(Written about ten years ago.)
“Lead us to a place, guide us with your grace
To a place where we'll be safe.”
--”The Prayer,”
by David Foster, Carole Bayer Sager, et al.
7:45 a.m. The streetlights on either side of Broadway blurred into two straight lines. Mom must have been going sixty-five. High, fresh snow banks rose to left and right, and random flakes splattered the windshield. Patches of black ice, Rosie knew, covered the pavement, and they were bad. She wasn’t sure what they were, but she understood they were dangerous and impossible to see. Black ice had killed her father, and Mom had never been the same since his death, always sad, always impatient.
Rosie’s heart pounded in her ears.
Her mother turned to her. “Godammit, late again!” She sped through a red light. “You overslept again!”
Rosie’s mom somehow executed a treacherous left turn. “Now you’ll be late to school-- again-- and I’ll be late to work-- again-- all thanks to you!”
Rosie was tempted to suggest that Mom could always wake her up if the alarm clock didn’t, but the little girl actually liked to sleep late, when she saw Dad most vividly in her dreams. Dad taking her sledding, Dad reading to her by the firelight, Dad frying bacon on Sunday mornings and giving the best pieces to her. For almost a year now, since his fatal car accident, she’d seen Dad only in dreams.
South Street, downhill, all the way to the river. That’s when the car began to skid in a long, lazy half circle, sliding perpendicularly to the parked cars, before, miraculously, plunging into a soft snow bank without so much as brushing against anything solid.
Mom burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. “Get out! Get out! You can walk the rest of the way!”
Our Lady of the Oleanders Elementary School was only a block away from the car. Rosie grabbed her book bag, opened the door, and hopped down to the sidewalk. Before she closed the door, she offered a guilty “Bye, Mom.”
“Just go. I don’t know how I’ll get to work.” Weeping, her mother blew her nose into her sleeve.
Rosie ran toward the school, her nose and ears throbbing with cold, and her book bag punishing her as it bounced against her back.
The school buses were gone. She was going to be in so much trouble. Rosie looked up at the American flag, fluttering bravely, but, she thought, lonely, in the still dark morning sky.
Strange, the school hallways were empty. Silence. Where were the hall monitors? Where was Andy Tompkins, as always, with his boys’ room pass, avoiding the Period 1 Math quiz?
A man with a black ski mask and a rifle ducked into the library beyond her. She could see through its glass windows that he was hunting, but nobody else was in there. Rosie, who had transferred her book bag to her left hand, dropped the bag to the floor with a thud.
The custodian’s closet, with its little window, was right next to her. The door opened and an arm shot out into the hallway to yank Rosie inside. Mrs. Vigliotti pulled her down to huddle on the closet floor along with Mrs. Reed and four whey-faced fifth graders, Gretchen, Lola, Andy, and Isaac.
Mrs. Reed, young, newly married, glared at the elderly teacher. “Now he’ll know we’re in here!”
“Shhh,” said Mrs. Vigliotti. “Maybe he’ll pass us by, but only if we’re quiet.”
The children, tears streaming down their faces, began to cry harder, but muffled their sobs into their sleeves.
Mrs. Reed looked at Rosie. “If he finds us, it’ll be your fault.” She glanced down, laying her hands helplessly on her growing belly, and her face turned into a dark, broken thing.
Rosie's own face felt numb, her eyes dry, but she couldn’t blink. She could hardly breathe.
Abruptly, over the loudspeaker, an unfamiliar song began to play. The startled children screamed. Neither they nor Mrs. Reed could recognize the soothing voice of Johnny Mathis singing his 1950’s ballad, “Chances Are,” and they couldn’t know that the principal, Sister Mary Sebastian--91 and confused-- had put that music on in order to ease the tension throughout the building.
Without doubt the children’s screams brought the armed man to what had been their refuge. Far louder than the music was the sound of machine gun fire.
The door, shot to ribbons, slowly swung open, but instead of the hooded stranger, Rosie’s dad walked in, his arms open to her.
“Come here, little lamb,” he said softly.
“But it’s all my fault, Daddy.”
“Nothing bad that’s happened in your life was ever your fault, sweetheart,” said Dad.
Rosie ran to him, burying her head in his chest, and, sighing with relief, let him wrap her in his warm embrace.
“Lead us to a place, guide us with your grace
To a place where we'll be safe.”
--”The Prayer,”
by David Foster, Carole Bayer Sager, et al.
7:45 a.m. The streetlights on either side of Broadway blurred into two straight lines. Mom must have been going sixty-five. High, fresh snow banks rose to left and right, and random flakes splattered the windshield. Patches of black ice, Rosie knew, covered the pavement, and they were bad. She wasn’t sure what they were, but she understood they were dangerous and impossible to see. Black ice had killed her father, and Mom had never been the same since his death, always sad, always impatient.
Rosie’s heart pounded in her ears.
Her mother turned to her. “Godammit, late again!” She sped through a red light. “You overslept again!”
Rosie’s mom somehow executed a treacherous left turn. “Now you’ll be late to school-- again-- and I’ll be late to work-- again-- all thanks to you!”
Rosie was tempted to suggest that Mom could always wake her up if the alarm clock didn’t, but the little girl actually liked to sleep late, when she saw Dad most vividly in her dreams. Dad taking her sledding, Dad reading to her by the firelight, Dad frying bacon on Sunday mornings and giving the best pieces to her. For almost a year now, since his fatal car accident, she’d seen Dad only in dreams.
South Street, downhill, all the way to the river. That’s when the car began to skid in a long, lazy half circle, sliding perpendicularly to the parked cars, before, miraculously, plunging into a soft snow bank without so much as brushing against anything solid.
Mom burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. “Get out! Get out! You can walk the rest of the way!”
Our Lady of the Oleanders Elementary School was only a block away from the car. Rosie grabbed her book bag, opened the door, and hopped down to the sidewalk. Before she closed the door, she offered a guilty “Bye, Mom.”
“Just go. I don’t know how I’ll get to work.” Weeping, her mother blew her nose into her sleeve.
Rosie ran toward the school, her nose and ears throbbing with cold, and her book bag punishing her as it bounced against her back.
The school buses were gone. She was going to be in so much trouble. Rosie looked up at the American flag, fluttering bravely, but, she thought, lonely, in the still dark morning sky.
Strange, the school hallways were empty. Silence. Where were the hall monitors? Where was Andy Tompkins, as always, with his boys’ room pass, avoiding the Period 1 Math quiz?
A man with a black ski mask and a rifle ducked into the library beyond her. She could see through its glass windows that he was hunting, but nobody else was in there. Rosie, who had transferred her book bag to her left hand, dropped the bag to the floor with a thud.
The custodian’s closet, with its little window, was right next to her. The door opened and an arm shot out into the hallway to yank Rosie inside. Mrs. Vigliotti pulled her down to huddle on the closet floor along with Mrs. Reed and four whey-faced fifth graders, Gretchen, Lola, Andy, and Isaac.
Mrs. Reed, young, newly married, glared at the elderly teacher. “Now he’ll know we’re in here!”
“Shhh,” said Mrs. Vigliotti. “Maybe he’ll pass us by, but only if we’re quiet.”
The children, tears streaming down their faces, began to cry harder, but muffled their sobs into their sleeves.
Mrs. Reed looked at Rosie. “If he finds us, it’ll be your fault.” She glanced down, laying her hands helplessly on her growing belly, and her face turned into a dark, broken thing.
Rosie's own face felt numb, her eyes dry, but she couldn’t blink. She could hardly breathe.
Abruptly, over the loudspeaker, an unfamiliar song began to play. The startled children screamed. Neither they nor Mrs. Reed could recognize the soothing voice of Johnny Mathis singing his 1950’s ballad, “Chances Are,” and they couldn’t know that the principal, Sister Mary Sebastian--91 and confused-- had put that music on in order to ease the tension throughout the building.
Without doubt the children’s screams brought the armed man to what had been their refuge. Far louder than the music was the sound of machine gun fire.
The door, shot to ribbons, slowly swung open, but instead of the hooded stranger, Rosie’s dad walked in, his arms open to her.
“Come here, little lamb,” he said softly.
“But it’s all my fault, Daddy.”
“Nothing bad that’s happened in your life was ever your fault, sweetheart,” said Dad.
Rosie ran to him, burying her head in his chest, and, sighing with relief, let him wrap her in his warm embrace.