M&Ms and Apple Cores

For years a story has lingered in my mind. I didn't know much of it, but had a picture of a toddler huddled in the corner of a bare room. She was neglected, left to molder there and slowly draw farther and farther into herself. But one young man who passed occasionally through the house would do a small part to reach out to her. He shared his own favorite foods with her--a handful of M&Ms and the core of his partially-eaten apple.

In my mind and planning, that book eventually changed from M&Ms and Apple Cores to Above the Clouds, the sequel to my first novel, Reaching Sky. Then it made another metamorphose to become the sub-plot to my current work in progress, Voices of the Dark. This scene is part of what resulted from that original vision.

Excerpt from Voices of the Dark

“Jasper, I’m the one taking care of the little girl.” Jesse and I sat down and I pulled out the picture of Renee and held it out to the man. “You know her?”

He peered at it, his face so young and innocent, in glaring opposition to the prison jumper he wore. His eyes were dark brown and full of…. It almost looked like empathy.

“Yeah, that’s the boss’s kid.”

“She’s Garth Keane’s daughter? Who is the mother?”

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “I ain’t never heard no mom mentioned. I jest assumed she was either dead or didn’t want nothin’ to do with some crack-head baby.”

“How long have you known the toddler?”

“I been…” he looked away, “hanging around there 'bout a year, I guess. She was always there. She just stayed in the back room, away from everything.”

“Who took care of her?”

He frowned, his eyes boyish and uncertain. “Well, no one, really. She just stayed back there. If she come out in the middle of something the boss would yell at her to git back in.” He leaned forward. “He didn’t want her hurt, you know. Didn’t want the gang guys to mess with her.”

“So Garth loved her? Protected her?” I couldn't make that fit with what I'd seen.

He shifted his weight. “Loved? Well, I dunno. I never really saw him do much else with her.”

“What’s her name?”

He shrugged again. “I never heard her called nothing 'cept girl.”

He didn’t say it like she was a thing. Even in the middle of all the drugs and neglect, for some reason this kid had cared about her, just a little. I could sense that. I could see the title, not “girl” but an almost-name; Gurl.

“But who fed her and all that?”

“I brought her food sometimes. I would give her the core of my apple and once in a while, when the boss was passed out, I’d give her M&Ms. She loved those!” He grinned. “I’d set ‘em down and she’d grab a handful and stuff ‘em in her mouth and then play with the others, grouping them by color, you know? Then eating the rest one by one, a color at a time.”

That was good news. If she could sort things by color then she at least had a basic understanding of categories.

There was one other thing I had to ask. “With all the drugs and everything… Meth tends to…” How did I say it politely?

“Up your sexual drive,” Jesse came to my rescue, if bluntly.

“Yeah.” I tried not to flush. “But the doctor said no one bothered her that way.”

Jasper squirmed. “Well, I think maybe that’s why the boss kept her in the back room. You know, to make sure no one was bothering her. I was pretty much the only one he’d let in there.”

That explained that. So Garth at least had some kind of protective feelings for her. I wished I could talk to him, find out where she’d come from, why he had her in that situation.

“So you never saw the other guys interacting with her?”

“Well,” he squirmed again. “This one guy was sort of eyeing her. She was getting older, you know? That’s why I—” He broke off, his face paling. “I mean, I’m glad she’s safe now, that’s all.”

I made a mental note to mull over that response later.

“But there were plenty of other girls around. I guess that kept her safe too, you know?”

“Other girls?” Jesse broke in again. “Like prostitutes you mean?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He studied his hands like they were suddenly the most important thing in the room.

Something about how he’d said "girls" didn’t set right with me. “Other girls. Like what age?”

“I dunno.” He shifted again, his gaze darting from me to his hands to the floor.

A weight, a premonition, settled on my chest. “Jasper,” I braced a hand on my chair, “this is really important. Were these older girls, like your age? Or were they younger? Lots younger?”

His reply was barely a whisper. “Younger.”

It was just one word, but it hung there, draining every bit of air from the room. And with it, my secure world behind to fall apart.

© 2011 Amy Michelle Wiley

Joanne is hosting more Friday Fiction stories at An Open Book. Check it out for more great reads!

Friday Fiction: Lime-Green Castles

I will post a real blog update soon, I promise! In the mean time, here's a story for Friday Fiction, a weekly blog event many of my friends participate in. This week it's hosted at Karlene's blog, Homespun Expressions, where you can read other short stories. I've dusted off this old story of mine in honor of Kyron, a seven-year-old who disappeared from my area a few weeks ago. As you read the fiction story, please take a moment to pray for this very real family struggling with the same type of situation.

LIME-GREEN CASTLES

By Amy Michelle Wiley

The lime-green of the sign across the way brings it all back like it was yesterday. I had been sitting on the front porch with a lime popsicle. My hands were itchy from the juice that dribbled down the stick and my feet tapped along with the nameless little tune I hummed.

I can still hear the phone ring, the murmur of my mother’s voice as she answered. Now, the memory of that sound holds so much emotion, but then it was only normal, only another noise in the everyday life that surrounded me.

The footsteps as she walked toward the front door are so clear that even now I almost turn to look behind me. They are the sound of coming uncertainty, of horror, of pain so deep it still twinges.

Mom sat beside me on the wooden steps and it was only after I turned to look at her that I’d felt the first glimmer of what was to come. Her face was grey, twisting in a way I’d never seen. Silence stretched out until it touched the edge of infinity.

The words that finally came out of her mouth shattered my childhood innocence, scattering the pieces so far I’d never be able to entirely put it back together again.

“Mark,” she’d whispered, “your brother’s been…taken.”

For a time I couldn’t breathe. I asked no questions. Perhaps I needed no answers. Facts wouldn’t change the truth. Knowledge wouldn’t make it go away. I knew right then there would be no happy ending. The remains of my popsicle puddled at my feet, pale green liquid against the solid concrete.

The clarity of my memory ends there. The next days, years even, were filled with police questions. Searches for the red pickup that had been seen driving away with my brother. Drawings of the man we’d never before seen. Clues called into the hotline. Minds wracked, trying to remember something, anything that might help.

And always dead ends. Hopes that were dashed to the ground, so often that hope nearly died, laying stagnant at the bottom of our souls.

Yet there was a different kind of hope. It was what kept us alive. What got us up in the mornings, gave us strength to put one foot in front of the other. That hope was our faith. It was the knowledge that wherever Tommy was, wherever Tommy wasn’t, God was, too.

I spent much of those first few years away in my mind, filled with a mixture of memory and fantasies about me and Tommy. Tommy and I. Always they were set in the castle we’d created.

That castle had dominated all the real life play we’d had. I’m not sure when it had first started, but at some point in our late toddler years we’d both become fascinated with medieval times, and our play had become filled with knights, princes, and castles. Eventually the castle had become a staple of all our imaginings, even when we’d gone on to other interests.

By the time of Tommy’s kidnapping, the castle had become something even more solid than that, for it had become a part of heaven, a part of our final life goal, of our relationship with God. We’d spent hours talking about the castle we’d have in heaven, and how we’d walk the halls of our cherished building in the very presence of God. Perhaps we’d even have a pet dragon, and Jesus would teach us to ride horses.

Somehow as I look back, it’s as though I see the castle through lime green glasses. The tapestry patterns are green, and even the stone walls themselves have a faint hue of lime. I know my mental distance caused my parents even more worry, but it was the only way I knew to cope.

At some point during those years, a time long after the police had stopped making daily visits, even after my parents had stopped calling for updates, I overheard a conversation that I think changed all of us.

“Sometimes I pray he’s not still alive.” Mom’s voice was apologetic, tears straining just under the surface. “I hate to feel that. Feel guilty feeling that. But John,” I could picture her leaning closer against his chest, “to think of him in heaven is so much easier than to wonder of the horrors he’s gone through.”

There had been silence for a time, before her voice had continued, so faint I could hardly hear it.

“They keep telling us to go on with our lives, but when I go on I forget to pray. And if he’s still alive, he needs us to pray as hard as we can, every second of the day.” Her voice had broken then, and her sobs had been muffled by Dad pulling her tight.

Dad’s words had come full of pain, but full of something stronger, too. “Ellen, God is there just as much wherever Tommy is, whether in heaven, or on earth. We have to trust Him, honey. We need to go on and follow the path God has given us, and rest in the knowledge that God is big enough, strong enough to take care of Tommy for us.” I heard the soft sound of a kiss, and knew he’d kissed her forehead in the comforting way he had. “It’s time to let go. It’s time to give him completely over to God.”

From then on, I spent less time in the castle, and more time with my family and friends. My grades came back up, and I graduated high school with honors.

Now the three of us sit once again in the police station, Mom and Dad now grey-haired. Through the window the green sign across the way turns in a lopsided circle, advertising The Dragonfly Café.

The police had called last week. A man arrested for another crime had confessed to several murders, they told us. They have locations of bodies. They think Tommy may be one of them.

I don’t know what to feel. After so long of uncertainty, I don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

The policeman comes out now, holding a clear zip lock bag. “The dental records agree,” he tells us. “These are the things they found with him.” He sets the bag on the table gently.

Then I see it. It’s a plastic candy wrapper, marked with that writing I still know so well. I pull it a little closer, instinctively knowing it was meant for me. It’s crinkled and old, but I can just make out the words.

“I’ll be in the castle’s north court, riding horses with Jesus. See you there.”

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