Fiction Showcase

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Fiction Series by Jeremy Lane

The Reflection, Only Hers - Part One

As a toddler, healthy and gorgeous with curly blonde hair and cream colored eyes, Annabel Shay would roam about the house, ignoring everything bought for her, and find a corner, a bag, a cranny of any kind and begin to rip everything from the location in order to see what the inner workings might teach her. This was a constant bother to her parents, Jack and Millie, yet in between the warnings and the swats on the hand Jack would marvel at her unending curiosity, it being more than he’d ever seen, and would wonder how this characteristic would manifest itself in the later life of his beautiful daughter.

At the end of a day, after Annabel had been placed in her crib and covered with kisses and the amount of blankets proper for the season, Jack and Millie would collapse into the couch in pure exhaustion. One would give a chuckle, remembering something little Annabel had done, a face she had made, and the other would laugh for the same incident, or perhaps another. Yet other times, as Jack Shay sat alone with a glass of bourbon, or a cigar, or both, it was the curiosity of his daughter that crept into his thoughts. Jack knew curiosity had killed some kitten somewhere and at some point in time, and though he didn’t pretend to know the details of that story, it remained true that what had been a problem for that kitten could just as well become a problem for his precious daughter. He would sip his bourbon until the fears subsided.

Jack watched his daughter grow into a young lady, now twelve years old, that period of time between childhood and womanhood, with only the occasional incident. Once, at church, Annabel and a couple of easily persuaded friends snuck out of their Bible class, their teacher having stepped out of the room for only a moment, and ambled down to a healthy garden out behind the old church storage shed. The bright red of a ripe tomato caught the attention of Annabel Shay, and she picked it without reservation to have a closer look. Her mind wondered from the beauty of this round wonder of nature to it’s undeniable baseball like shape, and having set her mind, she wheeled around and launched the vegetable back up toward the building at the head of Johnny Wheeler.

Little Johnny, awkward and uncomfortable in the role of a dropout, stood with his arms crossed talking to Sadie Brooke, and without warning the bigger than average tomato made contact with the bridge of Johnny’s nose and exploded in every direction. Johnny was sent reeling back onto his rear, and Sadie stood in horror looking down at her ruined dress. Annabel, secretly proud of her impeccable aim, stood and awaited a reaction. Then, as if a corpse resurrected, Johnny Wheeler sat upright, tomato seeds covering every inch of his face, and the three of them burst into a thundering simultaneous laughter. Later, as Jack Shay escorted his daughter through the sea of amused onlookers, Johnny leaned into Annabel and whispered, “Hell of an arm on you, Shay.” Her only reaction was a thin smile, and they loaded into Mr. Shay’s Ford and quickly drove away.

Meanwhile, as Annabel was growing up, her mother, Millie Shay, was growing worse. Millie was an incredible specimen, tall and beautiful throughout her life, and with a wonderfully kind heart that made her well liked among all who knew her. This, along with the money, first from her own family and later from a successful husband, made it seem as if Millie’s life was near to perfect. Things were not perfect, however, though both she and Jack did their best to conceal the fact from others. Millie Shay was the victim of genetics. Her brain was not built quite right, leading her to have “issues” as the people in Bluff Dale would refer to it whenever a discussion about her took place. She was prone to depression, anxiety, heavy drinking, and most severe were the instances of schizophrenia that caused her to see things and people that were not truly there.

Millie was often hospitalized during Annabel’s young adulthood, with one instance coming just before Annabel’s fifteenth birthday. Jack had become very good at sweetening the situation whenever his precious Annabel asked about it, often saying simply “Your mother is just a little bit sick. These doctors haven’t figured it out just yet, so they’re tryin’ again.” Jack, surprising even himself with how innocent it all sounded, would hug his daughter and encourage her to worry about other things. Jack Shay underestimated his daughter, however. He underestimated her ability to see the world around her, to watch how people behave, and to recognize sickness in her mother.

Mille Shay’s first trip to the state hospital had been a quiet one, kept away from the rest of the small town, with Jack being the only witness to her breakdown. The second, however, was in full view of young Annabel and had made quite an impression on her despite all the efforts of her loving father. Millie, having been in the fourth consecutive day of consistent drinking, became certain she was being attacked, and after flailing about in the front yard grass she was restrained by her husband while her screams echoed off the trees surrounding the Shay house. Annabel, watching from the corner of the yard, stood perfectly still as Jack calmed her, then escorted her gently into the house.

Part Two

It was following this event that she began to search out information for herself, and to do her own studying about the behavior displayed by the lovely Mrs. Shay. Through a combination of stealing her mother’s medical papers and long hours at the school library, Annabel became incredibly well educated on conditions such as schizophrenia, depression, and alcoholism. She let Jack know none of what she had done, or had come to know, and allowed him to shield her from the problem whenever he felt the need.

Annabel was not ignorant to the situation, however, and in fact had set herself to pondering what exactly should be done about things. It had become her judgment that: First, due to the seemingly hereditary nature of the diseases Millie suffered from it was inevitable that Annabel, at some point in her life, would begin to show signs of the same problems. Second, with that said, it was imperative that she discover what the world could teach her before it was too late; before she was no longer herself.

These conclusions led her down to the creek on a frigid January morning in 1957. Millie was fifteen, as was Johnny Wheeler, her companion on that morning, and the two of them trudged through the brittle winter grass, snapping frozen branches off of trees as they went, and down to the old Bluff Dale Creek. The water was frozen in shallow areas, and in some spots near the bank, but it wasn’t the creek they were interested in at all. They had come to seek out the train tracks that ran alongside the water for about a mile and a half before the tracks dart north and the two separate forever.

“I think I left it over here somewhere,” said Annabel pointing toward a brushy patch along some trees.

Johnny, having been completely in love with Annabel for several years now followed behind her like a most loyal dog. The thing she was referring to, and had hidden in the brush, was a average size green suitcase filled with enough clothes for one week, the necessary tooth and hair brush, a notepad, pen, and thirty eight dollars saved from her last three birthdays. Annabel brushed the leaves and grass from the top of the suitcase and pulled it up to her side.

“You sure this is a good idea, Anna?” asked Johnny sheepishly. “Your parents are gonna be awfully upset.”

Annabel turned to face him, and after stomping her foot down with authority, gave a stern reply. “Johnny Wheeler, I didn’t tell you about this so you could whine and cry and try to talk me out of it. I’m not gonna’ sit around and wait to go crazy like my poor mother. I gotta’ see things in this world. I wanna’ live. Go places. While I’m still myself and can make things happen.” The young boy watched his own foot as he kicked a rock down into the water. “We’re just gonna’ miss ya round here is all.” The sadness in his voice wouldn’t allow Annabel to be angry at him. She placed her hand softly on his shoulder. “I’ll be back one of these days, John boy.”

He responded only with a slight nod, and the two of them headed further into the woods, staying beside the river until they came to a shallow spot where the creek could easily be crossed. Three long strides placed Annabel on the opposite bank, with Johnny not far behind. They stood for a moment, and Annabel caught the smell of rain. The two of them examined the large black clouds moving in from the west, and then trudged on up the embankment where the ground leveled out and the train tracks could be seen thirty yards to the east. Annabel, with legs scraped from briars and brush, made her way toward the tracks.

“Maybe the train ain’t comin’ today,” Johnny said from behind her. Annabel looked down at her watch. It was simple, trimmed in gold, with a black wristband. It was a gift from her father, given on her thirteenth birthday, and she treasured it more than anything else she owned. She cleaned a smudge from the glass with the sleeve of her shirt. “Train comes every mornin’ at eight thirty. It’s just now eight twenty.”

The two of them sat down on the track, Annabel’s suitcase separating them, and listened to the distant roll of thunder. Annabel, so fiercely confident of her decision in response to Johnny’s question, began to consider the implications of what she was about to do. Her mother, so fragile already, would fall apart at the leaving of her daughter. Annabel wondered if it would the final straw-the culminating event that sent her off the deep end forever. Her father, the saint, the man who so many times had calmed her after a tragedy; the man who repeatedly nursed her mother back to health. He would be devastated, she thought to herself, but he will understand.

The tracks began to gently vibrate under them, and at once they both stood up. The soft hiss of a train was barely audible as Annabel looked down at her watch.

“Told ya, Johnny. Eight thirty. Every day.”

“I’m goin’ with ya,” he said suddenly. “I’m goin’ with ya.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” she said loudly, then in a calmer voice: “You know you can’t do that. You know it.”

Annabel felt a lump rise in her throat, and her eyes began to fill. She grabbed him by the arm, and with the train growing louder and coming closer, the two of them jogged down behind a large oak tree and hid behind it. The train was approaching now, and just as Annabel predicted in her own mind, she heard the train begin to slow a bit. She wasn’t sure why, but when the train passed through his part of the woods it always slowed, just a bit, and this would allow her the chance to catch the ride she had been planning for several weeks. Annabel dropped the suitcase on the ground beside her and wrapped both arms around Johnny Wheeler. “Bye Johnny,” she said softly.

The train was now rounding the corner and was in view, and in a flash the conductor car had passed, followed by a sea of rusty yellow cars. Annabel waited for an open one to come around, as it always did, and at last one appeared. She let go of Johnny and reached down for her suitcase. He grabbed her arm and yelled, “Anna.” She pulled from him, he had a surprisingly strong grip, and in a desperate measure she lunged out and pushed him to the ground. In a flash she was running, green suitcase in hand, toward the tracks and her open car. The train had now slowed considerably, and as the car approached, Annabel slung her suitcase in. Then, running beside it until she caught her top speed, she jumped up onto a step, grabbed the hand rail, and pulled herself in. Peeking out she was able to catch one last glimpse of Johnny Wheeler before the train car moved on into the trees.

Part Three

Annabel moved to the corner of the car, out of the sight of the world, and sat down. A few miles away Jack Shay stood, his breath fogging on the cold glass of a living room window, his daughter’s neatly folded bed on his mind. The glanced back at a photo of Annabel that hung above the mantel, his moist eyes blurring it beyond recognition, then back toward the rain clouds forming in the west.

Three hours later, she lay shivering on the cold metal floor of the train car. The sun burned brightly in the sky, illuminating the passing outside world, but it had yet to remove the chill lodged deep in her bones. Using two folded shirts as pillows, and another as covering, she forced herself to close her eyes. She drifted off to sleep as the miles separated her from everything she had known. Annabel, normally a light sleeper unable to take daytime naps, slept soundly for nearly five hours. She awoke feeling disoriented and at first unsure of where she was. The steady clicking of the tracks was an instant reminder. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and began to try and stand up.

“Hello there!”

The voice sent Annabel backwards and down on her backside. The corners of the car were dark, but she could make out the silhouette of a man, covered in shadow, with only his teeth visible. He was clearly smiling.

“What-how-who are you?” she uttered nervously.

The man rose, steadied himself against the back wall of the train car, and began making his way toward her slowly with his hand out. Annabel retreated further into her corner, and the man put both hands, palms facing her, gesturing that he meant her no harm.

“Name’s Burt. Burt Cottle. The few friends I’ve got call me Rocky. Glad to see ya movin’ round now. You sure were lyin’ still over there. Had me worried you was a goner’,” he said with a joking smile.

He had moved into the light allowing Annabel to better inspect his appearance. He was homeless, a bum, or looked to be at the very least. His hair was equal parts red and gray, disheveled and brittle rather than greasy, and an un-kept beard covered the majority of his face. His eyes were jet black, deep set, and warm. Despite his questionable hygiene, Annabel could not argue that he had planned for the weather better than she had. His boots were worn, but still in decent condition, and his dark blue pants sported only a few small holes. She envied at his coat. It was black, or had been at one time, and despite being a bit dusty it was in good shape. She cursed herself for not bringing one of her own.

“I’m Annabel. How did you get on this train?” she asked.

“Been meanin’ to take this ride for a while. Just now gettin’ round to it. Jumped aboard just outside of Childress. Little town called Tell. Ever been there?”

Annabel shook her head. “No. Never.”
Ain’t missing much,” he said with a wheezing laugh. “Post office and a couple a houses. Train stops just outside of town there ever once in a while.”

“Hmm,” she said. A few seconds passed, then: “Well, where ya goin’?”

“Amarilla,” he said while pointing in the wrong direction. “Got somebody I need to visit. How ‘bout you?”

Annabel scratched her elbow, and looking down at her feet said softly, “Not sure exactly. Just wanna see some things. Go places.”

She looked up at him to study his reaction and found that he was studying her as well. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated her.

“You’re awful young to be out on your own, Annabel. Somethin’ happen? Somebody treat ya wrong back at home?”

“No. Nothing like that,” she said, sitting back down next to her suitcase. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

“No problem.” he said as he turned back toward his corner.

He walked over, reached into the dark, and when he returned to the light he held a worn duffle bag at his side. “Mind if I sat near ya? Tough to hear over tha noise of this train. And my hearin’ certainly ain’t what it used to be.” She didn’t respond, but moved her suitcase from one side to the other, and he took it as an invitation. He sat down slowly, as if allowing his bones time to adjust, but once seated he assumed an Indian style position as if a child. He then pulled the duffle bag out into full view.

“Whatcha got in your bag?” he asked with a youth like exuberance. Annabel shrugged and ran her hand over the green suitcase. “Nothin’ much. Just some clothes. Tooth brush. Pen and paper.”

He straightened his back and raised his eyebrows as if impressed. “Ah! A writer, eh? Never much good at it myself. Never liked readin’ either, really. Got any poems? Now poems I like.”

“Nah.”, she said quietly. “It’s for letters. Gotta write my daddy to let him know I’m alright.” His face tightened at the sadness in her tone. A few seconds passed before he decided not to press her on the issue. Finally, Annabel sat up and pointed toward his bag. “What’s in yours?” He grabbed it, as if she would never ask, and loosed the string at the top. “Well, let’s see here,” he mumbled while rummaging through. “Couple a shirts. Both need washin’. Pair a socks. Aha!” he said loudly, and removed a half-empty bottle of bourbon with no label. His smile dissipated as he thought it over, and he shoved it back into the bag.

“Probably not of interest to you. Wait, here’s somethin’. You play cards?” He removed a deck of playing cards, all edges worn, with a rubber band creasing the middle as it held them together. He removed the band and began filing through as if warming them up.

“Go fish,” said Annabel with a shrug. “That’s about it.” His face once again became animated with excitement. “One a’ the greatest of card games. Although, I must warn ya, I’m tough to beat. Care to give it a go?” It was late afternoon, and Annabel finally managed her first thin smile of the day. She angled herself slightly toward her new traveling companion and awaited her allotment of cards.

The tournament lasted four rounds, all being tightly contested, with Annabel winning every game. After a sportsman’s handshake, Burt Cottle wrapped up his cards and dropped them back into the duffle bag. He stood, slowly again, and ambled his way toward the open door of the train car. He peered out at the passing countryside, first one direction then the other, and turned to Annabel with a nod. “Not far outta’ Amarilla’ now. Maybe another half hour,” he said confidently. “Say, why don’t ya jump off with me when we get there? Just to stretch your legs a bit. Be good for you to get outta here for a few. You can jump the next train if ya like.”

The idea didn’t sound bad to Annabel. The constant noise had begun to numb her head, and she was hungry.

“Long as we can get somethin’ to eat,” she replied. “I’m ‘bout to starve.”

“Whatever you like, Miss Annabel,” said the old vagabond. “Whatever you like.”

Part Four

Annabel and Mr. Cottle sat against the metal car, in the middle now, and watched as the countryside gradually changed in favor of civilization. Houses began appearing in the distance, sparsely at first, then in clumps of neighborhoods on the outskirts of Amarillo. The train then began a slow climb, and Annabel crawled toward the opening to watch as trees, power lines, and houses moved further away. She felt the pace of the train slowing gradually, and at last it came to a complete stop. Annabel rose to her feet and turned to find Burt, already standing, with her suitcase in his hand and the black bag over his shoulder.

“Here ya are, ma’am,” he said with a smile.

She returned the smile, and took the suitcase from him. “Thank ya kindly, sir.”

Annabel suddenly felt invigorated, brimming with nervousness and anticipation. Her mother’s problems, the very fears causing her to flee, now seemed a world away. The two of them stepped down from the train car and onto rocky ground. They stood on the side of a mountain, or at least what seemed like a mountain to a young girl, and could see the entire town of Amarillo spread over the land like butter, thinly in some spots, clumpy and condensed in others.

She watched as cars moved silently down one street and then another. Some were dull, like most where she was from, but others were shiny and elegant, with the setting sun bouncing off of them as they drove.

“Well,” said Burt, “let’s get ya’ somethin’ to eat.”

The two of them moved down the embankment, the incline forcing them into a jog, until they reached street level. Annabel marveled at the dark red brick covering most of the road. She considered how different this town was from Bluff Dale, where the roads were dust and gravel, with only the main highway covered in a mundane blacktop. Homes of all sizes lined the streets in both directions, most good sized but ill manicured, with three or four large columns along the front porches. The lawns were sparse, browned from the abuse of winter, the trees leafless and gray. Still, for Annabel, it was enchanting.

They headed west until they came to an intersection. To continue west, on DOW ST. as the sign indicated, seemed less interesting than heading into the heart of town. After two blocks the houses began to give way to service stations, restaurants, and a thrift store in the bottom of a two story building. She could see the odds and ends scattered through the window, and watched as the lights went out and the sign rotated from OPEN to CLOSED.

She gazed up to the second floor, where the windows sat filthy and covered in dust. From her view the place showed no activity, no sign of inhabitance, and she considered to herself that finding a warm place to sleep for the night would be necessary. Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft tap on the arm.

“Bet we can get a bite to eat right up there, Miss Annabel,” said Burt pointing up and to the left.

The building was white, perfectly square, except for a large dome structure protruding up from the middle. Though it was a block away, she could make out the letters painted across the front: MARIA’s MEXICAN CANTINA.

Taco’s sure sound good, don’t they?” she replied. “I could eat fifty of ‘em.”

The two companions made their way for another block, still walking on the impressive red brick, then across the small parking lot until they approached the dome. It appeared exaggerated, unnecessary when compared to everything else on the street. She watched as it disappeared above her upon entering the restaurant.

Once inside, the smell of warm food assaulted Annabel’s nose and she became nearly faint with hunger. The interior of the building was cut exactly in half, with a large blue wall separating the dining area from the kitchen. A laminated sign posted above them indicated that they should seat themselves, and they quickly sat down at the nearest table. Annabel sat the suitcase down next to her, and Burt, sitting across from her, did the same with his black duffle bag.

Scanning the room, she exchanged glances with a young man in the far corner, his hair a mess, axel grease smeared on his forearm, as he sipped from a near empty beer mug. From the side approached a short, overweight Hispanic woman, her black hair pulled tightly into a bun, a large stain across her bosom, carrying a platter with only a glass of melted ice and a wet rag.

“I be right back,’ she said as she passed the table. Her accent was heavy, and Annabel noticed some bright pink lipstick attaching itself to her front teeth as she smiled.

Annabel nodded, glanced again at the man in the corner, now paying attention to only the last of his beer, and returned her attention to her new friend.

“So,” she said shifting in her seat. “Why Rocky?”

Mr. Cottle tilted his head upward as if to see her from a different angle. “Pardon?”

“When we first met,” she insisted, “you told me your friends call you Rocky. Why?”

He nodded in understanding. “Oh, yes. Well, ya see, I had a bit of a temper in my younger years. Got in a few scrapes here and there.” He looked away and shrugged with embarrassment. “Quite a few, actually. Tha boys went ta callin’ me Rocky, after Rocky Marciano. Name latched on I guess.”

Annabel sensed it was a story told with pride when talking with a man, but with her he seemed ashamed, embarrassed at the barbaric nature of it all. She changed the subject for his benefit, and pleasant conversation carried them through to their meal, where they found they had ordered far more than they could eat. Annabel paid the check with folded money that sat inside an envelope, which sat inside the green suitcase, and the two of them made for the door. Just before leaving Annabel stopped and approached the waitress. The lipstick still clung to her front teeth.

“Yes,” she said smiling. “What I can do for you?”

Annabel took a quick peek to her left and right before speaking.

“Yes. I was wonderin’,” she said as she smoothed out her dress. “Is there any chance you folks could use some help in here? I mean, I could learn anything, and I work hard.”

The waitress’ eyes narrowed and she begin to size Annabel up, looking first at her face, then down to her legs, and back up again. She nodded sideways, and asked. “Who you talking to in there?”

“Oh,” she said with a laugh, “that’s just Mr. Cottle. I know he don’t dress fancy, but he’s real nice. Just met him today, but he’s real nice.”

The waitress sized her up, again head to toe, and at once her face softened. “You talk to my brother. He owns restaurant. He come at seven tomorrow.”

“Seven tomorrow. Oh, thank you. I’ll be here in the morning then.”

The waitress nodded politely, and Annabel made for the exit. The breeze, now much cooler in the last bit of daylight, rose the hair on her neck. She covered her chest with one arm, the other still holding the suitcase, and walked quickly toward Mr. Cottle as he stood near the road.

“Did ya forget somethin’,” he asked as she approached.

“No,” she said looking back in the direction they had come from, “I’m gonna talk to the owner about a job there tomorrow.”

“A job, huh?” he said, seemingly impressed. “Guess you plan on stickin’ around here a bit, then.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

Annabel’s attention was focused back on the two story building that housed the thrift store. She began walking down the street, toward the building, and she felt Burt following behind.
She shivered as she gazed over the building from across the street. There was no one there as far as she could tell, and the only sign of life was a dim light in the back of the thrift store. It seemed to her the kind of light someone left on at all times. She exhaled through pursed lips.

“Whatcha thinkin’, Miss Annabel?” Burt asked...

Part Five

“I’m thinkin’ I gotta save my money. I don’t have enough to be renting a room to sleep in.”

“You wanna sleep in there?” he asked after a moment.

Annabel shrugged, “Don’t see any harm in it. I don’t think there’s a soul up there.”

She pointed to the windows about the store. Her friend didn’t respond. “C’mon,” she said taking her first step to cross the road.

Annabel looked in all directions to see who might be watching, and when she was sure there was no one, she picked up her pace and walked along the side wall.

The lot behind the building held nothing, save two metal trash cans, brimming with full garbage bags and flies, and an old rusted car fender propped against the back fence.

“Now I’m not sure…” Burt said as she made her way up the concrete steps and approached the back door.

“Shh!” she said with a frown, pressing one finger against her lips.

The wooden door was unpainted, splintered at the bottom and looked generally rotten. Annabel considered the possibility of kicking it a couple of times, but she discovered there was no need, as she turned the handle and it opened with a creak.

She turned toward Burt, now standing nervously behind her, and opened her eyes wide. He shrugged, and the two of them entered the building, closing the door quietly behind them.
After maneuvering through the thrift store and up the stairs, Annabel stood and looked out across the second floor. It was better than expected; instead of cold, hard floor they found two dusty couches, both black somewhere under the layers of dirt, a lamp with a navy blue shade, and some old paintings leaned up against the corner wall. A large, cracked mirror hung in the exact middle of the back wall.

She nodded in surprised approval, and then turned to Mr. Cottle. “A lot better than sleepin’ in the street, wouldn’t ya say?”

He no longer looked nervous, and was now smiling. “Sure is,” he said with a large grin.

The two of them strolled in and, after wandering around the room and looking briefly out of each window, they made themselves at home. There wasn’t much to it, really, other than sitting their bags down out of the way and finding a place for the night. Annabel, before allowing anyone to sit, took the cushions from the couches and gave each it’s own thorough beating; dust clouded the room when she was done, but they now had a decent place to sit and sleep.

Annabel, concerned about her appearance after the day’s adventure, strolled over to the cracked mirror and stood in front. Her hair was tossed, but still presentable, and her legs showed the signs of a walk through the brush. Her eyes caught a glimpse of a thread, frayed and broken, just behind the collar of her knee length dress.

“Burt,” she said grasping at the thread, “Burt, could you come over and tell me if my dress is ripped? I can’t really see it.”

She heard no footsteps, and after a moment, turned to him.

“Mr. Cottle?”

He remained sitting, and eyed her with a concerned look. “Do you mind?” she asked again.

He stood slowly, as if pondering each movement, and began walking slowly toward her.

Before he reached her, he said “I hate to tell you, Miss Annabel, but that dress is ruined.” He stood behind her, she felt his breath, his presence, but the mirror showed only her reflection.

“I’m sorry about your dress,” he said. “Sorry indeed.”

Annabel studied her own face in the mirror for several seconds. Then, understanding completely, she sat down, placed her head in her hands, and wept over a life not yet lived

The End.

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