustle in a bush, every creak of a house or car, sent goosebumps along Little’s skin. She could feel the hair on her arms stick up. She was sure someone would come along and kidnap her, maybe even kill her. Her mother would be sorry she sent Little to the store for something an adult should have gotten. Little instantly felt bad about thinking of her mother’s grieving and prayed God wasn’t listening to her thoughts.
Little’s mother had been sending her and her brother to the church on Sunday mornings and now Little was sure God could hear everything, even if he didn’t always act. She would ask God for a sign if he could hear her. Of course she usually picked something inevitable, like ‘give me an itch on my left shoulder,‘ and would instantly feel the need to scratch her left shoulder. She once prayed to never see a naked man again, having walked in on her mother several times in their tiny apartment and been both horrified and in instant trouble. The very next day after her prayer, she left Sunday school and witnessed her mother and Lonnie sloshing around in a water bed and nearly threw up from the sight. Her mother hadn’t seen her and Little backed out of the room in time to steer her brother to the backyard. God must have been busy that day, Little thought. She hoped he would keep her safe in this envelope of darkness. She swore she would do anything and whispered to him promises of cleaning her room and being very very good if only she got home safe tonight.
She reached the store, got the bottle of pop out of the icebox and brought it to the front counter. There was a man in the store and he was watching Little, staring at her with great interest. He had a mustache and a beard, both dark with gray hairs and his eyes were black, it seemed. Little was afraid this man would follow her back through the neighbourhood and completely forgot to ask for a bag. Her heart was pounding as she reached up to the counter to grab the bottle. She hugged the bottle into her tiny frame and headed out of the store.
The man lobbed a loaf of bread onto the counter and Little heard him ask the cashier for a pack of cigarettes. She figured she had about a minute to disappear down those four blocks to get onto the right street and she took off running.
Her heart was exploding inside her chest by block two but she kept going. Scared for her life, she ducked down what she thought was the right street and halfway down it, realized she’d gotten it wrong. She couldn’t hear the music and the church was nowhere in sight. She spun around twice to be sure and then spotted a pair of headlights turn onto the street.
The smash of glass at her feet startled her. Her jelly shoes were covered in pop and she began to cry.
The car drove past her and slowed.
Little thought she had to bolt if she was going to make it back alive but coming back empty handed might be worse. She ran again anyway, terrified at what her mother might do.
She hightailed it back to Boyfriend’s house and the adults couldn’t understand the mess of verbal diarrhea coming from Little. Boyfriend took her gently by the shoulders, looked her in the eyes and made her breathe deep and calm down sweetie, whatever it is, it’s okay. Her mother just rolled her eyes at Little as she spilled the story about dropping the pop, the broken glass, getting lost and the man chasing her.
With an enormous sigh, her mother went in the house and came back out with a grocery bag. She gave it to Little and said, “Go get the glass pieces. Put them in this bag and take the bag to the store. The girl will give you another bottle. There’s no man following you, Little. Get a grip, for Christ’s sake. Now GO.”
And so she went, scattered and sad. Maybe the man wasn’t following her. Maybe that was a different car altogether. Maybe she was just a stupid kid after all.
Her dignity was sticky inside her jelly shoes, and she set off again.
July 3rd, 2009 at 5:21 am
I’m going to try and not leave a comment that makes you cry.
(First, you’re either A LOT younger than me, or you took creative license, because having Q107 play Jack & Diane – a song that was NEW when I was maybe 8 – puts this story at the late 80s at the earliest, which means Little is now around 25 or so.)
Temporal paradoxes aside, it’s becoming clear that no one comes to save Little, which is what I had hoped for earlier. Fortunately, when Little becomes not so little, she does find someone to save her.
.-= SciFi Dad´s last blog ..Keyword Madness XII =-.
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admin Reply:
July 3rd, 2009 at 5:31 am
Little was 8 in 1982, when J&D came out.
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July 3rd, 2009 at 6:30 am
Sigh. I’m so glad you’re writing this…it’s so well written. You had me hearing the bottle crash and feeling the stickiness.
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July 3rd, 2009 at 7:37 am
*hugs* You’re amazing.
.-= sam {temptingmama}´s last blog ..Managing =-.
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July 3rd, 2009 at 9:40 am
I love you.
that is all.
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July 3rd, 2009 at 10:55 am
I hate reading this.
But I’m not going anywhere.
.-= Miss Britt´s last blog ..Happy Birthday, Jared =-.
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July 4th, 2009 at 6:18 am
Oh, my.
.-= Maria´s last blog ..The Obligatory BlogHer Post =-.
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July 4th, 2009 at 8:44 am
Excellent!
(And Happy Birthday!)
.-= Sybil Law´s last blog ..Get on with Your Bad Self =-.
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July 4th, 2009 at 2:45 pm
This is me commenting on the last 7 or 9 or 15 posts you’ve writtten. I’m consolidating.
I am amazed at how much you’ve changed over the last year or so. I don’t know that you could have written so well and sincerely then. My little girl is growing up, lol. (Happy birthday!)
I love this series. I love how well written it is. I would buy this if it was a chapter book. Seriously.
Write this down on paper. It feels different when you write it on paper.
.-= Donna´s last blog ..Those late fees will kill ya =-.
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July 4th, 2009 at 2:49 pm
Oh and I just want to say in response to SciFi Dad’s saving comment…
People like Little never find someone to save them. They have to save themselves…as do we all.
.-= Donna´s last blog ..Those late fees will kill ya =-.
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July 4th, 2009 at 2:53 pm
Ok. I guess I wasn’t done.
I see so many bloggers try to “write.” They all want to be “writers.” So many of them spend so much time trying to hone a craft that isn’t theirs to hone.
This could be so melodramatic and overwritten. This could be so hard to read as to become impossible for one to continue…but it’s none of that.
I think for someone who never went down the “I’m a writer” blog path, you might just be one of the very few that really has the talent and ability.
And you know if I say it it must be true
.-= Donna´s last blog ..Those late fees will kill ya =-.
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December 23rd, 2009 at 11:30 pm
Man I hated those stupid freaking jelly shoes. They came back in the 90s and my evil grandmother insisted on making us wear them.
Thank you for sharing Little with us. I know it has to be hard. Keep going. You will be glad when you’ve gotten it all out.
.-= Elizabeth Kaylene´s last blog ..Way beyond my reach =-.
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