Amelia went running before dawn.
Her cinnamon colored hair was tied back in a perky ponytail, she wore her boyfriend Seth's gray hooded sweatshirt.
Amelia had run since her freshman year in high school, when her Grandmother had encouraged it as a healthy way to drop some pounds. By her senior year she was on the track team and was one of the top long-distance runners in her high school.
She'd had to give up running briefly then, but by college she'd returned to it.
It gave her time to herself, and time to think.
Her usual route through the neighborhood where she and Seth lived took her by the morning perch of Officer Studer, the campus cop who patrolled their neighborhood overnight. All things being right with the universe he'd be eating a bearclaw and reading the campus newspaper in his gold and black cruiser-he was also a night student-and he would give her a hearty wave. If she was feeling sociable she'd come chat for a moment, but if not he always understood and let her run on.
This morning in particular Amelia had awakened with a head full of things and she didn't feel like chatting with Officer Studer, kind as he was.
She stopped at the corner of Siegel and Waycross, running in place, and there was Officer Studer. He raised a hand, smiling, and she returned the smile. She waved and indicated with her head she'd be running down Siegel Street today. He nodded, flapped the newspaper and continued reading.
Amelia's forte had always been endurance. That was how she won long-distance races in school. Though she no longer ran for any reason but peace of mind she still had remarkable endurance. She was fairly sure she could handle a marathon and would love to do one when her studies weren't so demanding.
The sky across the horizon, where Siegel tapered to a point, was red and angry purple with sunrise. She remembered a silly rhyme she'd heard growing up. "Red Sky at night, Sailor's delight
Red Sky at morning, Sailor take warning."
Amelia wondered if that only applied at sea.
No matter. It was early June and quite warm already-she really kind of liked running in the rain. There was something romantic about it. She'd just tie the hoodie around her waist, give the passing businessmen and schoolboys a thrill in her black sports bra.
The little rhyme about red skies cycled through her mind again. Where had she heard it?
Dad. Dad told her that one.
Amelia came to the next cross street, Wrangle. If she went north she'd hit the main campus in less than a mile, south would take her off campus and into the 'burbs. With no hesitation she headed south. Her pacing was even, breathing steady, in through the nose, out through the mouth.
Dad loved little rhymes and witticisms like that. She wondered if he'd memorized Ben Franklin's lame old Poor Richard's Almanac sayings in his youth. That was something Dad would have done.
Dad was on her mind when Amelia awoke that morning. Dad, Bryan, the trees.
That was a lot.
Usually highly conscious of everything she did as a runner, Amelia picked up the pace.
Thinking.
About Bryan.
Bryan first made himself known to her when he threw a rock through her bedroom window. They were both 11.
She was listening to a new cd, somebody named Britney something or other, it was okay but not huge, and here came this terrible crash. She looked to see a round, stream-polished rock bouncing across her bed, a white sheet of paper taped to it.
Her heart pounding she picked it up. The note simply said, "Hi, this always works in movies. My name's Bryan. I'm outside!"
She went to her window to see a spindly kid with black hair hanging over his white cheeks standing by the greenhouse, which was directly below her window. He smiled. She was ready to call the police on the psycho but his smile stopped her cold. It was as genuine and kind a smile as she'd seen on a boy her age in a long time.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she called down to him, "My Dad is gonna kill you!"
"I'm sorry. Seriously. I'll tell him myself and do whatever he wants to fix it."
(...Do whatever he wants...) Dangerous words to say about Dad, Amelia thought.
Dad wasn't home that day. She invited Bryan up and they played monopoly until the sun went down.
She liked him, a lot. His dark hair flipping every where, his too-tall body, just starting to thicken, his voice freshly minted, still cracking around the edges.
They realized it was dark and Bryan said he had to get home. He wrote a note out to Amelia's dad explaining the window and that he would take care of it whatever way he could. Amelia took it and said she'd give it to him first thing when he came home.
Bryan stopped at the screen door, just inside. Twilight framed him, a head taller than her, looking much older for a moment than 11 with his height and curiously, the look on his face.
"Hey, can I kiss you?"
Amelia was shocked. Utterly. A boy her age wanting to kiss her? She'd had older boys come on to her, developing as quickly, as early as she had. She'd been good at putting them down, mostly out of fear, but this time, without another word, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Bryan.
He didn't know how to kiss, but she did, and showed him.
He broke the kiss after a moment, obviously out of breath and fumbling for something to say or do.
"I gotta go." he turned and headed out. She wondered if he'd start running once on the sidewalk.
He didn't. He stopped and turned and watched the house for a moment. She waved, smiled.
Amelia shut and locked the door and raced upstairs, Bryan's note in hand. She tore it to pieces and threw it in the toilet, and flushed.
An hour later Dad was home. He could see the shattered window from where he pulled up to park.
Dad towered in her bedroom door, a long shadow cast by the low yellow hall light.
Amelia tried to pretend she was sleeping.
"What happened to the window, dear?" he asked. His voice was low and mellifluous. A voice that charmed everyone who heard it. It was his stock and trade as a local talkshow host on the biggest AM radio station in town.
She hated it when he called her 'dear.'
Amelia didn't answer.
The sunrise wasn't having much success this morning. Amelia was feeling good, though. The sense that one's body has turned into a functioning autonomous machine, almost separate (but not really) from the brain was part of what she knew as a runner's high. It had been her success as a runner, this slow and steady separation of body from mind.
The pavement on the sidewalks was growing bumpy, was in worse repair as she crossed the basically invisible line that separated campus from the older suburbs beyond. Seth had warned her countless times about going this way to run, but he didn't understand that she knew this area like the back of her hand. She'd grown up here, all these streets were home. Back then, campus was the place that was forbidden-the college kids were crazy, the cops would think you were up to something-these neighborhoods were a rather even racial blend, and in spite of some occasional street crimes that made too much news, Amelia knew they were safe. They were still home.
The sun was up now, a bloody sphere hanging suspended among dark gray and purple shreds of cloud. The rhyme repeated itself. "Red Sky at Night..."
Amelia shook her head, slinging sweat. She paused at a cross street-Milton-running in place, looking down. A garbage truck came grumbling by, and the latino man hanging on the corner closest to her leered. Without any forethought she flipped up her sweatshirt, pulled down the sportsbra, showing him a pretty brown nipple. Then just as quickly she lifted her middle finger and, mouthed "fuck you, creep" and crossed Milton, resuming her pace.
Men.
Then there was Bryan, again.
"You ever play chess?" asked Bryan.
Amelia was doing a new thing-something her friend Heather had suggested-laying out in the sun to get a tan. She was wearing a two piece and covered with suntan oil. Bryan stood a respectful distance away. He was dressed all in black, apparently his usual choice, his only nod to the warm weather.
Amelia sat up, an arm reflexively covering her breasts, though they were well covered by the bright green flowerprint bikini top. "Chess? What? What are you doing here?"
"I was wondering if you played chess," Bryan said.
She shook her head. "Well, no, I don't. And if my Dad sees you out here-"
"What? I'm not doing anything."
"Yeah, still-"
"Come to my house, then."
She thought about this. Dad was in his green house, hard at work-his favored hobby, pruning, planting, grafting flowers-and he usually didn't care where she went during the day as long she told him.
"Hang on," she said.
She put on her little terry cloth robe and flip-flops and jogged around to the entrance of the greenhouse. Dad stood bent over what looked like one of his bonsai, dark eyes intent, lips pursed. A familiar expression that even now made her uncomfortable. "Dad?"
"Yes, baby?" he didn't look her, continued his pruning.
"Can I go to Heather's? She's got another cd she wants me to hear-Christina Agui-something or other."
Now he looked up, his gaze boring into her. Even if you were a masterful liar Dad was the kind of man who made you feel as if he saw through it all.
Then he smiled. "Be home before supper, or you'll be in trouble."
The smile was meant to be indulgent, the gentle father doting on his only baby, his girl, but Dad's smiles rarely reached his eyes, and all Amelia could think to do was to get away from that smile. She said, "Thank you, Daddy." and turned and ran back to meet Bryan.
So that day she learned to play chess. Early on it was obvious Bryan was something of a genius at it, and he was also a good teacher. By the end of the day she was challenging him, catching little holes in his strategy and capitalizing on them.
They sat on Bryan's porch drinking kool-aid mixed by his Mom, a portly woman older than Amelia's Dad, she had the manner of a former schoolteacher. It turned out she was. She called Amelia 'dear' and Amelia didn't mind.
"Why haven't I heard from your Dad?" asked Bryan.
Think fast, she told herself-"Oh, he said it wasn't that big a deal. He has insurance on stuff like that. It paid for it."
She had no idea if Dad had any such insurance. She knew he was big on such things-it had saved them as a family when Mom died, the payment from her life-insurance policy kept them afloat. Whatever the case, the truth couldn't be told right now.
Bryan seemed to accept her explanation readily enough. She wondered, as his deepset eyes didn't give a lot away. "He doesn't like you having friends, does he?"
The question was a little too close. "Well, no...I mean...boys, you know, um-"
"I know. Really. You lied to him to come over here, didn't you?"
She nodded, not looking at him, mute.
Bryan brushed his lips against her cheek. "You should go home, sun's almost down."
She touched the cheek he'd kissed. It had sent an intense thrill through her, not just physical, but emotional. Looking at him she thought she wanted to stay here forever, just beside this tall strange boy, at his nice house with his dowdy mom calling her dear.
She had to go home.
She went, knowing Bryan was watching her go from his porch.
When she came in the front door she saw immediately that Dad was mad about something. He'd been cleaning. The buffer he used on the hardwood floor in the foyer was out and the house smelled of lemon pledge. Her throat closed and stomach rumbled. She turned, looking into the living room, which was dark, and the office opposite where he kept his computer and books. "Dad?"
"AMELIA."
The voice came from the top of the stairs. Not shouted, but firm and implacable command in the tone. A voice not to be denied.
"Yes?"
"Did I tell you to get home before sundown?"
"Yes, sir."
"What time is it?"
She looked at the large oak grandfather clock that stood against the wall next to the stairs. "It's 6:25 p.m. sir."
"According to my friend at the station offical sundown was 6:20." Dad said. He had not moved from his position in the dark at the top of the stairs.
Amelia wanted to scream. She wanted to run, run like hell. This was not fair, she knew it with every fiber of her being.
"DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?" he demanded.
"No, sir."
"Come here, little girl."
"Red sky at night...sailors afright
Red Sky at morning take warning..."
No respite for those poor sailors then, thought Amelia.
Mentally she calculated she'd covered 4 miles. Her pace this morning was great. She wondered if the thoughts running rampant through her head were fuelling such a good run.
Running. Great way to flee, at least for a moment. Her 'anti-drug.'
She almost laughed, but there was some truth to it. Surely any other girl would have done drugs.
Running was also a way of reminding yourself you were alive.
After the dream she'd wrenched herself free of this morning she needed that reminder.
She'd had this dream off and on for 4 years, and she was now 22. She'd not gone to therapy for it, no disclosed the content of all of it to anyone.
It seemed to be something she needed to keep inside, at least for now.
It was always the same, this dream. Nighttime. Wind, everywhere-she can see things, trees, signs, blowing in the wind. In the dream it feels very humid and cloying around her, like breathing is hard.
She is standing on the sloping roof of Dad's green house, something that would have been very unsafe, maybe impossible in real life, and walking toward the dropoff to the lawn below.
Down there some people are singing a hymn.
She sees a small gathering of people dressed in mourning clothes, all their faces veiled, even the men. They are singing like old time country folk, lusty and loud with twang. In the center a woman, the only one dressed in white, holds a baby, swaddled in a starkly white christening gown. It is not crying. It's eyes are wide open, and as she looks down she looks straight into the child's eyes. A tremendous feeling of fear and revulsion takes her over, and usually at this point in the dream she started to become aware it was a dream and want out.
Then the dream changes and she is walking up behind her father. His head is in a hole dug in the ground, in the middle of a huge lawn that seems a little like the one behind her home in real life as a child.
He is doing something very avidly, she can't see. She tries to speak to him, but can't get his attention. Finally she comes around to see what he is doing.
His face is covered with mud, his mouth filled with it, and as she watches he eats more, gathering it with great scoops of his outspread arms.
Worst of all are his eyes when she sees this. They are empty holes.
Crows come and peck and pull. They leave her eyes alone, though. They still stare, empty, straight up through the upper most limbs of the tree.
Rain washes them but cannot dull the sunken gray color they've adopted.
Gases have made her abdomen rise in a way she would have found unsightly in life.
Night falls, in the west in shades of crimson and neon orange.
Sailors in various places surely are taking warning...
to be continued....
