The Wall (The Woodlands) (46 page)

He forgot. I was not afraid of him.

I sprung from my chair and wrenched the handset from his fingers, pulling it as hard as I could. It stretched and strained and then the phone flung from the wall, taking plaster and paint with it. It took him a second to respond, his face suspended in disbelief, but when he did, it was like all our fights were wound up into this one action. He pulled his arm back and slammed me hard with the back of his hand. I flew through the air like a scrap, clipping my temple on the corner of the kitchen table and crumpling to the floor. But I pulled myself back up, bracing myself. The world was spinning, but I wasn’t going to go down so easy.

My mother was wringing her
hands, standing by, watching him hurt me.
Help me,
I thought.
For once! Don’t be afraid of him. Help ME!

Paulo
gripped the phone. The numbers spun in front of my eyes even though they were still. All the control, all the stifling stiffness, was gone. He shrugged it off like a shroud, revealing the cruel twist of a man beneath. He was going to kill me. I could see it in his eyes—they were a swirl of empty black, ominous, terrifying.

He kicked me in the stomach hard and I fell backwards to the floor
again, my head half-hidden under the chair. He clapped the chair out of the way. Telephone raised, ready to strike. He had me pinned.

I had the ridiculous thought that this was a very bizarre way to go
, beaten to death with a telephone. My mind conjured up the vision of my death plaque.
Here lies Rosa Bianca. Killed by a telephone. If only they hadn’t put her on hold for so long...
A laughed slipped out between my lips. Of all the stupid things to do. His eyes were dancing. He licked the corner of his mouth. He would relish this. The humor was instantly eroded and all I could feel was a numb, stepped-on panic.

I couldn
’t scream—they would hear me. And I would never let him see me cry. I closed my eyes, flashes of Joseph circling me with his big, strong arms, our son laughing and watching light dance against the timber walls, green hills and trees. Trees everywhere.
I’m so sorry.

The dull bang of metal hitting flesh, and m
ostly bone, disturbed us both. We looked up to see my mother’s small, brown face, her eyes tired but defiant. Just there in the corner of those eyes, I could see me. I gasped as a small trickle of blood worked its way from her eyebrow down her cheek.

She raised the kitchen
pan in her hand and struck herself in the face, hard. It would be comical if it weren’t so frightening. She looked at Paulo, her eyes stony. Then she ran for the front door, unlocking it shakily, her hands struggling to grip the key.

She turned to me, and
said, “Run, Rosa,” and then she walked out the door screaming, “Help! Help! He’s beaten me. He’s going to hurt my baby!”

Lights were going on. People were stirring. Soon there would be sirens.

Paulo let go like my skin was on fire. The situation was turning on him and he cowered away from me, eyebrows knotted. A chunk of slick, black hair snaked down his forehead. I saw him for what he was, a small, petty man who had no heart and therefore should have no place in mine. I felt a small amount of pity for him. Very small. His life was over.

“
You know, it didn’t have to be this way, Paulo,” I said as I stood unsteadily. I carefully took two steps backwards, holding his gaze, and then I bolted out the back door. The flimsy screen slammed several times.
Creak, bang, creak, bang.

I heard him
mutter, low and desperate, “I know.”

I ran down the side
, picked up my bag without breaking stride, and turned away from my old life for good.
Goodbye, Mother.

Why do we go around in circles? Wasn
’t I just here? Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes.

I ran. Tears stream
ed down my face. I failed. I couldn’t save either of them. I hadn’t even asked my sister’s name. I ran through the list of things I’d wanted to say.
You’re a grandmother. I’m safe. I’m working hard. I love you. I miss you. I need you
. All of it sitting in my stomach, scrawled on a crumpled-up piece of paper, the ink seeping into my veins.

Could I let it go?
She didn’t want me. So maybe I could stop worrying about her now. I shook my head, answering my own question. No. It wouldn’t be that easy.

The
night air was piercing, like it was part acid cloud. My puffy eyes made it hard to focus, hard to see the dark shapes I needed to follow. I tightened my hair and wiped my nose with my sleeve, a streak of snot pulling across my face and hardening there. I was at the gate to Ring Three now. I crept up to it and carefully wrapped my fingers around the iron, remembering rust stains on my school jacket, a life that didn’t belong to me now, and probably never really did. I breathed a sigh of relief when it opened easily.

Following the
curved line of the concrete wall for a while, I then made my way into the street and snuck past several houses. I kept my eye out for my old house but I couldn’t find it without the purple-and-yellow curtains. They all looked exactly the same.

I stole down a street,
hugging the unsheltered curb, feeling more and more like I shouldn’t be here and how I couldn’t wait to be home. A mechanical creaking stopped me in my tracks. It sounded like a giant door pulling open, then glass shattering and muffled voices. I froze. There were very few places to hide. I padded into the front lawn of one of the houses and tried to mold into the shape of the Pau Brasil tree, noticing the lined-up bins on the curb in front of every house. What day was it? Wednesday. Bin collection.

“
Damn it,” I muttered under my breath.

It was getting closer
, inching its way towards me. I watched as a giant, mechanical arm lifted bins to the opening and shook. A man followed the truck, picking up the different recyclables and emptying them into compartments in the base of the truck, below the mouth meant for garbage. I’d never seen it done before. It was so early, 3AM. What an awful, bottom-of-the-rung job.

A
man sidled up to the boxes, picked them up awkwardly, and bouncily walked to the truck, whistling as he went. The driver stuck his head out the window and yelled at the man intermittently, or maybe it was a boy. He was short and thin. He moved like he wasn’t collecting garbage. This boy was taking a stroll through a flowered field, sweeping his hands across the blooms, and looking up at the sky. It was clear he wasn’t taking what he was doing very seriously. The man in the truck yelled at him over and over, his hairy arm gesticulating and banging the door. But the boy seemed unperturbed, walking out of sight, snapping his hand together like a talking mouth, wobbling his head and imitating the driver. I tried not to laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. The tears were drying up now.

The truck was
one house away and I prayed the headlights would not cast their light on me. My feet were quite obviously sticking out from the thin trunk. I cursed the ineptitude of the tree for being such a poor shelter. My feet were in sneakers; they would know I wasn’t from here. My eyes, my clothes, they would know straight away.

The truck lurched forward, squeaking to a
stop at the house I was standing in front of. The headlights illuminated the front door. I knew they would see me. I held my breath and stood on the tips of my toes, trying to press myself further into the bushy foliage and pathetically thin trunk. I should have run. I’d had time. But the boy loading garbage had distracted me and now it was too late.

Metal clashe
d, glass clinked against glass, and the truck moved. The headlights weren’t shining on me anymore. But the boy was still there, picking up some loose bottles that had spilled out of an overloaded box.

“
Make sure you get everything, boy,” the driver growled impatiently as he rolled to the next house.

“
Yeah, yeah,” the boy replied, shaking his head.

I looked down at my feet to see a green glass bottle had rolled under
my tree.

The boy pick
ed his way up the path, collecting bottles and sticking them under his arm. I moved around the tree, trying to stay out of sight. Thinking,
This is it… I’ll be caught and it will be for nothing.

He got to the front door and turned around. I held my breath. A few more steps and I would be safe.
Keep moving
, I willed.
Don’t look under the tree
.

He was just off th
e path when he stopped suddenly, like a thought had occurred to him. He turned around and marched straight towards my hiding place. He leaned down and scooped up the bottle at my feet. He stopped way too long, staring at the dirt. No, he was staring at my shoes. My lungs burned for air.

I relaxed.
Gave up. I inhaled deeply. There was no way I could escape this. The boy would call the man in the truck, who would alert the neighbors. I would be up on the center podium tomorrow and my mother would have to watch as they cut my heart out, slit my throat, or did whatever horrible punishment traitors received.

I let o
ut a sigh and closed my eyes, fists clenched, thinking maybe I could punch him, do some damage before I was dragged off.

My thoughts went to Joseph. I was so selfish for wanting to come here. My heart clenched and jolted
. I would never see him again. I would never see my son again.

“
Soar?” I opened my eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?” A sharp whisper emitted from a dark shadow of a face. I knew that voice.

I peered into it, trying to pick out the features
, dark brows, dark eyes, my height. Then he smiled.

“
Rash.”

T
he word escaped my lips like a soft wind.

I gr
ipped both his hands with my own, hard, feeling his skin, his pulse, making sure he was real. They were the same as always, rough, cool. My mouth moved quicker than my brain and the words tipped out of me like a barrowful of dirt.

“
Yes, it’s me. Look, we don’t have much time but I’ve come from the outside. There’s a settlement. If you want to come with me, I’ll take you. It’s so much better there. You can be free, safe,” I blurted out in one breath.

Rash
watched me, absorbing my words, absorbing me. He looked the same but there was a new sadness behind his twinkling eyes. I wondered how he had ended up here, collecting garbage.

He smiled
broadly and that smidge of sadness disappeared like a mirage. He squeezed my hands back fully, the complete action of a friend, a brother who had never let me go. I felt a stitch being sewn, my heart pulling itself back together. “I can’t go. I have a promising career sorting through other people’s garbage for the rest of my life,” he said with a wink. He pulled my ear close to his mouth and whispered, “Let’s get outta here.”

I shivered
from the warmth of his breath and smiled.

The driver of the truck was now
really worked up, thumping the side of the truck in a temper. “You hopeless good for nothing idiot. Get over here before I chuck you in the compactor.”

“
With charming coworkers like that guy, why would I even think of leaving this dream job?” he whispered, and my heart swelled. “Coming!” he shouted to the driver.

He tried to move but I jerked him back.
I couldn’t let him go. I couldn’t believe he was standing in front of me.

“
I’ll need those back,” he said warmly, his eyes resting on our joined hands.

I nodded and
released him, feeling instant pain at the separation. I whispered, “Meet me at the gate for Ring Eight at 3:45 AM. Can you get away?” I asked.

“
Hey, for the ghost of Construction Class, anything!” Rash said and he sidled away casually, without looking back.

He may have been useless
as a laborer but he could act. He slipped naturally back into his garbage-collector role like nothing had happened. And like that, an old ache eased. It lifted and left a tiny, white scar behind as a reminder, but one of my ghosts was freed.