content warnings
abduction, mature content
[1194 words]
He jerks the wheel to the right, careens into the almost invisible trailhead at the side of the road—unlit and secluded beneath the sparse birch and pine trees. The sudden stop almost sends him through the windshield, sends her crashing into the back of his seat. The screaming starts up again. His nostrils flare as he spins toward her. Will you shut the hell up so I can think! Her shrieks die to a whimper. Still distracting, but far more manageable. He takes a deep breath, rests a temple on the driver’s side window. The cool feels good. He needs to regain control. No one knows he took her. There’s no one behind them following. He’s safe. For now. He wrestles his phone out of his pocket, then stops. If her mother sees his name pop up, she’ll ignore the call. He looks into the back seat and snatches the phone clenched in her daughter’s trembling hands. Shoots her a cold look, shutting down the beginnings of her protest. It’s already unlocked. He scrolls through her most recent texts, finds one from earlier in the evening labeled Momma. He wipes the blood from the screen onto his pants before hitting the phone icon and holding it up to his ear.
Waiting in the ringing, his eyes are in the rearview mirror, sizing up the small shape silently heaving behind him. He racks his brain for something, anything. A solution. If he had had time to think this through, to plan, he would have had a towel, a garbage bag, a plastic tarp on hand. But there was no time, no plan. He was operating on instinct. A “crime of passion” they call it. And it was not his fault. It was hers. And now her daughter was leaking red in his back seat. He rummages a napkin from the center console and roughly tosses it over his shoulder so she can staunch her nose, clean herself up a little.
Voicemail. There’s no point in leaving a message. He suddenly misses the days of corded house phones, the ability to slam a receiver in frustration. It was after 8pm on a Friday night. Keeping her phone on––even in case of an emergency––was the last thing on her mind. He knows her, her type. She was probably out with another in the revolving door of local gomers who hump in and out of her house, fall in and out of her bed. Fleeing before what they’d be forced to face in the harsh light of the sun. He wishes he were surprised, but she’s always had a knack for being unavailable when it mattered most, and now her kid is the latest victim. A stereotype from daytime TV would be better than the truth. A four pack a day habit? A cheap bottle of red wine every night? A heroin addiction? No. Just simple neglect and a series of piss-poor choices masquerading as self-care. He looks back: the kid has started shaking like she’s cold. But at least the sobbing is barely audible.
He dials again. He’s trying not to blame the kid, but he’s wondering how she ended up here, if the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. He knew her mother’s relationships barely last beyond two weeks. How she pursues every red-flagged, mouth-breathing, dude-bro who will compliment her ass and ignore her lack of personality and self-respect. He knew enough about her childhood, her high school and college years, but he was done making excuses for her. She’s a grown woman, with a kid for Christ’s sake! Voicemail again. In the rearview he sees the shaking has been replaced with a slow, gentle rocking. “Self-soothing” he thinks it’s called. The bleeding has slowed to a trickle.
Chin tilting to the roof, eyes on the treetops, he rubs the back of his neck. Eventually he’ll have to explain things to the police. How he had been walking through the mall when he saw a commotion tumbling toward him from the food court, half hidden behind the crush of post-holiday bodies shopping, handling returns and exchanges, fleeing family-crowded homes. How his six-foot-two advantage allowed him to partially peer over the press, to see her speed-walking arrested by an arm wrapped around her waist from behind. To see her spun around to face one of them, a grip securing her forearm, the other hand cupping, no, clamping her chin and cheeks. To see her wince. To see the others catch up, sneering, laughing, surrounding her. To see them pull her toward one of the dimly lit hallways one assumes is for bathrooms or storage or waste management, but no one ever ventures down to find out. A mother pulled her daughter closer and ushered her away. A middle-aged man shook his head, smirking or ashamed. Most of the crowd pretended not to notice. No one moved toward them. Honestly, he’s not sure what he would have done had he not recognized her, seen her mother’s face beneath those terrorized brown eyes.
He’ll tell the cops he’s not sure if he accidentally elbowed her in the nose, or if the back of one of their heads caught her in the face as they went down. How it might have been from their wild swinging or the flailing of the one who stumbled away with a shattered ankle. How he knows that fingers and arms aren’t meant to bend that way, but they’re young and have time to heal. Besides, he could have blinded all of them. How when he pulled her through the employees’ exit and into the parking lot, he was operating on autopilot. She was moving without purpose or sight, allowing herself to be dragged by the hand behind him. How he barely glanced at the precarious state of her pink top before throwing his coat around her shoulders. How he just wished she’d move faster, not drawing so many curious eyes making so much goddamned noise. How, mercifully, his car was only a few rows over and he had to bodily toss her into the backseat. How he mostly ignored thinking about how the one who grabbed her was still pooled on the red checkered linoleum when they ran. There were probably cameras. This was the last thing he needed. Especially for…fuck. How he engaged the child-safety lock before putting the car in drive.
He tries calling again. Still no answer. He slams a fist into the steering wheel. The horn elicits a squeal from behind him. The sobbing starts again. He wishes she were in shock or something quieter. He allows his head to fall into his hands and decides to take her home. He assumes she has a key. If not, he knows where the spare is ill-hidden beside the slab beneath the backdoor. He’ll wait with her until her mother comes stumbling across the short driveway and into the kitchen with her latest “friend” and tell her what happened. He’ll use small words. He’s always avoided conversations about her parenting, except for that one time. What kind of a mother…? Maybe this will snap her out of it. But probably not.
Matthew E. Henry (MEH) is the author of six poetry collections. He’s editor-in-chief of The Weight Journal, the creative nonfiction editor at Porcupine Literary, and an associate editor at Rise Up Review. MEH’s poetry and prose publications include Barren Magazine, Had, Massachusetts Review, Mayday, Mom Egg Review, Ploughshares, Redivider, Stone Circle Review, Terrain, The Worcester Review and Zone 3. MEH is an educator who received his MFA yet continued to spend money he didn’t have completing an MA in theology and a PhD in education. He’s at www.MEHPoeting.com writing about education, race, religion, and burning oppressive systems to the ground.
