In her early youth her neighborhood was a safe haven. Yet it was not the same as decades past, as echoed by the stories of her elders. Sitting on Grandma’s porch, she would listen to reports of leaving homes unattended with the doors unlocked; a time when they lived with the knowledge that their community would do them no harm. Now that she’s old enough, she carries her house key tucked safely away in her purple Jordash pocketbook, but does not fear her familiar outside world.
She considers these streets her own, and walks them with purpose. Every day she strolls up and down the main street to her grammar school, counting the cracks in the sidewalk, sucking on a red hot fireball she bought for a nickel at the corner store. She gazes up at the abandoned church on the hill surrounded by tall grass. The stained glass windows are broken. She ponders how many rocks must be strewn amongst the dusty pews. The building suffers from ill attention, its white paint weathered and peeling. She does not recall a time when it stood gleaming and proud.
After dinner she ventures out again. Walking past her home, she waves to her grandmother peering through the curtains of the kitchen window. The firemen across the street at Station 3 have just returned from a call. She’s used to the flashing lights and pays them little mind as they back the truck into the building. Not far from them rests Cinder in her grave, and she longs to pet the old and smelly dalmatian that she loved. A few buildings down, she spies her grandfather sitting in a plastic lawn chair in front of his favorite café. Dubbed the Mayor of the neighborhood, he gives her a quick wave from his thrown as he tugs on his cigar.
Continuing her walk, she smiles broadly as she sees her friend running towards her down a long driveway. Together they conspire to make the trek to the local pharmacy. As usual, they do not get far. They stop to hang out on the bridge and watch the Pawtuxet River flowing beneath them. Sometimes, when she feels more daring she ventures underneath, but you never know who may be down there. Rumors have been circulating of a local kid’s father having just been released from the prison. As only rumors can perpetuate, this person is further said to be a monster. All children had best cross their fingers and pray they do not cross his path.
It is now twilight and the street lights are glowing. The girls continue on their errand. When they emerge from the pharmacy, they find the stars are twinkling in the black sky. Aware they will soon be missed they venture home. They chatter along their way, giggling as girls do. She runs her hand along the railing of the bridge as they enter, tracing her fingers over the flaking green paint. At about the same time, they hear footsteps. As each girl turns to look behind, their breath catches. Their laughter turns to an abrupt silence.
Behind them is a man, cloaked in the darkness. From the shimmer of a distant street light they can see that he is tall and muscular. His hair hangs long past his shoulders and is wild with thick straggly curls. As a car drives past, the headlights reveal a studded silver collar around his neck beneath his leather jacket. A matching belt is around his waist. He is carrying a brown paper bag in one hand that appears to hold the shape of a liquor bottle. But it is the other hand that catches her eye.
In his grasp is something metal, shiny, and pointed. Equally frozen in fear the girls halt. The man does the same. The two friends turn and begin to walk again, and the man repeats their actions. They continue to dance this way: walk, pause, walk, and pause. The girls whisper to each other. “Oh my God, it’s that guy from the ACI. He’s got a knife. What do we do? Run!!!” Quickly assessing the situation, the girl realizes she is standing in the middle of the bridge. Run, in fact, is their best option. Side by side the girls pick up speed and break into a sprint. They need not look back. They can hear the pounding of the pavement behind them. The café up ahead is dark. The firemen have gone inside. She feels an ache in her chest as she gasps for air. With her leg muscles cramping, her feet unsteady in her plastic jelly shoes, and hot tears streaming down her cheeks, the adrenaline pushes her onward.
They are surprisingly fast and manage to keep a margin of distance between themselves and their would-be assailant. They make a sharp turn up a walk way on her father’s property, and seek refuge behind the enclosed side entryway of an apartment building. She dares a peak and suppresses the desire to scream when sees the man standing not 15 feet away on the sidewalk. He has stopped and is looking around, eyes searching, calculating where to proceed. He then faces forward and resumes his hunt, continuing down the street past her home.
The girls lay across the cement steps, shaking, grasping each other’s hands for strength. Her friend’s stepmother is now standing in the driveway next door, looking for her return. The girls make a quick and quiet pact not to tell their parents. They were not supposed to walk as far as the bridge this late at night, and surely would be grounded. The light at the back door to her home in turned on, awaiting her arrival. She takes a deep breath and goes inside to greet her parents, with nothing new to report.
