MARIA
BY KATHLEEN QUIGLEY
Maria stands inside the crumbling barn, dressed as if going on a date. Her dress gapes open revealing a lacy, black bra. Her mouth aches, raw and swollen from the bit the man had forced between her teeth from time to time. He has hacked off her hair, and it pools in a corner of the barn, skittering in the slight breeze. She watches her hair flutter, and she thinks it’s too late in the summer for birds to line their nests, but maybe some mice will find comfort in it. For so long all she has heard—other than his voice as he calmly explains what he is doing to her body—is her heart pounding and the lurch and hum of his truck. The frantic thoughts dart inside her head like a cornered rabbit.
The dress the man told her to put on feels rough and cheap; it smells musty as if it, too, has been buried in that truck of his. The sharp tang of diesel fuel embedded in the cloth burns her nose. She tries to smell past the dress and wishes she could run through the fields, the scent of life all around her. He tosses a pair of black pumps at her, and she leans down to put the shoes on—another one of his dress-up games. The welts on her back stick to the fabric, and she tries not to move too much. The shoes are a bit too big for her feet, and she wobbles on the uneven floor. She is fourteen. Not used to wearing heels. Not ready for one more of his sick games.
The wind whispers around the barn; the wheat fields murmur and sound like waves easing into the shore. She remembers that day she and her brother had been playing in their grandfather’s wheat field. Jimmy had been obsessed with Jacques Cousteau and pretended the fields were an ocean. He wouldn’t share the snorkel and mask. Jimmy said, “You can be the camera guy. That’s really important.” She glared at him as she stalked through the field, the wheat almost to her shoulders, swishing against her. He ran after her and let her wear them; the mask fogged and the snorkel tasted like the hotdog he had eaten for lunch. She took a deep breath and sighed. She looked through the mask and tried seeing the world like Jimmy did.
She wonders where Jimmy is now. Is he looking for her? Does he miss her? She doesn’t know how long she’s been gone. Running away with her boyfriend had seemed so exciting, so free, so grown up. But he is dead so many miles ago, and Maria stands outlined against the gaping barn wall. Although she knows it’s futile, she begs and holds out her hands to stop the man from getting closer. Her ankle twists as her heels get caught between the slats. More than anything, she wants to disappear through the crumbling planks and wake up in her grandma’s bedroom, the sweet smell of fresh hay drifting through the window. Instead, she is in this barn with this man. He lifts his camera and tells her to smile pretty one last time. He takes his time. He clicks the shutter again and again. Tells her how he’ll do it. She prays it will be fast. He wraps the baling wire around her neck, cinching it tighter and tighter with each revolution, and she sighs.
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Kathleen Quigley is a massage therapist and marathon runner. She has published work in Hair Trigger, BowWow, and Wisconsin People & Ideas. She lives in Wisconsin with her two crazy dogs and is writing a memoir about and cancer and childhood.
