MillVille Chapter 1: Maddie meets a stranger

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

I’ve seen my mom do it. More than once. ‘Rearranging her view on life’, she called it. Sometimes it just took a little thing. Like moving a couple of our plants to a new place. Or rearranging the living room furniture. Or giving me and my little brother new haircuts (home styled by Mom, of course). But that one time, when I was still a kid, the little fixes stopped working. Mom said it was like a shade was pulled down over her eyes. Like she was looking through a gray veil. That no matter what she changed around or moved someplace else, she couldn’t see the beauty in the world.

And when she stopped seeing the beauty in little Charlie and me, she said ‘Enough’. Not out loud, I guess or Daddy would have caught on. But she must have said it to herself when she scooted us out of the house that one night when Daddy was out to town. “Making his run”, he used to tell her. Just after Daddy spewed the gravel behind him in our dusty driveway, Mom knew from plenty of experience that she had two good hours to get ready.

So Mom decided to make the big change then. When I was about nine or so. Without so much as a word to Charlie and me, she packed us up. Nothing much, because we didn’t have much. Our clothes, a couple of favorite toys for Charlie. Some stuff for me — I’ve forgotten what it was now. Or maybe it was never important. She grabbed our dog Butch’s leash and bed and favorite chew toy — an old stuffed bunny. Daddy thought Butch’s name was funny because she was a girl dog.

Mom only left one note. The one that would dis Daddy. It said, “I’m taking the dog, dumbass!” Because Mom loved the movie Legally Blond so much. I never understood then why the movie meant so much to her. I may be starting to understand it a bit now. That night, she led us out to the front porch, told me to wait there and keep Charlie with me, as she headed down the road at a jog. She knew where the car would be.

When she came back, we piled in, spewed gravel one last time and headed north. It was the first time my breathing started to go out of control and stars danced in front of my eyes. Then it happened. That scary thing in my head. Didn’t tell Mom then. Just let it run its course till eventually, I fell asleep. When I woke up after, I saw the metallic blue Welcome to Indiana sign blink into our headlights. We were rearranging our lives again. A big one this time, for sure.

Seems like I’ve got the rearranging bug in my DNA. Still, I never thought I’d find myself here. Here, right this minute, is on Interstate 40 heading east. I crossed the continental divide (and stopped for a pee) about 15 miles back.

I’m not freaked out about where I am in the world. Never have been. But damn it, this is not the time for a ‘check engine’ light to flash on. It lit up like that about a month ago, but eventually it went away. Mom used to say that those warning lights were fake — designed to line the pockets of some rich garage owner. And I’ve been inclined to agree with her. Except now I’m either hallucinating or there’s a funky smell creeping into the front seat, centering itself right in the back of my nose. Just where I think my nose nerves merge with my eye nerves. And my eyes are getting in on the action too. That and the little needle is starting to edge its way toward the red. Slow as hell, I’ll grant you, but it’s moving that way.

Nothing to do but drive on. Around Asheville, around and around the semis creeping downhill — past those scary runaway truck ramps. I just know those things won’t work. Once a truck starts running away, I don’t think a little pile of sand is going to stop it. I’m not an expert on trucks, but I’m starting to feel like a pro at running away. Not proud of that, I’m just sayin’.

A couple of songs down the road, just as I pass the Sandy something-or-other emporium, all hell breaks loose. All of a sudden, white smoke comes pouring out of the hood and I hear chunk, Chunk, CHUNK! Loud and fast. Then the engine makes a sound I’ve never heard from a car and I pull the hell over onto a red clay shoulder. Turn the car off. The sound stops, except for the hiss of the white smoke, which seems to get louder.

“Crap! Crap! Crap!” I yell to nobody. I reach for my phone. “Damn it!” I’m down to 8% power. And of course, no freakin’ bars out here in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere in the not-at-all deep recesses of my mind, I hear Mom saying: “I told you so.” only she swallows the ‘L’ so it comes out “I to’d you so”.

And just as I’m thinking that I don’t give a fuck what she told me, a truck pulls up. Rolls to within about ten feet behind me and stops. I shove my near-dead phone to my ear and pretend to talk to the police. I may be a lot of things, but I’m probably in the top ten for worst actor in the world. Even I don’t believe my one-sided BS conversation.

It’s been since high school. Back in Felton. My run in with the new girl. For the first time in a long time, I can’t catch a full breath. The world around me starts to feel hyper-real or maybe it’s less than real. I could never describe it right. But I gotta snap out of it now. Right now. Because there’s the man and just stop!

The man stays behind his wheel, studying me. He stares at me and my damn car for a while behind his mirrored sunglasses. Then smiles a bit. Transfers his glasses to the top of his trucker’s hat and gives me a little wave. I continue the fake police talk for a minute, my breathing getting steadier. My eyesight veering back to normal. He’s not going away and nobody else is slowing down to help me. So I drop the phone to my side. His passenger door creaks open and he steps out. Immediately, I stare into the rear view and my eyes lock on the pistol on his right hip. Breathe easy, girl. I step out of the car, real quick and keep my eyes on him. He follows my gaze, looks down and shakes his head.

“Looks like you’re havin’ a little car trouble.” I just stare at the gun and he continues. “Do you have AAA?” I shake my head. We had AAA for a couple of years, but Mom let it go; felt like it was just a front man for the rich garage owners. What did I care back then?

The man walks to the front of my car and sniffs a couple of times. “Did your hot light come on?” I nod yep. “This white smoke coming out a while?” I nod twice. “Loud noise under the hood?” I’m down to one nod. “Cat got your tongue?” I shake my head side to side, cross my arms and take a step back, my eyes glued to the gun. He looks down and rolls his eyes. “Oh this thing? Forgot it’s there. I can take it off if it’s botherin’ you.”

Without waiting for an answer, he spins around, walks back to his truck, fiddles under the front seat and then walks back my way. As he walks back, I notice he’s not dressed like I thought he would be. The guy is handsome, in a country kind of way. I know these things. Wearing brown slim-fitting Prana jeans, a braided belt and a gold and gray plaid Arcteryx long sleeved shirt. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Cool boots. No long hair, missing teeth or visible tattoos. The only thing that marks him as a North Carolina redneck is his truckers’ hat. But on closer inspection, it’s got the name of some craft brewery on it. My breathing slows up and I relax a bit, but I’m not letting my guard down. Not here in the middle of nowhere.

“Let’s start again,” he drawls, but it’s like a Southern gentleman I’ve heard in a movie. Not some dumb hillbilly. “My name is Mark. Sorry if my gun scared you. I have to carry it for my work.” He shakes his head and back tracks. “That’s not really true. My wife wants me to carry it because of what I do. She’s…I’m a pharmacist in the next town up the road. People know what I do and my wife worries that…there have been some people, not too bright people, who might assume I carry drugs on me. She doesn’t…I mean I’m not too worried about it, but we have a little boy and…”

He must see that I’m relaxing just a bit. Like I said, I’m a horrible actor. “Can I call somebody? Drive you somewhere? What do you need?”

What do I need? That’s the $64,000 question. What Do I Need?? I feel like I’ve been standing like a bump on a log for hours. Here goes: “I’m heading to my cousin’s house. And I had…” I turn and hostess-present my 1983 Datsun. The piece of crap that I’ve owned for a grand total of three weeks. “I had some car trouble.”

“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” he says with a smile in his voice. “Ok, can I ask where your cousin lives?”

“Somewhere called ‘Gastopia’, …I think.” The guy bends over, he’s shaking a little, then he’s shaking a lot. A full bore belly laugh. He doesn’t hold back. Is he laughing at me?

“Did I say something funny?”

“I’ve lived around here for most of my life. Never heard it called that. Gastopia!” He lets out a snort, then winds down his laughter. “Miss, I never met your cousin, but she must have a hell of a sense of humor.”

“Why? What’s so funny?”

“Well,” he continues, getting his laughter under control. “the town’s called Gastonia. I’ve heard the place called a lot of things, but never heard it in a mashup with Utopia. Like I said, your cousin either has a hell of sense of humor or…”

I cut him off. “I may have misheard her. Anyway…”

“Yes, anyway,” he drawls, “if you can get past my side arm, which I have safely locked away, can I give you a lift to your cousin’s house?” I hesitate and he continues, “I live just a few miles down the highway past there. It’s not out of my way,” he says, then adds, a bit too emphatically, “not at all!”

I’ve got a dead phone, a dead car and no freakin’ AAA card. What the hell else am I gonna do? I study my shoes for a few seconds — already covered in red dust. I take a deep breath. Let it out nice and slow. I’m ready.

“Alright. And thanks. I’m Maddie by the way.”

“Hi Maddie, I’m Mark. Like I said.” He seems a little shy now. I pull my duffle bag out of the back seat, grab my backpack from the passenger seat, turn off the lights and lock the car door. As I walk toward the passenger side of his truck, Mark glances down the road and says, “Maddie, hold up a minute. See, this isn’t my truck. It belongs to a friend of mine. I’m doing him a favor. Picking it up and I… I just don’t want you to freak out about the…” He points to the back of the truck. Hanging limp in the little holes above the truck bed are two big-ass Confederate flags. And plastered across the back windows are two Trump 2016 stickers flanking a Make America Great Again sticker.

He walks to the back of the truck, pulls out the flags and throws them into the truck bed. Points to the Trump stickers with a shrug and hauls open his door. I throw my duffel in the back of the truck, pull my scuffed-up, formerly blue backpack onto the seat beside me. A faded Indian chief stares up at me from the pack. He pulls out slowly and we roll down the nearly deserted road.

Mark seems like a nice guy. Like a lot of guys from home. At least not some creep. So I open up to him. A little anyway. Just what polite conversation required. Not everything.

I’m Maddie Bell.

I’m 23 years old.

I’m from Indiana — a small town called Felton.

Until a few weeks ago, I went to community college in Indianapolis.

I studied art.

I’m coming to live with my cousin Heidi. Just to start.

I don’t know her too well.

I plan to find a job and get my own place.

I’m moving to North Carolina because…because…it’s not Indiana.

What I don’t tell Mark is what I haven’t told anyone. I barely acknowledge it myself. I couldn’t wait to move out of Felton since we moved there from Kentucky. I saw community college as my way out. My only way out. I worked shitty minimum wage jobs for two years to pay for college. I flunked out of community college after about two years. My mother told me I’d never make it as an artist. (Technically she said that I would have a very hard time supporting myself on an artist’s ‘salary’). And that I should wise up and switch to studying something practical. Like being a nurse for old people. Which I would hate.

And…and…we got in a big fight. Before I left town. She said some things, a lot of things, that hurt my feelings. And I started to cry. And yell and say some hurtful things back to her. Some things that I didn’t know I had in me. Some things that I never imagined I would say. Some things that hurt me as much saying them as they seemed to hurt her to hear them. Some things that made her cry too. And run to the bedroom. And get her purse. And pull out an envelope. One with $900 in it. That she’d been saving for my graduation. That she’d hoped would be $2000 by the time I got my diploma.

That envelope. She threw it at me and the bills spilled all over the floor. She screamed at me. Tears streaked her mascara and a wad of hair caught in the corner of her mouth. She made a bitter face that I never want to see on my mother again as she screamed at me:

“Get out! Get out of here! Get out of here and grow up!”

It hurt me in my heart. It hurts me now. It hurt all the way driving from the farmlands of Indiana to…whatever you call this hill country. But I didn’t tell Mark this part. Just what he needed to know for the ride. To be polite.

As Mark pulls over to Heidi’s house, he helps me with my bag, gives me his business card in case I ever needed help again (why?) and waits until my cousin answers the doorbell. I wave to the truck. Mark waves back and drives off.

When Heidi opens the door, a child’s cry fills the air behind her. She stares at me in confusion. Her face seems to meld from uncertainty to recognition to sadness. Then to nothing.

She takes a puff on her cigarette and blows the smoke diagonally, just over my head. “Oh, right. Maddie. You’re here. Might as well come on in.”

Cover image mural art by Osiris Rain