Traffick (9 page)

definition of the word and yet

share so many strange facets.

There are more imperfect diamonds

than flawless stones. So, what

the hell? I'll give it a try, and do

my best to keep moving forward.

Hey, with luck, maybe Pastor

Martin's shtick will rub off and

I'll make the journey “cleansed

of my transgressions.” Wouldn't

that be brilliant? Meanwhile,

I'm working diligently to finish

my assignments quickly and earn

decent grades. It's the first time

since I was a little kid that I've

felt compelled to excel at something,

and I'm discovering my mind

is every bit as important as my body.

Has been rekindled. I first found

it back in Barstow, in Ms. Felton's

creative writing class. The one

where I met Alex—all spiky hair

and heavy eyeliner and I thought

she was amazing before we ever

hung out together. And maybe

I'll have to write that memory

for Ms. Cox, who teaches English

with a heavy lean toward creative

writing.
Every one of you has stories

to share with the world,
she says,

and you must tell them the way only

you
can. If I asked you all to write

the same story, still it would be

different from one another's because

each of you will tell it in your own way,

choosing specific words and syntax.

That is your voice, and it's as unique

to you as the voice you speak with.

In reply, most of the girls groan,

but they claim to hate writing,

anyway. A few of us take up

the challenge, and I embrace it.

Happy memories. I struggle

to come up with one of those,

and find it buried beneath

a deep pile of resentments.

It was the first Christmas

we spent with Gram, and there

was a tree—a real tree, our first!—

with ornaments we made ourselves.

Not beautiful by any means,

but spending that time as a family,

stringing popcorn and cranberries

and making paper chains, was new.

We also write sadness,

and I don't have to look too hard

to pull a short chapter from

my personal history. I only had

to go back a few weeks ago,

to the day Alex and I parted

ways. Although, as I admit

in my paper, she and I had truly

split quite a while before our

formal goodbye, and that's where

I found the true wellspring

of my sorrow. Faded love.

Ms. Cox has a new assignment.

Today let's write about fear.

First, an exercise. I want you to

concentrate on sensory details.

So take out a piece of paper

and tell me how fear smells.

How it tastes. How it sounds.

How it looks. Feels. One or two

sentences for each sense, and

be creative. You are artists,

painting pictures with words.

Fear isn't pastel. Be bold. Brave.

This should be easy. For all

the sadness I've experienced,

fear is a more present companion.

I have to take a couple of deep

breaths to breast stroke through

the recollections. Now I pick up

my pencil and write.
Fear smells

like nicotine-tainted fingers, playing

with an unwashed pecker poking

from piss-damp boxers.
Bold?

I think so. I continue.
Fear tastes

like the whiskey-soaked lips of your love,

whispering a long goodbye.

That one is fresh, and personal.

Fear is the sound of fingernails,

scratching linoleum, seeking escape

from the monster clawing behind.

Nothing brave about that,

but it's something I know well.

Fear looks like a crow, circling closer

and closer until its black pearl eyes

come even with your own.
Heavy

with symbolism, but also drawn

from experience.
Fear feels like

waiting for the phone to ring,

certain the caller will inform you

that your little brother is dead.

Definitely not pastel. That memory

is bloodred, and though I try

really hard not to let it surface,

sometimes it does—a sharp photo

of Sandy lying in the street after

being hit by a motorcycle.

I should have been there, watching

him instead of hanging out downtown.

Thank God he survived, and healed.

Sharing what we've written.

Some girls clearly didn't get

it, and their papers are mostly

blank. Others scribbled madly.

From Lena:
Fear is the sound

of my father's belt, unbuckling.

Plenty to think about there.

Sometimes I'm glad my father

didn't stick around long enough

for me to get to know him well.

If he was married to Iris, he must

be the world's biggest loser.

From Brielle:
Fear tastes like

the oily, smoky barrel of a gun.

Another bold picture for you,

Ms. Cox. Is that what you expected?

And from my roomie, Miranda:

Fear feels like a snake, wrapping

around and around your throat

and squeezing tighter and tighter

until the light goes all the way

out.
And after that comes a gang

rape. Wonder if Ms. Cox might

prefer something more in sepia.

She doesn't mention it, or

even look surprised at the things

she's heard, including what

I wrote. The other girls aren't

shocked, either, although

my “fear smells like” sentence

does elicit a fair amount of laughter,

mostly because the majority

of girls here have been in that

exact situation. Which makes me

wonder about Ms. Cox and her

relative lack of reaction. Was she

ever in the life? Thinking about

it, I'm guessing no, or she probably

would have changed her last name.

That makes me giggle, so I'm glad

the other girls are still laughing

about unwashed pecker and piss-damp

boxers. But now, Ms. Cox reins us in.

Okay, since you've got solid

sensory details to bring this story

to life, I want you to write about

a time when you were frightened.

Make your readers feel your fear.

On who my readers are?

I mean, if I wrote about

my “breaking in” by one

of my mother's men,

the story wouldn't bother

these girls, though it might

scare the hell out of some

innocent virgin somewhere.

Oh, well. Ms. Cox never

mentioned audience, so I'll go

with whatever first comes

to mind. I have to think for

a few minutes. Fear. I close

my eyes, fall backward in time.

Way, way back into childhood.

I was a kid once, wasn't I?

And there was a time long

before moving in with Gram

when Iris was still “Mommy.”

We moved around, spent lots

of time on military bases,

living with a lineup of men,

and I find myself on a lopsided

sofa, watching cartoons.

Mommy says I'm a big girl, so I'm in

charge while she's gone. Mary Ann's

asleep in her dirty old crib. Her diaper

smells like poo, but it's dark outside,

and the light is burned out so I can

only see by the TV.
Scritch-scratch.

What's moving across the floor? Ew!

Giant brown bugs, two of them, with

clicking shells and antennas that twitch

sideways. I pull my feet up onto the couch,

which smells like cigarettes and beer

and something I don't have a name for,

but it stains the cushions crusty white.

Suddenly, there's banging on the door.

Iris! Let me in!
It's Wes. Where's his key?

I start to get up, but with a loud crash,

the door flies open.
Where the fuck is Iris?

That makes Mary Ann wake up, crying.

Wes stomps closer, eyes wide and weird,

reflecting the TV's glow. His mouth leaks

booze-stinking spit and he screams,
I said,

where's your fucking mother?
I draw back

against the arm of the sofa, try to crawl

into the crack there, but Mary Ann's wailing

makes Wes mad.
Shut up!
he yells, shaking

the rail, which only makes her cry harder.

He reaches into the crib, but I know he'll hurt

her. “No! Stop. I'll take care of her. Mommy's

next door at Steve's.” Ken spins, and I think

he'll leave us alone, but he grabs hold

of me, tucks me under one arm, and now

I smell onion sweat. I'm facedown, watching

the ground move below, dizzying. Tread

the steps, across the dead grass, toward

the neighbor's, Wes's anger beating palpably.

Hey, Iris! I've got your little girl!
Bam!

He kicks in the door, and there's Mommy,

and now I notice the knife in his hand.

You been screwing around, whore?
He puts me

down, but doesn't let go. Instead, he holds

the blade to my throat.
Come here, Iris. It's you

or her.
I see Mommy smile. Feel a sharp sting.

Look down as red dollops fall onto my shirt . . .

The story ends with shirtless Steve, who

went out the bedroom window, around

the house, and sneaked in from behind,

resting his pistol against Wes's temple.

Iris laughed and laughed and laughed.

Not quite two years

since my sweetheart let go

of her pain, emptied

these rooms of love, and

I

still hear her whispers

fall soft against my pillow

in the deep indigo sea

of night. How do I ignore the

hunger

to hold her again, spend

just one more hour together?

And my son, my Seth.

If I could change a thing

it would be the need for you

to leave

the path to damnation

you chose. I sit, drowning

sorrow in a bottle, look out

over the fields, harvested

and soon fallow, consider

the coming freeze and

this

I wonder: is the blossoming

pain in my chest more than

just a broken heart? I pull

a weary breath, knowing

my time is short in this

world.

Is apparently time-consuming.

David has been working overtime,

which bothers me not at all. I enjoy

his company, but I'm not lonely

without it, and when he comes home,

despite the long hours he puts in,

he seems energized. Maybe it's just

passion for creation, or maybe it's got

everything to do with white lines

snorted in dressing rooms. Probably both.

I'm glad he refuses to maintain a stash

here, or I might be tempted to indulge

far more often than I do. I like the cool,

numbing escape; love the delicious rush

of goose bumps and shivers. But not

enough to lose the “me” I've worked hard

to find and encourage in a more positive

direction. Coke is more addictive than

alcohol, and that's saying a lot. I'm trying

desperately to keep a handle on both.

I thought the reason David won't keep

drugs in this place was because he worried

about getting ripped off by his staff

or me. Turns out, he's just paranoid

about losing the house in a raid. But,

if he were to think about it logically,

law enforcement must have some idea

about what goes on here at the parties.

Seems like all the city's movers and

shakers attend them, and that probably

includes a politician or ten, and maybe

even a keeper-of-the-peace or two.