Cause and Effect, A Fictional Short, Part 2

Chapter 2

1977

First, a quick summary of the domestic landscape. The brace of female ducklings, all grown, flew off to begin independent lives, leaving their youngest sibling (me) to deal with their overly protective parents. The tragic death of sister number five caused an unnatural gap between sisters one through four and sister number six. Thus, number six was now number five, growing up as both the ‘baby of the family’ and practically an only child.

So there I was, turning out not to be an ugly duckling, though it might have been better for Mom and Dad if I had. Their constant fretting that something bad would happen to me or that I would behave badly caused me to become a skilled liar. The less they knew the better. Most of the time, I wasn’t doing anything different than what my friends were doing with their parents’ approval. Some of the time, however, I was up to no good.

By 1977, I was fourteen. I’d already experienced my first cigarette – more than one. I’d already vomited from too much cherry vodka and I’d been to second base with one or two boys. Naturally, I liked boys a lot, as did most of my friends. And liking boys is really what caused this whole mess, so let me get on with it.

I remember the date well because it was in all of the newspapers: August 12, 1977. A few boys I knew decided to camp out in the woods and had invited the clique of popular girls to come hang out with them. As was often the case when other parents didn’t want to fulfill their parental responsibilities, the verdict was left to my parents. If Tess was allowed to go, the others could go too. Since my parents almost always said no, the other parents were off the hook. As a result, none of the girls were permitted to go that night.

Whispering on the telephone with my friend Cathy, we schemed and plotted. The plan: I would sleep over at her house and we would sneak out and walk to the party. My parents granted permission for the sleepover, not for a minute suspicious of our conniving. It never occurred to them we might walk six miles round trip just to see some boys and let them cop a feel for a few sips of beer, but that’s exactly what we had in mind.

Shortly after 11:00 p.m., Cathy’s parents passed out from one too many martinis. Wanting to ensure the backdoor would remain unlocked for our return, I placed a piece of masking tape over the door lock then we slipped out, setting our plan in motion. Dressed in jeans and hooded sweatshirts on a night that was too hot for both, we tiptoed across the pebbled driveway and entered the narrow berm along the river road. Infrequent street lamps lined the eerie highway causing occasional passing drivers to use their blinding high beams. The river on the other side, low from a dry summer, flowed at a lazy pace, in sharp contrast with our rapid gait.

About a mile into the journey, we approached the bowling alley, still buzzing with activity both inside and out in the parking lot. As we approached the well-lit intersection, a patrol car cruised by. The officer focused his attention on the folks leaving the bowling alley giving us a moment to duck behind an 18-wheeler cab parked across the street in the trucking company parking lot.

Crouched behind the truck, wondering if we’d been spotted, we considered abandoning our mission. We’d only been out of the house a little more than 15 minutes so Cathy’s parents were surely still asleep. We wouldn’t get caught if we’d just turn around now. Too bad we didn’t.

Peaking around the side of the truck we spied the taillights of the patrol car as it continued down the street. We’d gone undetected. With renewed bravado, we pressed on.

Finally off the river road, we zigzagged through dark alleys and poorly lit side streets making our way through town. We walked and we walked hardly saying a word to each other, both knowing what would happen if we got caught. Cathy would get a good talking to and I’d be grounded until I was 32.

We reached a section of town unfamiliar to both of us. If our town had a ghetto, this was it. The neighborhood whose streets were lined with rundown duplexes appeared to be sleeping, but just in case anyone was lurking in the shadows we pulled the hoods over our heads and walked arm in arm pretending to be a couple rather than two young vulnerable females. Sweat gathered under my armpits and my shoulder length hair stuck to the back of my neck. Halfway there, we were committed to the plan.

A direct route to the woods would include passing by my house, but I was certain if I came within a few blocks of the place, my parents would sense my presence, so I charted a course to circumvent the area. You might be wondering at this point why we chose to stay at Cathy’s house instead of my own, which was much closer to the party. This is because you don’t fully understand my parents.

The last quarter mile of the journey was the most physically challenging. The hill just before the woods felt like Kilimanjaro. My jeans rubbed at my skinny, damp inner thighs and my feet hurt. We panted as we reached the peak and started back downhill anticipating the merriment ahead.

Finally, we made it to the appointed spot – the street at the edge of the woods where the boys said they would be.

“Pssst Pssst. It’s us. Tess and Cathy.” I called out in a loud whisper.
One of the boys whose name I probably shouldn’t mention emerged from the woods. Surprised we’d actually followed through with the crazy plan, he led us back to their camp. Literally – and I’m not exaggerating about this – the minute we were at the camp greeting the other boys, police sirens began blaring in the distance.

We all froze. Cathy and I looked at each other, eyes bulging, hearts racing. We’d been caught. We knew it. Her parents must have awakened, discovered our empty beds and called my parents who called the police. We were dead meat. Shit! Shit! Shit! The boys were thinking the same thing. They wanted us gone just as much as we wanted to be gone.

We retraced our path exactly the way we had come. Up and down the hill. Even faster this time. Once again we circumvented my house, though tempted for a moment to sneak by to see if any lights were on. Then, we started through the ghetto. Almost running now. And that’s when it happened. That’s when we knew we hadn’t been caught.

The previously sleepy neighborhood was ablaze with flashing lights from four police cars converged in the parking lot of the small neighborhood grocery store. I halted abruptly, lifting my arm, blocking Cathy from advancing into the chaos. We looked at each other and I placed my finger over my lips, “Shhh.” Slowly and quietly, on tiptoes we backed up and turned around. Retracing our steps, we turned into an alley paralleling the commotion-filled area. To our right, the houses and trees were flickering silhouettes created by the unsynchronized cruiser lights two blocks over. Residents now awake, emerged onto their back porches, curious about the hubbub. Arm in arm once again, hoods back over our heads, we acted as though we too, were nosy onlookers. All the while making our way out of the ghetto.

We were breathing easier, first because we were sure the sirens were not for us and second because we’d skirted through the chaos without drawing attention to ourselves. We were close to home now with only about a mile to go.

The bowling alley was no longer a flurry of activity, having closed at midnight. Cutting through the empty parking lot, we crossed into the trucking company lot closing in on the same truck that had provided us cover earlier that night. As we approached the 18- wheeler cab, I heard a shuffling sound, stones on sneakers, coming from the other side of the truck. Again, I threw my arm in front of Cathy’s body stopping her from forward motion. We looked at each other, listening intently with knitted eyebrows and expanded chests, holding our breath. Slowly hunching over, I peered under the cab. The space between the tires was empty. Whoever was behind that truck, and I was positive someone was there, must have been crouched behind the tires. I straightened up and looked at Cathy, who appeared ready to vomit.

I had to think fast. It was a stand off. I knew that he knew we were on the other side. But he didn’t know that we were two young girls. And he wasn’t moving. Did he intend to jump us as we passed or was he actually trying to avoid us? I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t seem to matter since we only had one option. I grabbed Cathy’s hand and raised my other hand into a fist. Slowly and deliberately I lifted one finger, than another. One. Two. On three we bolted past the truck and onto the river road.

Several yards beyond the truck, I couldn’t help myself. I turned to see if we were being pursued. That’s when I saw him clear as day. Standing in the place where I’d pictured him moments earlier. Leaning against the large cab tires, illuminated by the streetlight above, he looked relieved. That is, he looked relieved until our eyes locked. For a split second, a flash in time, a frozen moment, I saw him plain as day. And I saw something else too. His shirt was ripped and there were dark stains down the front. Abruptly, I skidded to a halt causing Cathy, who was still gripping my hand, to stumble. She quickly regained her balance, grabbed the corner of my sweatshirt and pulled me back into a sprint. The man didn’t move.

We made it back to Cathy’s driveway at record speed. At least it felt that way. The house remained completely dark. Avoiding the stones covering the driveway, we tiptoed through the grass, and up to the unlocked backdoor. A single floorboard creaked as we crept up the stairs to her bedroom.

Safely in her bed, stripped down to t-shirts, too wound up to sleep I asked, “Did you see him?”

“No.” She replied, “Did you?”

“No.” I lied.