Angel Fire, Valmore Daniels [rosie project txt] 📗

>Two elderly women stared at me with pinched faces. I forced my eyes ahead, but I couldn’t avert my ears. The blue-haired old biddy sitting next to the window tried to keep her voice low, but I heard her anyway.

“I don’t know why they let them on the bus. There should be a rule.”

As I passed by, I set my jaw and pretended not to hear. I told myself not to let it get to me, but then her silver-haired companion clutched her purse tighter in her fat arms.

I barked, “You don’t have to worry about your purse, lady. I wasn’t in for robbery; I was in for manslaughter!”

They both gasped in astonishment, but I could take no pleasure in their reaction. I’d let myself slip, and that was something I had vowed not to do.

I walked past them, and ignored the sudden interest of the passengers who’d overheard me. All the while, I told myself to calm down. There was bound to be more confrontation in the days ahead, and if I couldn’t overlook two old gossips, how was I going to manage to control the rest of my life?

I had a sudden urge to turn around and run back into the comforting arms of the prison. Instead, I reached the seat by the window, sat down, and stared out as the bus pulled off into the strange and frightening world of my new found freedom.

I didn’t let anyone see the tears misting in my eyes. I didn’t let anyone know that, inside, I was just a frightened little girl who wanted nothing more than to have someone take me in their arms and say, “Everything’s going to be all right.” What I wanted and what I would get were two different things.

I’d met a lot of cruel and petty people in my life, and if you showed them even a tiny crack in your armor, they would see your weakness and attack. Hatred, misunderstanding, fear, and intolerance ran rampant in strangers, and if you let it get to you, it would tear you apart.

The passengers on the bus radiated everything from indifference at one end to complete animosity at the other. But I had to be strong. I had to act tough. I had to be as hard as stone.

Like a child afraid of the dark, I told myself over and over again to be brave.

There was much worse ahead of me:

I was going home.

 

Chapter Three

As the bus hurtled down the highway, passing small towns, farms, ranches, decrepit barns and run-down gas stations, my anxiety slowly slipped away.

I absorbed every sight. I drank in the colors and contrasts. I gawked at passengers in cars and minivans. I let my imagination run riot with the notion that all possibilities lay ahead of me. The future was wide open, like the road ahead of us, and I felt giddy with the thoughts of how wonderful my life was going to be.

No doubt my fellow passengers wondered if I had come from a different kind of institution, the way I grinned like an idiot when I saw a herd of horses with their spring foals playing a game of tag in a grassy field.

I didn’t care. Let them think what they wanted; I was free and although I dreaded going home, I was looking forward to starting over and rebuilding my life. Fate had given me a second chance to do things right, and this time I was determined to do just that.

The tiniest wave of uncertainty ran through me as we passed a road sign: Welcome to Middleton, AZ. (pop. 2628)

Starting over was good and all, and my social reintegration counselor at the prison had encouraged me to repair my relationships with my family, rather than relocate to a new town and start over.

“Running away is merely avoiding the problems in your life,” he told me. “The only way to resolve the issues in your past is to address them in the present.”

That wave of uncertainty turned into a deep-seated feeling of unease. I had some pretty big issues to resolve. For one thing, my uncle, Edward, hadn’t spoken more than two words in a row to me in the past ten years.

The bus driver slowed the bus as we approached the dusty parking lot of the Lazy Z Motel—a one-level, sprawling old building set at an angle to the highway.

The bus wheeled into the lot and unexpectedly lurched to a stop at the last moment, throwing me into the back of the seat in front of me. Someone’s knapsack fell off the overhead rack, giving one passenger an unpleasant start; and a half-full can of soda toppled, spilling liquid over a young woman’s sneakers.

After muscling the door release open, the driver, ignoring the grumbling from his passengers, grabbed a clipboard and pen and logged his progress.

“Middleton,” he announced in a disinterested voice as he un-wedged himself from his seat and ambled down the steps.

I was the only one to stand up. Everyone else, it seemed, was moving on to Flagstaff or beyond.

Ignoring the glares from the two old biddies, I made my way up the aisle. As I neared the exit, I took a deep breath. For a short time, the bus had been a safe haven. Now, like a newborn chick leaving the nest for the first time, I had to muster all the bravery I could and make that leap into the wide world to test my wings.

At the top of the stairs, I faltered. There was no safety net, no one to catch me if I fell. If I took one more step, I would be completely on my own.

Behind me, the blue-haired old woman rolled her eyes and let out an impatient cough.

Outside, the driver unceremoniously dropped my duffel bag on the gravel, sending up a small plume of dust.

“Your stop?”

I nodded and took my first real step into freedom; but one single step was all I could bring myself to take.

Drawing in a deep breath, I centered myself. I had to gather my courage and face the present.

“Can you speed it up, lady?” said the driver.

I flashed a weak smile and took another step away from the bus, giving him enough room to maneuver his bulk back inside. The door closed with the sound of permanence. There was no going back.

Long after the bus pulled away, I remained standing at the shoulder of the road, my bag at my feet and my heart in my throat.

* * *

The Lazy Z Motel was exactly as I remembered it, and its familiarity was just enough to get me moving. I hefted my duffel bag and walked into the front office.

Bracing myself for the worst, I was thrown off by the unexpected: there was no one there.

The office, however, was a total disaster. Papers were scattered all over the counter, binders were piled on top of directories and magazines. An old style rotary telephone was smudged with the dirt of a thousand oily fingers, and a musty guestbook was open at a page that had more coffee stains than signatures. Beside an old computer monitor a rack of outdated maps awaited a purchase that would never happen. A buzzing fly circled a bowl of unwrapped candies as if wary of a possible trap.

The office itself was small and cramped, and half of it was dedicated as a customers’ lounge. Two long benches were pressed up against either wall, the orange cushions tattered and dusty. A folding table served as a coffee station—the only area that looked tended to and clean. An ancient picture of an abandoned barn hung over the coffee machine.

I approached the desk, dropped my bag on the floor, and rang the silver bell.

A deep voice preceded the man who stepped out of the back room: “Be with you in a—”

Uncle Edward was taller than he appeared. Like many people who towered over others, his shoulders had developed a slouch in an attempt to seem less imposing. Weathered skin hung loose from his lean face. He was in his late fifties but could easily have passed for someone a decade older. His short-cropped hair, once a dark brown, had turned gray and had receded in a widow’s peak.

Not the most personable man in Middleton, Uncle Edward nevertheless had been in business for years and had learned to put on an air of quiet professionalism when it came to his customers, whether they were one-time patrons passing through on their way to destinations unknown, or if it was someone like Wild Will Tyler, kicked out of his house every other weekend by his shrill wife for having one too many drinks down at The Trough after a seven-day stint at the dog food factory.

That professional demeanor evaporated the moment he saw me, and the smile melted from his lips.

I held my breath and waited for him to speak.

“Darcy.” His voice was monotone, tinged with a hint of disappointment and annoyance. “When did you get out?”

“Nice to see you, too, Uncle Edward.”

Elastic silence stretched between us until it reached the breaking point.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” he growled. His words felt like a punch in the stomach.

I suddenly wanted to run from the room and never look back. It was a horrible mistake to think I could ever come home again. My counselor was wrong: it was much easier to run away and start all over again in a place where no one knew my past, the terrible things I’d done, or the misery I’d caused.

“I tried to call, but all I got was the machine. I left a message.” With every ounce of courage I could muster, I made my voice affable.

Uncle Edward didn’t budge. “Don’t remember any message.”

“I said I was getting out today.”

“Yeah…?”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry.

“I was … hoping you could put me up for a while. Just until I can sort some things out.”

Uncle Edward leveled his eyes at me, drew his lips tighter. “How long?”

The lump in my throat prevented me from breathing.

Just then, a hurricane in blue sweatpants and a yellow flower-print shirt burst through the door.

Where Uncle Edward was tall and lean, Aunt Martha was short and heavyset—‘happy fat’ was how she described herself.

Aunt Martha ripped off her yellow rubber gloves and, with a broad smile, threw her arms around me, nearly bowling both of us over in her enthusiasm.

“Darcy! You should have told me you were coming today. I thought you said they might not let you out until next week.”

Casting a disapproving glance at my uncle, who pursed his lips, I said, “Thought I’d surprise you.”

“Oh my Lord, you did! I just about peed myself when I saw you. We missed you so much around here. It’s been too quiet. I’m so glad to see you. So you’re here to stay?”

Uncle Edward’s frown deepened. I pretended not to notice.

“If it’s not too much trouble. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

Aunt Martha clucked her tongue. “Pish-posh.” She flicked her hand at her husband. “Edward. Quit being a bump. Grab her bags.” She beamed at me. “We’ll put you in room fourteen on the end.”

“Thank you, Aunt Martha.”

“Not at all. Go get yourself cleaned up. I have a million questions, but we can catch up over lunch. I have to get out of these smelly work clothes. I’m not dressed for company.”

But she wasn’t going to let me go that easily. Grinning from ear to ear, she held my hands out and gave me a good once-over. With a cluck of