Diversionary Fires

By Rodney Ross

From the award-winning author of 'The Cool Part of His Pillow'...
Tara Atwater holds the right combination of numbers to the record-breaking Ohio state lottery. But what to do about the man, stabbed to death, on the kitchen floor? It was, after all, his ticket. A diversionary fire might be the answer. Left in her grandparents' care as her reckless mother worked the carnival circuit, Tara learned about sleight-of-hand flame, purposely created to distract from something far bigger, at age nine. As decades flicker past, from the 1970s until the beginning of a global pandemic, the diversionary fire is a strange art that will touch her and those she loves. From the most marginal of means to unimagined wealth and status, Tara learns that good luck and bad luck, no matter how dense the inferno, can look a lot alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rodney Ross
• Release date: Sep 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201602284

Rodney Ross

Author Rodney Ross lives, writes and sweats in Southern California. His new novel, 'Diversionary Fires', debuted mid-Summer 2021 from Amazon KDP Select. 'The Cool Part Of His Pillow', his debut novel, was the 1st Place Winner in the GLBT Fiction category from both the Indie Excellence Awards and the Next Generation Indie Book Awards; Silver Medalist in the 2013 Global EBook Awards; and Honorable Mention in the 2012 Rainbow Book Awards. In 2020, it was re-issued in a 2nd edition by JMS Books. Other works include the forthcoming novella 'Smoking With Didi,' from JMS Books in the Fall of 2021; 'Signing Off' in the short story collection' Impact', from Other World Ink; 'Otis,' a short fiction about a Christmas Eve where lessons are taught and learned; 'Bended Knee', a short, bittersweet contemplation of same-sex marriage; and a non-fiction contribution to the 'The Other Man: Twenty-One Top Writers Speak Candidly About Sex, Love, Infidelity, Heartbreak and Moving On'. A trio of essays from this book are being adapted into a play by Chicago playwright Bernard Rice. Rodney's work is one of the three. Past achievements include an optioned screenplay and play, both currently unproduced. Other screenplays earned Honorable Mentions or runners-up citations in the Monterey County Film Commission, FADE-IN and the LGBT One-In-Ten Screenwriting Competitions. Ross was also cited as 'Most Creative' in the Key West Mystery Fest Writing Competition. Follow him @rodtross on Twitter; access his website at www.rodneytross.com

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Reflecting Ball

By age nine, Teryl Lyn Atwater had learned about abandonment, negotiation and how to pluck suckers off a tomato plant, all helpful for what lay ahead. The lesson that would serve her best, however, was her indoctrination into the art of the diversionary fire by Grandmother Beryl, her mentor in flame.

* * * *

Teryl hated the Sturdivant man from the get-go, even before he moved in across the street.

That’s my house.

She’d had the run of the vacant property since she came to live with her grandparents. It was her playground. Hopscotch was still faintly chalked on the driveway. Hidden somewhere was a box of Lemonheads. She’d even buried a pair of her drawers after accidentally soiling them.

It was the nicest house on the block, although repairs were needed. The door of the attached garage had been only nine-tenths closed for over a year; a lush poison-something cloaked the chimney; and the front steps had chipped into little slate piles. Because it also featured a large barn-like shed independent of the house, it always commanded a higher rent.

Her ownership came to its end when a bundle of Mr. Sturdivant’s redirected mail to Hobart, Ohio, had been inadvertently left by the postman with her grandmother. With her lower lip tucked under, Beryl announced, Boyohboyohboyohboy, how can you trust a man with a turd in his name?

From the change-of-address affixed to the bundled envelopes, he was moving from a town called Niles in Kentucky.

And what attracts all these Kentuckians here?

To Beryl, the only thing worse than dealing with a Kentuckian was being one. Teryl remembered a little about Kentucky. Kentucky was goldfish in plastic baggies, rolling over railroad tracks into the next town and a Ferris Wheel in a parking lot. Those were the days when she, her mother Cheryl and a man named Grover worked the fairs, living in a trailer with Monticello Attractions painted on both sides, one of a caravan that quickly set up carnivals, monster truck rallies and demolition derbies. Then Monticello Attractions said they couldn’t live in the trailer anymore. She was brought to Hobart to her grandmother Beryl, who she called Grandma Ber like bear, and Grandpa Merrill, who she called DewDad.

Quit your spying out the screen door, Teryl Lyn.

With her teeth out, Grandma Ber was almost unintelligible. In the three years that Teryl had resided at 912 O’Leary, she had watched Ber lose teeth to a dinner roll and corn on the cob (two on the same ear). When she broke one of her canines while eating cantaloupe, she had them all pulled. DewDad had dentures too. A can of Mountain Dew was always at-hand and the high sugar content had dissolved DewDad’s tooth enamel, then every tooth, which was why the nickname and the dentures. He wore the same black sunglasses as his singing hero, Roy Orbison, and the same dyed black hair, the color of a new tire. Most interpreted his nickname as DoDad, like he made things happen, but he was really a Don’tDad. Even what he did for a wage was a throwaway; he worked for a firm that manufactured paint stirsticks. Mostly, he sat outside their back door in a folding chair with his Mountain Dew, eating tablespoons of A1 Steak Sauce or watching UFOs seen only by him.

Mr. Sturdivant climbed out his Chevrolet C10 pickup and disappeared into the mouth of the moving truck.

Her grandmother put in her teeth. He lives there now. Keep away.

The biggest worry for Teryl was what already lived there. Ber had forgotten about the family in the garage.

Teryl had been skating on the driveway after supper, scissor-turning to dodge the cracks, when something colorless lumbered by. Its sagging belly barely managed to squeeze under the garage door. Teryl peered under. Pink eyes on a sooty pointed face stared back.

Teryl started transporting over remainders from supper, whatever Ber couldn’t repurpose. Tapping the plate forward to the far right side of the garage door was best. She knew when it neared from its very bad breath. Fingernails that looked like long, sharp grains of rice, the color of pencil lead, would snatch the paper plate inside.

One evening, after watching from afar, Ber wanted an explanation. When told, she suggested, Let’s look up your pet.

They went to a ragged animal book bought for a quarter at a rummage sale. Teryl flipped through pages the color of a used teabag until she recognized what Ber called a possum. Without a raccoon’s bandit mask to redeem them, they sure are butt-ugly. Ber tried to pronounce marsupial. Just don’t get close to it. It’s got ticks and maybe rabies.

It’s as fat as Mrs. Zimmer’s Himalayan.

Your possum might be knocked up, then.

Knocked up was a term Teryl understood to mean baby, like when DewDad had men over for cards and they’d laugh about the horse-faced woman at Star Cafeteria left in a predicament.

When the babies came, Teryl knew, the boys were jacks, the girls jills, and that they would attach to a teat within mama’s pouch. The possum hid her new passel behind a wheelbarrel in the corner. Once, she saw the rubbery tail of a baby clinging to its mother’s back. Teryl would lay very still to watch the mother measure out bites from the paper plate with the same efficiency that Ber doled out a frugal dinner the night before DewDad picked up his salary check.

Sometimes she squawks at me, Teryl reported.

Fear turns to rage, especially if she’s protecting her babies. Mamas are unpredictable, Beryl replied.

Like mine, thought Teryl. They drop you off with the vow to retrieve you, then they don’t.

* * * *

Beryl didn’t consider herself better than anyone, but to take up with a Snodgrass was worse than befriending a Kentuckian. Even those without a dime or a principle disdained the Snodgrass clan. Some called them Crabgrass: spreading everywhere, impossible to vanquish. When they weren’t being felonious, they propagated, and that is what Grover Snodgrass did: he knocked up their daughter Cheryl. When he found work with Monticello Attractions, Cheryl came to them with news that she and her new baby Teryl Lyn would be accompanying him.

He’ll be Chief Amusement Attractions Engineer, she proudly told them.

Beryl and Merrill were appalled. Their only child and their new grandchild would be vagabonds, keeping company with a bearded woman and Crocodile Boy as Grover pounded stakes into the ground.

When the stakes didn’t quite get pounded, a Crazy Dipper ride went awry and killed three children from the same family. Cheryl brought the tragic story and a seven-year-old Teryl back to her parents.

We’d took pot earlier that day, Cheryl tearily confessed, but Grover swears he double-checked all the ride fasteners. I just need to stash Teryl Lyn here until the fuzz lays off and things cool down.

When do you suppose that cooling-down will be? Beryl demanded. Parents don’t up and forget three dead children.

Cheryl nodded toward Teryl, sitting cross-legged on a footstool. Can we talk private, just me and you, Mom? Their conference in the next room took so long Teryl’s legs went numb and she had to uncross them. She didn’t hear the terms but she did hear her grandmother’s voice dismiss Cheryl: I hope you take this time to get a hold of yourself!

After Cheryl drove away, Teryl cried for days.

Restorative work was needed. Teryl had chigger bites and scabs encircling her lower legs, which were the color of wax paper. Ber discovered the little girl was actually more blonde than brunette after a bottle of Prell. Scrub as she might, the child’s hands still smelled as though she been holding filthy nickels. Cheryl had brought little for her daughter—roller skates, a wide-toothed comb—and all of it in a ratty clothing hamper, but Teryl became violent when, as Beryl continued scrubbing, the plastic Monticello Attractions wrist bracelet that let her ride free came apart. Beryl placed it in a baggie so Teryl could look at it when she wanted to.

Teryl was neither outgoing nor sullen. Being shuttled from town to town, absent formal education, had fostered an ability to avoid detection. Ambiguity would wash over her face if asked a direct question. What she’d learned and what she hadn’t broke Beryl’s heart. Thinking of this knock-kneed girl munching on Cheetos and grape soda was pitiful. Little wonder the child suffered so much indigestion.

To show Teryl that all food did not come from concessionaires, she taught what the earth gives by creating a garden. They planted beefsteak and cherry tomatoes.

Little girl, you’ve got a green thumb, Ber congratulated.

Teryl looked at one thumb, then the other.

An occasional letter from Cheryl would hold a ten-dollar bill, or a birthday card for Teryl, three days late, with a five-dollar bill, then shorter letters with no money and no return address, then nothing, not even at Christmas. Eventually, Ber thought it best that Teryl know about the Crazy Dipper and why she was in their care. She spoke of lug nuts spinning off, the car skimming treetops until a power line tripped it, flinging three children onto a supermarket’s tar roof.

Ber delivered the morning newspaper six days weekly. Teryl would rise with her to rubber band the papers, then ride in the car as Ber flung each out the cranked-down window. After that, Ber walked Teryl to elementary school. Teryl didn’t mind. At forty-four, Ber was younger than other women who answered to Grandma, and her shag and lipstick were both frosted. But few parents accompanied their children, certainly not by 4th grade. Teryl heard Ber say to Principal Gibson that Teryl, because of some legal guardianship issues, was to be released to no one but Beryl, not even to DewDad.

* * * *

Teryl pushed open the screen door for a better look.

Don’t go no farther than your yardball.

Ber was referring to the red gazing ball in their front yard. Teryl was fond of staring into the mirrored world, curved and crimson. Sometimes she pretended she had a lookalike, trapped within.

Mr. Sturdivant’s thickly muscled arms strained his shirt and sleeves. The long sideburns that bent like an L toward the corners of his mouth made him especially unapproachable. The two movers were transporting a rolling cart with several filled aquariums. Water sloshed out.

Teryl dashed across O’Leary behind the truck as a pool table clattered down the ramp. She peered in the back. A lawnmower and a stepladder had been brought forward. They were next off, bound for the garage.

Nothing would dislodge the possums during daylight hours, Teryl knew, but she hurried to skim white rock from the foundation plantings under the garage door into its dark recesses. She listened for stirring.

Mr. Sturdivant signed forms and waivers. The empty moving truck rumbled away. He pushed the lawn mower toward the garage.

Teryl ran.

By the time Mr. Sturdivant took the garage door above his broad shoulders, he was shouting, Holy smokes, what a stink!

Teryl heard the gnashing sounds of distress that intuited imminent death.

Goddamn tree rats! he howled.

She watched him lift high a two-by-four. The small possum didn’t know where to go. Mr. Sturdivant went into bloodsport mode. He brought down the plank, flattening it to gristle. Still, it quivered. The passel dispersed in a frenzy. Mr. Sturdivant ground his foot down on the tiniest one, the runt Teryl had named NeNe. NeNe’s eyes spit themselves out.

Teryl clamped her hand over her mouth to suppress a scream.

Mr. Sturdivant almost fell on a tail separated from a plump little body as he shook a severed paw from the beam.

His crimson thrashing scared the literal shit out of another possum as it ran out into the daylight into a bank of arborvitae.

Mr. Sturdivant whirled. The mother eluded him by skittering behind the wheelbarrow.

Play possum, act dead.

He grabbed a hoe and, in one precise downstroke, detached the head from the body. Goopy red strings danced at the stump. Mr. Sturdivant, surveying the floor of this slaughterhouse, grabbed a snow shovel to scrape up the carnage. Occasionally, he cracked a carcass with the blade if he detected a twitch.

Gagging at the stench of feces and urine mingling with the sweetness of the offal and blood, Teryl ran.

* * * *

He beat and cut up the passel and the mom didn’t protect them!

Ber gritted her teeth. That doesn’t make her bad, just scared.

One got away. How will it live?!

Jack or jill went on a great adventure, and it will grow up to have babies who won’t trust human beings.

It’s an orphan, like me, she cried.

Ber rose from crouching. Your mama is saving up money with your daddy out there somewhere, plus you got us. You are a long road away from being an orphan. It was already too late to shield Teryl from the hurt Cheryl had infected her with. But she could equip her with the skills to break, if not a heart, something else in retribution. Dry your tears, sweet potato. You said Mr. Sturdivant had fish tanks? Let’s go kill something he loves was her dark suggestion. It’ll be our secret.

* * * *

Teryl knew all about secrets.

She harbored one that could never be told, how she took off her underpanties and danced for DewDad in her bedroom when Ber was away.

She had inherited Cheryl’s portable record player with a closeable hood. She treasured her mom’s 45s. Her favorite was the one with the black-and-silver label, The Loco-Motion by Little Eva. It was DewDad’s, too. Once her bedroom blinds were drawn and the harlequin desk lamp turned off, DewDad would place the knob of his dinky between the cheeks of her heinie and she’d dance to The Loco-Motion. When she felt warm, thick fluid, they were done. He would clean her with tissues, which he flushed while she redressed her bottom half. Once, she reached around. It felt like DewDad had sneezed on her rumpie.

Did my mom ever dance for you?

Sure did. DewDad’s jaw tightened as he put on his sunglasses. She was a good girl, too.

While Teryl knew better than to ask for anything brand-new, she wanted the Click Clacks everyone else had—two plastic orbs attached by a string that, when worked up-and-down, collided loudly at the top and bottom. Once she had her own set, the racket drove Ber crazy but DewDad was assured silence.

* * * *

We’re going to fix his wagon.

Teryl recognized when her grandmother was worked up because she would jiggle her false teeth with her tongue and lips until they clicked like Yahtzee! dice in a cup.

Just because her own daughter had no sense didn’t mean Ber couldn’t instill some gumption in her granddaughter. He can’t come in on us, though. We need to move his eyes so he’s not paying attention.

How do we move somebody’s eyes?

Give them something more important to worry about.

What Teryl understood about misdirection involved a magician. Cheryl had explained how the man with the black hat and drawn-on eyebrows fooled his audience with sleight-of-hand. The fifth or sixth time they watched his show, Cheryl said in a low voice, See how he made us look somewhere else? That’s when he switched the rings to make them link.

Ber found matches.

Teryl’s face screwed up. You’ve did this before, Grandma?

* * * *

Ber had secrets, too. A summer camp accident was her first diversionary fire. She would never have coined such a phrase, nor comprehended it, but the result was the same.

The three days of recreation had been a Red Cross initiative to benefit World War II and to free parents for weekend volunteerism. Four girls were assigned to a tent, two older to watch over two younger. Supervised co-mingling between boys and girls occurred once in an afternoon of outdoor games, nothing too roughhouse.

Beryl was hopeful that after the hayride she would be the girl chosen to perform a round of Frere Jacques with a boy. She had every expectation, since she knew the lyrics. When Nils was selected, her heart leapt. He was sixteen and had walked her home several times. When Evangeline was chosen to sing with him, Beryl’s heart fell. Why the girl, breasts already mounding and cheekbones emerging from baby fat, who shared her tent? Evangeline sounded like the beginning of a poem. Beryl was something that was rolled out for a polka.

Afterward, their chaperone turned the kerosene lamp to a soft glow so the younger ones wouldn’t be scared by shadows on the tent. Beryl plotted. How to humiliate Evangeline? Ants in her pants? Give her a hot foot? Beryl had heard about this in a W.C. Fields movie but didn’t know what it involved except someone hopping.

She decided on a sleepover fallback: the warm rag. Evangeline would hold it as she slept and release her bladder’s contents. She’d awaken with her nightgown soaked.

A kettle had been left outside for the leaders’ coffee. Beryl quietly tilted the spout, holding the cloth under the water until it was saturated. She enclosed it in Evangeline’s hand. But she didn’t sigh, relax and pee. Her hand spasmed and knocked over the kerosene lamp, alighting the tent in flames.

Beryl bleated Fire! then rushed out the two terrified little girls and helped her nemesis to her feet. She grabbed the washcloth before the tent collapsed in flames while other campers screamed.

At breakfast assembly, Beryl was scared she’d be uncovered as the instigator, but she was publicly praised for her quick thinking and got a roll of Lifesavers. She also learned that confusion can make bad look good through the power of a diversionary fire.

* * * *

In the storm shelter, Teryl reached around half-empty paint cans DewDad refused to discard and returned to Ber shaking the lighter fluid. It’s almost empty.

We only need a dab. Take this Clorox.

Teryl watched Ber grab their rattan picnic basket, lay in the bleach, lighter fluid and matches, then clap it shut. Like everyone, they occasionally spent a sunny afternoon with the basket on land just beyond town known as The Manor. Most of its fences were easily scaled and the No Trespassing signs easily ignored. The Manor was owned by a wealthy Catholic family Ber called The Richeys, the name pinned to anyone of affluence who knew the difference between French dressing and Catalina.

Teryl and her grandmother took a walk to the end of O’Leary, then around the block. They passed Mrs. Mechem, pulling a wagon of glass bottles.

Where y’all picnicking? she inquired.

We’re taking a casserole to a sick friend over on Kyger, Ber said.

They strolled down an alley, onto Mr. Sturdivant’s property, to what Ber called the outbuilding. Several windows had been smashed by kids. The door had a latch for a padlock, but no padlock. Inside, the contents looked a lot like DewDad’s workshop: vises, a table saw, scraps of latticework and wood pegboard.

Ber placed a single drop of lighter fluid, no bigger than a thumbtack, on piled wood scraps. The young fire, a pale orange, was impregnated by piles of sawdust and birthed by a sudden breeze that tucked under the door.

They walked swiftly to the corner of the block. In a disguised voice that sounded a little like Tony the Tiger, Grandma Ber yelled, Mister! Mister! It’s on fire! Fire!

Mr. Sturdivant came running out of the house and saw the smoke and that some spots of dry grass had ignited, too. Someone call the fire department! He didn’t know that the hub was across town and that the battle would be his alone for several minutes. He soared across yards. Do any of you hillbillies own a goddamn hose?!

This was clandestine, thrill and trepidation. They flattened themselves against houses, then raced, suddenly over the threshold and into Mr. Sturdivant’s house. They scuttled through a maze of boxes. Her grandmother peered around the corner into what had clearly been designated the game room.

Teryl stared, transfixed, at a deer head on the wall. He prob’ly killed it, too, right, Ber?

And what we’re standing on.

Teryl realized it was a bearskin rug and jumped off.

Ber was standing at the aquariums, bubbling and active. Ber unscrewed the cap from the bleach. Mesmerized by a group that looked like Skittles skimming languidly on the bottom among plastic coral, Teryl suggested, These down here are a family. I think they’re babies. Maybe we don’t need to hurt his fishies.

He has to pay, Teryl Lyn.

Please, Ber, not the fishies, Teryl asked.

Ber heard the fire sirens and quickly recalibrated today’s lesson. She flung the bleach on the deer head. A section of its neck dissolved onto the floor. They worked quickly, until their eyes teared. The green pool table felt turned pink, then white. Ber sloshed bleach into the pockets, onto the rich mahogany finish.

Teryl popped up the flaps of an opened box. What’s this?

She withdrew a cardigan bearing the letter of scholastic sports. Beneath were ribbons, blue green and red, touchstones of sports superiority.

We’ll soak his glory days, too!

Quickly, they were all the color of band-aids.

Parachute silk with military patches was draped over a small round table. Ber hit that. The color of Mr. Turd’s proud memorabilia was now a runny orange/pink.

Ber pushed the back of Teryl’s head. Out we go!

They patted their way along converging angles of the house. Neighbors emerged from the smoke to watch the firemen redirect hoses toward an untamed thicket. Briefly separated, Teryl and her grandmother reunited at the red gazing ball to watch Mr. Sturdivant go into his house then, eyes bulging out, race back out.

Who did it?! You set a fire then break into my house??!!! Is this your fucking idea of hospitality?! he raged.

Let’s wash up real good, Ber suggested. Don’t look back. Hearing Mr. Turd’s screams are enough.

DewDad appeared to be napping in his chair. Merrill Atwater can sleep through anything. Sirens...yelling...his own life, Ber said. The pink jelly of tomatoes and seeds lay in his chest hair. A strand of spittle stretched from his mouth to his sternum, catching the twilight, bouncing with his intake of breath. "He’s probably dreaming up his own movie. Roy Orbison Versus The Martians."

Teryl reminded her grandmother, We still have Mr. Sturdivant’s mail.

We’ll pop over tomorrow and say howdy-do, Ber answered, and tell him how clean his house smells.

* * * *

It was Teryl Lyn Atwater’s first diversionary fire and her grandmother’s last.

Unless one counted how, six years later, on the nation’s Bicentennial celebration, Ber and DewDad’s car soared off a highway overpass and exploded, burning them both to death.

* * * *

Chapter 2: Kermit Aflame

Holding kitchen scissors hot from the afternoon sun, trimming the border grass of the sidewalk, Teryl would normally be listening to her radio, but the batteries had succumbed. Maybe it was the sidewalk she had plopped her big knocked-up self on, or it might’ve been the nest of ladybugs she’d happened upon, that made Teryl think about her possum passel.

A lot worse had happened since.

Mr. Sturdivant hadn’t stayed in residence more than a year, tops. How he’d fallen to his knees on his front lawn still gave her satisfaction. But nothing could revive those babies or their mother. At least one had gotten away, Teryl reminded herself.

Sweat leeched into the corner of her mouth. She was sorry she had called on Mr. Van Winkle. He didn’t even live up to his funny name; he had enormous bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in a hundred years. His yard and a few others represented her only reliable cash since Dairy Queen had reduced her to barely-there on the schedule. She had renamed him Rip-Off Van Winkle, because he always tried to renegotiate a lower price once she was done.

His shadow crossed her. He had a Sprite but held it back. Her full breasts lay on her round belly, which flopped down to brush her thighs as she stood.

What’s the damage?

Ten, Mr. Van Winkle. Like always, she answered.

He claimed he had only a twenty.

I can make change. She couldn’t, but leeway with someone like him wasn’t an option.

He grumbled and counted out loose ones. She felt like a patient stripper. All men, no matter the age, were the same.

She gulped the cold Sprite so quickly carbonation squirted from her nose. The head rush it gave cracked open more crummy memories.

* * * *

On July 4th, Teryl’s sixteenth birthday in the summer of 1976, Ber produced a sheet cake and DewDad, as always, insisted on singing:

She’s our Yankee Doodle sweetheart,

She’s our Yankee Doodle pearl.

Yankee Doodle came to Hobart,

To live with Ber and DewDad

Teryl’s our Yankee Doodle girl.

At thirteen, DewDad’s visits to Teryl’s bedroom had dwindled. Tokens like a mood ring to ensure her silence became as rare. The record player was used now as a step to reach a high closet shelf. When a fine distribution of pubic hair, which he called her lady feathers, appeared, he asked if she was getting her smears, which she took to mean menstruation. She saw his distaste.

This is the last time, DewDad. Just remember the bicycle.

He bought her a used adult man’s bike and that was that.

Until she saw him taking Polaroids of Penny Allen, six or maybe seven, on her Big Wheel, then luring her into their yard with Twizzlers. She knew a fire in him had been lit, as he encouraged Penny to turn cartwheels through their sprinkler.

That’s a gooooood girl.

He couldn’t be allowed to go further. It superseded any promise of silence. She had to take action.

She was spared when Penny’s mother did it herself.

Teryl was eating another piece of cake when she saw the Allen girl’s mother, in a hairnet, approach Ber, who made a visor of her hand and listened. One word, Teryl made out: "something-ophile." Pedophile. That’s what it sounded like. It was clearly a bad label from the way Ber spun and left Mrs. Allen sputtering.

Her grandmother locked the hook on the screen door after coming in. "Teryl Lyn...my bedroom...now."

She listened to Ber recap Mrs. Allen’s accusations.

Has DewDad ever handled you?

He did it to Mama, too! she blurted.

Ber smoothed the quilt on her bed. She stood, meaning Teryl should, and requested Teryl shut the door as she left.

Teryl heard DewDad arrive home. His hand rattled the ice in the cooler on the back porch looking for a Mountain Dew.

Ber shouted, Get your butt to the bedroom without your goddamn sunglasses!

Teryl listened through her bedroom wall.

The jig is up. First you drove our daughter away. Joining some sideshow was better than staying here. I told Cheryl you was cured, that Teryl Lyn was safe here. We got handed a second chance and, pow! you did it again, with your daughter’s daughter!

Teryl fell back.

"Goddamn you to hell, goddamn me to hell for believing in you. Now Lorraine Allen’s got her eye on you. Every mother will."

DewDad asked they take this discussion elsewhere and listen to my side.

Where? Moscow? You don’t have a side.

Teryl heard choking, noises deep from Ber’s throat, like DewDad might be strangling her. She was about to intercede when came an eerie calm.

We’ll do that, old man. I’ll drive, you’ll listen, Ber said. And then I may take you to a looney bin, a revival tent or the police station.

Neither goodbye nor time of return was offered, just a door slam and brake lights leaving O’Leary.

* * * *

She regretted the Sprite. She had to tinkle. A library book on pregnancy said a baby would push on her bladder. Pedaling a bike in this heat didn’t help. She stuck out her tongue as she passed Dairy Queen, where she rarely had a shift any more, hoping Merle the manager saw it from the little window in the office he was so proud of.

The pedals faltered. Chain, please don’t slip. It was hell to re-engage, plus left her hands gummy with black grease.

She thought of the movie theatre, with their It’s Cool Inside sign that had silver icicles trailing off, but when her left foot lost its slipper on Richardt Avenue, she didn’t slow. The gas station ahead would have to do.

Could I get a key to the Ladies Room? she panted.

The clerk, tending a rotisserie of hot dogs, moved from behind the red warmer light. It’s unisexual. He returned with a broom. A small hole had been drilled in the handle and a key wired through it. People steal ‘em if I make it easy.

What an imbecile. Who wants ownership of a key to a public toilet that badly? And, if they did, wouldn’t they just make off with the broom?

After the key slid in, she had to twirl the entire broom. It slipped from her hands. It must have looked comical to see a woman in the family way trying to coordinate a full-sized broom, a bent key and a steel door handle.

Her bare foot stepped in a yellow-orange puddle of her own making. She knew it was more than urine. Her thighs were wet. As she crammed paper towel into the sticky crotch of her shorts, a slice of pain brought her to her knees.

She was aware of pounding, a man’s voice, no, a woman’s. The last thing Teryl heard was the clerk whine that the pregnant lady must have made off with his broom key.

* * * *

Teryl awoke to a nurse twisting her bared left nipple.

Jane Doe decided to wake up! the woman declared, pulling her right nipple. We gotta toughen these up for nursing. You’re someone’s milk train now.

Why did you call me Jane Doe?

No ID when you were brought in two days ago. But we found out...Teryl, the nurse explained.

Wait! The nurse had said something about nursing.

Did I have my baby? She looked between her bared breasts down to her distended stomach. I’m not any smaller.

She tried to sit up. Searing pain bracketed her ribcage to her knees. The nurse pushed her back down.

You were out cold. You have seven stitches.

Teryl’s palm passed over bristle and a bandage under her chin.

The nurse gave her nipple a final twist like it was a stubborn screw. You suffered a mild concussion but with your young pelvic muscles, the baby practically crawled out on his own.

His? she rasped.

That casually, she was told she’d delivered a boy.

As Teryl returned to sleep, she recognized her effects, divided among clear, sealed bags, on the windowsill.

Images flashed on the inside of her eyelids, like those seen from the back window of a fast-moving car.

Glistening hot dogs.

Jumping off her bike by the Free Air! canister.

A broom with a key.

Her chin striking a wash basin.

Others, not as efficiently stitched, worked their way forward too.

* * * *

She supposed her grandparents stopped somewhere to yell it out, but when they hadn’t returned by noon the next day, she called the police station.

The man who answered said her inquiry was quite welcome. Next-of-kin notification had been frustrating. Teryl was told how a witness saw a car soar through a guardrail and roll mid-air before skipping across farmland. The fireball left second-degree burns on a herd of goats and the cleanup of the melted debris closed all highway lanes for six hours.

When she began to cry she was put on hold. Another man apologized for the manner in which she’d been told. A female officer and a forensics engineer arrived on O’Leary to rectify this, offering condolences and that no vehicular accident reconstruction was necessary.

An insurance policy settlement would barely provide for interment, but the accident left little to physically bury, as the mortician ghoulishly noted. You won’t need satin pillows or new clothes.

When he saw her staring at a powdered wig on the credenza behind him, he explained he’d led the bicentennial parade as George Washington.

It was really something.

I missed it.

What a shame. His reaction was as though she’d stupidly planned that Ber and DewDad would burn to death on her birthday.

DewDad’s brother Andy, a drunk, was incoherent both times she called. Ber’s two stepsisters sent a wreath. She hoped her best friend Lindsey would show up so she’d have someone to stand next to at the graveside service, but she didn’t. Teryl was the lone possum mourning at a tandem marker.

Grief was secondary to survival. Teryl prepared a lie that her mother had been delayed and calmed the landlord by adding Cheryl’s name to the lease. In truth, Cheryl was impossible to locate. Her last letter from 1972 was postmarked from Grand Rapids, Michigan, but when Teryl called Information, there were no Atwaters and only one Snodgrass.

Teryl looked for opportunities in Help Wanted, but she needed cash. To a secondhand store that offered pick-up she rid herself of a sofa, TV trays, even her grandparents’ bedroom furniture. The washing machine and the dryer sold for $25 apiece. The refrigerator, she kept. In it was what money her grandparents had managed to stow away, in a Folger’s can on the freezer side, for the rainiest of days.

Banks find reasons not to give your money to you, Ber had explained. You got your natural gas explosions and tornadoes but an icebox has great survival instincts.

Emptying drawers, she found her own birth certificate under Ber’s nightgowns. By foresight or cunning, Cheryl had left the piece of paper in their keeping. Teryl Lyn Atwater, born July 4, 1961. Grover Snodgrass was not listed as her father. No one was.

By her return to school, classmates had forgotten about the mid-summer tragedy. A few in the same social void as she expressed sorrow. Lindsey pretended she hadn’t heard. Teryl cleared her locker and informed Principal Timmons of her intention to quit. Her mother, she lied, would return to sign any parental form needed.

She went to personally tell Miss Troxel, the teacher of the one class in which she excelled, Home Economics. She trusted this woman who, without fail, wore a black velvet bow in her hair. Every lady should have a look, a trademark, Miss Troxel extolled.

After saying that she was leaving school, she tried to ward off Miss Troxel’s disapproval with I found a really good job. Teryl assumed Miss Troxel would admire her industriousness, so she explained how a newspaper ad led her to employment for the wealthy family at The Manor.

The English lady who manages the staff says I’ll be part of the backstairs, Teryl elaborated, laundry, mending, some light housekeeping.

See junior year through, then decide. Don’t close doors before you even know they exist, Miss Troxel cautioned.

Teryl shook her head. Thank you for teaching me to sew. It will come in handy.

Miss Troxel gave Teryl a miniature pincushion that looked like a strawberry from the pocket of her smock. Lorena to you now, dear. She offered an embrace that was more collision than hug.

* * * *

Her son was in excellent health, Teryl was told. Only her injuries were prolonging the stay.

A woman who called herself a pink lady sat on her bed and told her to get a good nursing bra and insert pads; about sleep deprivation; and what to expect from a male infant. Teryl was grateful.

When brought to her, her son was the color of an eraser but not as dented as she had expected. As the baby happily sucked, she began to focus on what she hadn’t considered. She had investigated how an ER walk-in couldn’t legally turn away a woman in labor, but an ambulance, stitches and recuperation weren’t part of her plan. She didn’t have nearly enough for the extra doctor’s fees.

And there was the application pursuant to a birth certificate and the issue of naming a father.

What if I don’t list one?

He should be legally responsible for your little boy’s support, the administrator told her, but without an Acknowledgement of Paternity form, it won’t make it onto the actual certificate, so do as you please.

She did as she pleased. Like her mother, she left the father line blank.

As for a first name, she felt compelled to maintain some sort of consistency, the family tradition of rhyme. Merrill, Beryl, Cheryl, Teryl. Darrell Atwater, she named him, nothing in the middle. Parents only used those when hollering and most shortened it to an initial, anyway.

* * * *

Why was Kermit the Frog staring at her?

When Teryl awoke, she first thing she saw was the plush, lime-green Kermit, who looked like he had hopped into the room, mistook the visitor’s chair by the window for a lily pad and decided to rest a spell.

Then she saw the woman, wearing gaucho pants and a vest that fastened with chains. Fisher-Price makes such cute things. I’m Gretchen Whitman.

I haven’t changed my mind about naming a father for the birth certificate, Teryl immediately said.

I’m with Child Protective Services.

Is something wrong with my baby?

No. The state wants to be sure that doesn’t occur. Gretchen produced a notepad. Who was your obstetrician? Did you ever have any physical work-ups? What about pre-natal care?

I ate right. Darrell’s fine. There are seven babies in the maternity ward. Why am I being singled out?

Because of your situation. Barely seventeen, minus a house slipper, your baby crowning on a filthy floor. What you need is a spoonful of truth. Security for your child is not a birthright. Ask yourself if you’re truly equipped to care for Darrell. Have you considered adoption? Extending a chance at a life better than you can provide is the purest form of love.

Again Cheryl Atwater was called forth as savior. I’m going back with my mom. She has a nice place.

What about your financial situation? Gretchen asked doubtfully.

The hospital said I can get on a payment plan.

I mean after this. Your bill has been paid in full.

Teryl struggled to sit up. By who?

A benefactor who chooses to remain anonymous.

They let a stranger pay my bill?

A guardian angel. Did you think, as an indigent, you just lucked into a private room?

As a what?

A person with nothing.

You’re plotting to take my baby!

I told you, I work for Child Protective Services.

Yet you’ve not written one thing down I said. Teryl reached to ring her service buzzer. Leave, or I will start yelling for help.

Gretchen’s nostrils flared. No yelling necessary. I’ll be back.

After a nurse brought Darrell, she untied the blanket. Maybe this wasn’t even her baby. What if Gretchen or someone else had already swapped Darrell with another baby? She’d seen movies where newborns were