she has to.
Over the past month or so he’s written messages, love letters, really. Sweet, sentimental words that if she could, she would tuck inside her secret shoebox filled with lucky coins and heart-shaped rocks found over the years. But he warned her, said they could get in trouble, so instead she memorizes each sentence and murmurs them at night before she falls asleep and it’s almost as if he’s right there with her.
She picks up her pace and moves toward the tracks, dulled and worn down by time and elements. The rail ties are barely visible through the weeds, half-buried sun-bleached bones. She’s breathing hard and suddenly realizes tears are rolling down her cheeks. On the opposite side of the tracks where the last year’s winter wheat stands, unsown and bent like a wizened old man, is a field that in a few months will be filled with alfalfa. There she sees something. He is hidden in the shadows but she knows it’s him. He’s come. He beckons her with a raised hand and her heart leaps.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees a familiar shape sitting on the train tracks, knees tucked beneath her chin. The girl turns her head as she approaches, stretches out her legs, holds her injured arm close to her side. They don’t speak. She trusts her. Of course she does.
The figure in the dry grass tilts his chin as if to say, Go ahead. Do it. I dare you. Her legs are not her own as she approaches, the knife bouncing lightly against her thigh. She stops in front of the girl who stands and smiles crookedly up at her through tears, her small teeth flashing white. Beneath her feet the ground vibrates, warning her of the coming train. She has to hurry; once the engine comes into view it will be too late. He’ll leave.
In the distance a dog barks. The rumble of the train grows louder.
She strikes quickly, without thinking. The cold metal rips through fabric and skin easily. She thought it would be harder, take more effort. The girl looks at her in confusion, presses her fingers to her abdomen and pulls them away. The girl looks surprised to find them wet with blood.
The tracks shiver and shake with the approaching engine. The girl tries to squirm away but she yanks her backward and the slick knife slides through her fingers and to the ground; she slams the girl’s head onto the track, the rusty bolts tearing at the girl’s cheek, the delicate skin below her eye. Again and again she thrusts the girl’s head down until her muscles burn and the girl goes limp. She considers leaving her on the tracks but in a burst of adrenaline she pushes the girl off the rails.
As she breathes deeply, her eyes search for him but he’s gone. He’s slipped back into the tall grass. He can’t leave her behind. He promised. A wail from deep inside tries to find its way out but she finds she can’t make a sound.
The freight train bears down on her with a long mournful cry and she considers staying still, allowing the engine to pull her beneath its iron wheels, but somehow her legs carry her over the tracks. She sees herself pushing through the plumes of winter wheat, painting them red as she brushes by, and finally catches sight of him. He pauses and turns to face her. He looks pleased.
Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry
Sept. 5, 2017
Today was my first official day of sixth grade and it actually went really well! Middle school is a lot bigger than my elementary school because three dinky towns have to share the building. For once I’m going to school with kids I haven’t been with since preschool.
The good news is I don’t have any classes with Melody Jenkins, who was awful to me during fifth grade. She’s the one who sent the top four lists all around school. I was at the top of each one. Dumbest, ugliest, weirdest, most likely to be a virgin. That last one is just stupid. I tried to not let it bother me but it did. And I only have lunch and one class with Jordyn Petit. Jordyn isn’t as bad as Melody but last year she did tell everyone that I liked Dakota Richter. NOT true!
The best news is that I have lunch and social studies with Gabe Shannon, who I’ve liked forever and I think he might actually like me, too. This summer I helped my mom in the elementary school office where she’s the secretary and Gabe helped his mom set up her kindergarten classroom for the new school year. We hung out a bunch this summer and really got to know each other.
Anyway, I’ve got social studies with Mr. Dover, who is cute and is supposed to be a really fun teacher, and I’m even thinking about going out for volleyball. My mom says that it’s really important to be “a joiner” in middle school in order to discover what I like to do and to meet some new people.
My sister, Kendall, says that this is Mom’s way of saying, Don’t be a loser, Cora. If you don’t make some friends now, you never will. I think that Kendall is probably right. She’s super popular and pretty and outgoing. I mean, I’m not a monster, but I’m definitely not as good-looking as Kendall. I’m pretty much her complete opposite.
The good thing is in middle school everyone who goes out for a sport is on the team. They don’t cut anyone, which is a huge relief because I know I’m going to be terrible at volleyball. My only other option is joining the cross-country team and I can’t think of anything worse than running on purpose. So volleyball, it is. The first practice is tomorrow. Wish me luck—I’m going to need it!
Monday, April 16, 2018
I’ve been called a lot of things in my thirty-six years: trash, slut, home wrecker. And much worse. All true, I guess, if I’m being completely honest with myself. But one thing I won’t let people get away with saying about me is that I’m a bad mother. Those are fighting words. Just about everything I’ve ever done has been for my two children. I may be stupid when it comes to men but I’m a good mother.
Seven months ago I quit my job as an administrative assistant at an office supply company, loaded our belongings and squeezed a reluctant Violet, a pissed-off Max and Boomer, our basset hound, into our car that was more rust than steel and began the twenty-five-hour drive northeast from Algodon, New Mexico, to Green Bay. The plan was to begin a new life with my boyfriend, Jerry, who moved there to take a job with Proctor & Gamble a few months earlier.
I had some hard selling to do but by the time we reached Kansas City I almost had them convinced that even though we would be giving up Picacho Peak we would get Lambeau Field and the Green Bay Packers. And though we were trading in the Rio Grande there would be Lake Michigan where we could go fishing and water skiing. And though we would miss driving through the Mesilla Valley and seeing the fields of cotton, white, fluffy and soothing against the dusty, dry ground, once in Wisconsin we would have piles of crisp clean snow to build snowmen and have snowball fights.
Max wasn’t buying it but Violet was easier to convince. Always in her own little world, Violet would retreat into her notebook of drawings and stories and a few hours later she’d look up, blinking rapidly as if trying to bring her surroundings back into focus. Max, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with the move. He was completely content in New Mexico and didn’t even try to hide his hate for Jerry. It’s to Max’s credit that he didn’t say I told you so when the car broke down in the middle of Iowa and Jerry suddenly had a change of heart and got back together with his ex-wife.
Long story short, we stayed in Pitch, a dying railroad town with a population
