Talisman (4 page)

Let’s just hope that between me and Mike — I’m the one who makes it out “alive”!

Suddenly a building beam broke through the murky darkness.  It was heading this way and not a moment too soon.  The lighted roll bar fired my synapses like a starter pistol. 
Samuel’s Jeep
.  It was his turn to drive and my father’s best-bud and co-worker was bringing him home.  I came in a hair of throwing opening the front door but paused when I heard the engine shut off.  That only meant one thing — Man-Meetin’ on the porch.  The kind of secret summit that revolved around guy gossip, the occasional six-packs of beer (pending the time of day), and “work woes” galore.  And in light of recent rumors, they had enough of them to fill a coal truck.

I crept back into the living room, positioning myself as close to the window as I could.  This wasn’t my first eavesdropping escapade, not by a long shot.  But I only did it in an emergency.  Only when it came to the
really
important stuff.  And this was one of those times.

It didn’t take them long to hit on the subject of the mine and its future.  Both Daddy and Samuel were both bouncing around questions, but neither of them had anything with any meat.  The only thing that perked up my ears like Scooby Doo was Daddy mentioning something about a meeting tomorrow at three o’clock, but he never said “with who” or “why”.  Samuel didn’t prod him for any more information, so he obviously knew.

I bet I could get it out of him
, I thought.  Samuel was no pushover by any means, but we had a special bond.  Samuel had been a huge part of my life for as long as I could remember — like family — and I fully enjoyed the perks of being his “honorary” daughter.  He didn’t have any children of his own or any living kin for that matter.  The only relative of Samuel’s that I knew about was his wife, Sarah, but I’d never gotten the chance to meet her…and unfortunately,
never would
.

Sarah Clark passed away long before I was born.  I’d always wondered why Samuel had never remarried until one hot, August evening over eight years ago.  I’d overheard him talking to Daddy about her as they kicked back on the porch, unwinding with a few cold-ones.  Daddy was dropping hints to Samuel about Eve Andrews, one of the secretaries who worked the day shift.  She had stressed to Daddy (on several occasions) how much she would love to go on a date with Samuel.  He let Daddy know
real quick
that he wasn’t the least bit interested.   I listened as he revealed to Daddy that, “No other woman who roamed the earth could even come close to taking Sarah’s place, and as long as she was in his heart, there wouldn’t be room for anyone else”.  Samuel was just thankful for what time he’d had with her and insisted, “He would carry her love with him forever”.  That was the only time I’d ever seen Samuel teary-eyed.  I remembered thinking how
“romantic” it had sounded
.

Sad, but still romantic
.

I couldn’t blame Eve.  Samuel was such a thoughtful, caring man.  Of course, the fact that he was also one of the few, handsome men in the 50 & up bracket with a good job and single, only heightened the value of his “dateability” stock.  Samuel’s brown skin was as silky as cocoa (he called it “miner mocha”), and his hair was as black as night, with only a wisp of gray.  That was new.  I thought it made him look “distinguished” — he begged to differ.  My favorite feature was his eyes.  They were a rich shade of brown, much darker than his skin, but they were the warmest hue I’d ever seen.  You couldn’t say “no” to them.  Then again, he couldn’t say “no” to my baby-blues either.  Not his “honorary daughter”.  And he was my surrogate father in every way.

Frankly speaking, a girl needed TWO good apple fathers to cancel out the mother who was rotten to the core.

A few roaring yawns later, Samuel was poking down the steps and Daddy was unlocking the front door.  He was walking into the foyer before I knew it.  I would have loved a little “daddy-time”, but I didn’t want him to catch me in my shameless act. 
So
, I crouched behind his leather wing back chair and hunkered down there quietly until I heard the soft
“creak”
of his bedroom door.  I seized my chance for some early morning scoop and rushed outside.  Samuel was moving so slow he had barely made it halfway to his Jeep.

“Samuel,” I called out as I hurried to catch him, aiming for an audible whisper.

“
Shiloh Wallace!
The chickens ain’t even up yet!” Samuel answered, except not as hushed.  The gravels he kicked up alone when he whipped around sounded like a daggone landslide.  With a tilt of his head, my surrogate father eyed my intentions the closer I stepped.  “What’s got you stewin’?”

I swear that man can smell worry in a cow pasture
.  “Oh, what do you think?” I countered.  I’d been around Samuel long enough to know that a “direct approach” was the best route to go.  All “evasive” and “coy” got you was a frank drawn-out stare.

“I haven’t heard a thing,” Samuel stated.  He even threw up his hand.  “I swear.”

I locked my arms firmly at my waist.  “
Nothin’?
” I badgered.

“Nope,” Samuel reiterated with a laugh.  “Not one iota.”

“What about the meeting today at three o’clock?” I posed.

Samuel glanced at the front porch and let out a laugh.  “It seems you’ve been up for
a while
.”

“I’m just really worried,” I admitted.

“You and the rest of the town,” Samuel replied.  “You might as well just put it out of your mind.  We’re gonna get our answer
soon enough
.”

“I know,” I conceded and leaned in for one of his comforting bear hugs.  I figured that couldn’t hurt, and I needed one.

“You’re gonna get coal dust all over you,” Samuel scolded and gave my butt a swift smack.  “Go on, Shi.  Head on into the house and try to catch ya a few Z’s before school.”

“All right,” I agreed and pranced towards the porch.  “Hey,” I called out as I opened the screen door.

Samuel whipped around.  “
WHAT?
”

I grinned.  “Don’t forget…Someone’s birthday is
this Sunday
,” I announced.

Samuel rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “Oh, I know,” he hollered back with a wink and opened the door of his banged-up old Jeep.  “Don’t you worry.  I’ll be sure to do something
special
for whoever
‘that person’
turns out to be.”  After one quick slam and a good rev of his engine, Samuel was whipping out of our gravel drive and on his way.

The harsh
“squeak”
of the front door hinges butchered my nerves.  A barrage of worries swirled like a relentless twister in my head and weighed heavier than my steps as I moped up the stairs.

My restless night…

My horrible dream…

The looming favor…

The mine…

My father’s job…

Our town…

With all that, I should have known today would be one I would never
,
ever
forget!

Chapter  2  — 
Penny for Your
Worries

I headed straight for the bathroom.  After all, it was morning, I was up, and it was time to get ready for school.  Like I’d done hundreds of times before, I blindly reached behind the shower curtain and gave the chunky cross knob a full twist.  I began to undress, wishing all my troubles could be shed as easily as my clothes.  I wandered over to the mirror above the old pedestal sink and paused to gaze at the person staring back at me.  My almond-shaped blue eyes commenced with a slow scrutinizing sweep.

I definitely wouldn’t call myself “high-maintenance” like most of the girls at school, but wouldn’t say I was a Plain Jane either.  I just honestly didn’t see what all the fuss was about.  Not like Chloe did.  All the drama involved with
CONSTANTLY
trying to appear
desirable
to guys just to “hook one” was borderline-insanity — not to mention, downright demeaning.  But I seemed to be in the minority, especially around my school.  Most of the girls there felt their self-worth was defined by their “relationship status”.  Confidence, high morals, and convictions were replaced with slutty clothes, warped values, backstabbing, and putting-out.  Most girls seemed to do anything and everything in their relationship endeavors —
except be true to themselves
.  Just to lay claim to some random guy as
their
“boyfriend”?  Their
“trophy”?
  Simply watching their tireless charades seemed nothing less than exhausting (though sometimes humorous).  Realistically, why waste the time?  Did they honestly think “fate” had dropped all of their destine “soul mates” conveniently within the confines of one small-town high school?  There was about a one-in-a-million chance of that happening.  Maybe more?  Like most teenage-flings, they all would inevitably come to a grave ends — resulting in teary swollen eyes, Facebook drama, and a prolonged period of agonizing heartbreak.  I vowed years ago —
That would NEVER be me!

The mirror was well past misty now, but I continued to stare at my reflection, despite my disappearing face.  For the past several years, I’d had more important things on my mind and “boy-chasing” wasn’t one of them.  My goal was simple really.  I planned on graduating from Welch High School, Summa Cum Laude (preferably), so I could coast into a great college and get the heck out of Welch, West Virginia.  There were absolutely no opportunities around here,
especially for women
— with the obvious exception of working for minimum wage and/or getting pregnant every other year, until my uterus fell out.  I’d been focusing on my “escape plan” for so long that I hadn’t really given the opposite sex much of a thought.  But it’s not like “boys”
never
popped into my head.  Of course they would — from time to time.  But I was being rational.  I made school my number one priority and felt there would be plenty of time for the opposite sex —
later
.  Plus, the guy I’d had a crush on since first-grade had been dating the school slut for over a year, which certainly helped sway the direction of my romantic pendulum.  My fingers brushed over my naturally strawberry-hued lips. 
That unfortunate pairing — along with my convictions — is why I’m almost eighteen years old and have never been kissed
…

However
, there may be a small part of me that envied girls like that —
just a little
. 
And possibly
, there might have been a few times when I would have preferred to look a “little more appealing”.  I’d be the first to admit my attire leaned more on the conservative-side, and I hardly wore any make-up.  Perfume was even a rarity.  The only smell my skin emitted was a “clean scent” from my bath soap.  Those girly-luxuries simply weren’t an option in my household — at least not for
me
.  I had acquired my father’s work ethic.  You kept yourself busy — from sunup to sundown.  And just like him, I always
tried
to save my money.  Currently, I was attempting to bank most of it for college — a necessity.  But even though Daddy made a good living, it seemed our household was constantly strapped for cash (what with having a materialistic mother and a spoiled rotten, gets-anything-her-heart-desires younger sister).
Without fail, I ended up shelling out most of
my
money for
their
trivial wants, rather than for my own selfless needs.  I always caved to their requests in an attempt to keep a reasonable amount of peace around the house, but mostly to take the pressure off Daddy — another necessity.  After all, he worked too hard, and I never wanted to add to his financial-frustration the way my mother and sister would (without a batting a freakin’ eye).

I was just grateful knowing I would be getting a much-needed reprieve come next fall — that is,
IF
I would ever hear from any of the colleges I’d sent applications.  Now that was something else that was really bothering me, even in spite of the fact that I’d sent them kind of early.  Motivated and eager.  That was me.

Yep… Just add “that one” to “the list”
, I mumbled quietly.

I knew I shouldn’t be overly worried about it, but I was.  I mean my SAT score came back a 2290.  It wasn’t a 2400, but it was still pretty damn good.  It wasn’t like I was applying to a bunch of Ivy League schools.  I was being practical —
financially practical
.  A state school was the most logical choice.  My short list was WVU, Virginia Tech, and the University of Tennessee. 
I sure hope Daddy had planned on us touring those
.  They weren’t too costly and still close enough for my old clunker to take me there and back for visits.  I figured with me getting a job close to campus, a student loan, and possibly a grant, or even better — a scholarship, I could swing it.  I planned to major in a science, but I wasn’t sure which one to pursue.  There was always the possibility of going on to medical school after I received my undergraduate degree.  I’d always been drawn to the idea of
healing
people.

I wonder if Charlotte would be proud of me then?
Maybe if I became a plastic surgeon?  But would my mother really want to be sedated while I hovered over her with a scalpel in my hand?
  A grin stretched across my face. 
Probably not.

Well, there won’t be any chance of that if I don’t get my butt ready for school
.  I threw back the shower curtain.  Thank goodness Chloe’s toiletries weren’t landmines…I would be toast!  She kept so much crap strung out all over the bathroom we shared that there was hardly any room for my
stuff — let alone me.  This would surely prepare me for dorm-life, which was bound to include a messy roommate. 
Good practice run
, I thought.

Ten refreshing minutes later,
I was out of the shower and throwing on my fuzzy terrycloth bathrobe.  I heard a
“thump”
when I stepped into the hall, which made me realize I’d woken up Chloe.  She must have hurled something at her bedroom door.

“Keep it down out there!  It’s not even six!  UGH!” Chloe bellowed in her grouchy morning-voice.

“Sorry,
Princess,
” I hollered as I strolled to my bedroom.

I quickly threw on my clothes and pulled my damp dark-blonde mane into a ponytail, knowing it would have plenty of time to dry before school.  I had to get breakfast started
.

French toast sounds like a nice treat,
I thought as I trotted down the stairs.
  Mmmm…and maybe some apple crisp.

As I walked down the hall, I caught the whiff of a familiar and
irritating
smell.  There was no need to flip on the lights.  Charlotte was already up and sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette.  I coughed as I waved my hand through the hazy air.

“Why aren’t you outside on the back porch?” I questioned innocently.

“It’s too damn cold out there…and don’t you concern yourself with where
I
smoke in
my
house!” Charlotte growled like a rabid dog.

My mother didn’t smoke often.  It’d been months since I’d seen her with one.  However, it did clue me in to what she had been
doing
this morning.  A few years back, I’d overheard her telling one of her friends that the only time she
craved
a cigarette was “after sex”.  Morning sex from the ice-queen was a card Charlotte only played when she wanted something.

She must have pounced on Daddy as soon as he hit the bedroom door
.  I wasn’t naïve to think my parents didn’t have sex anymore.  That was one of my mother’s
favorite
bargaining chips.

Charlotte took a long draw off her cigarette and blew it towards me with a smile.

My eyes began to flutter when the puff of smoke hit my face. 
She must’ve just finished her bowl of “bitch” for breakfast
…
No french-toast for her!

I ignored her warm little gesture, turned on the oven, and went straight to cooking.  Prepping the green apples was first on my list.  Once all of their curly peels had been tossed into the trash, I retrieved a sharp knife from the cutlery drawer, cocked my head, raised my brow, and threw my mother a smile.

I knew the sticky-sweet Charlotte Wallace from last night wouldn’t last long, but I’d kind of hoped her attitude could’ve at least held out until I’d come home from the daggone dance!
  Though my eyes stayed locked on the apples I was cutting on the thick slab of butcher-block, every one of my
“chops”
mirrored the frustration I felt in regards to
my dear, sweet mother
.

Charlotte sat there rubbing her head, undeniably hung-over. “What’s for breakfast?” she groaned.

“French-toast and baked apple crisp,” I replied as I ran around the kitchen gathering up all the rest of the items I needed from the fridge and the cabinets. 
Maybe she’ll shut up and leave if she sees I’m busy
.

“I’m
not
hungry,” Charlotte barked as she scooted out her chair, “but make sure you fix enough for your sister.”

“I
always
do,” I replied.  After all,
I
wasn’t the selfish one in this household — regardless of what
SHE
thought!

My mother wobbled over to our junk drawer and jerked it open in a huff.  After several frustrated seconds, she pulled out a fresh glue-trap, ripped open its seal, and slid it behind the fridge.  I hated those things.  They were so cruel…and my mother knew my feelings on the subject too.

“Don’t you dare throw that thing away!” Charlotte warned with a fierce glare.  “I saw a mouse running around in here and I want it gone.  I MEAN IT!”

“Sure,” I grinned.  “I
won’t
touch it.”  My mother let out a foul grunt and stormed out of the kitchen.  She didn’t believe me, but I fully intended on keeping “my word”. 
I’ll just make sure I get to Mr. Mouse, “first”,
I affirmed with a sneaky
mental nod.  When I was younger, I’d discovered (by accident) that I had a natural, uncanny knack for tracking things with my eyes and ears…and I loved the challenge of catching little critters too.  It was like a game.  Flies, mice, and even the occasional frog were no match for me.  Truthfully, all of my senses were abnormally heightened, right down to my quick reflexes.  No one could
ever
sneak up on me either.  It was an odd talent that I put to good use around the house — mainly to keep the “kill rate” to a minimum.  The way I saw it, they had every right to buzz in the air and scamper across the earth…the same as me.

HOWEVER, I made a cold hard exception for
snakes
.  Hey — even a “humane” girl has a line drawn somewhere in the sand.

Within minutes, I had the nine slices of bread dipped and laid on the griddle.  Once all the apples had been bathed in the oatmeal mixture, I topped them off with some flour, sugar, and cinnamon. 
Nothing beats the smell of warm cinnamon in the morning
, I noted as set the timer and placed the casserole dish in the oven.

Not a second later, I detected a warm musky scent floating through the room.  It would’ve been hard for anyone else to pick up on it, what with the kitchen air filled with the sweet aroma of french-toast sizzling on the stove, but I could.  It was unmistakably my father’s cologne.

Not a second later, I heard Daddy’s voice calling out, “What smells so good?”

“Your
favorite
breakfast,” I announced proudly, “as if you have to ask.”

Daddy staggered into the bright kitchen, scratching his thick head of hair, which was almost as black as coal he mined, and rubbing his light blue-green eyes.  They had to be my favorite feature of his.  I always looked forward to them greeting me in the morning and today was no exception.  They were
my
morning cup of coffee — guaranteed to wake me up and put a smile on my face.