A Hard Place to Land
After her graveyard shift at the diner, Fiona walks down the street past the local shelter, the corner drug store, and the public playground filled…
Author: Richard Cantu, Jr.
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After her graveyard shift at the diner, Fiona walks down the street past the local shelter, the corner drug store, and the public playground filled…
After her graveyard shift at the diner, Fiona walks down the street past the local shelter, the corner drug store, and the public playground filled with screaming children. She had promptly moved from her miniature town of Cape Girardeau— away from small-minded people—to study musical theatre in the bustling city. The arctic wind naturally forces her to tighten her red scarf and wrap her arms around herself for warmth. She turns onto her street and jogs the rest of the way, the gentle heat from the vents beckoning her forward.
The humble apartment comes into view. The red bricks are the sole thing from the original three-story house, now a multi-family apartment building. She walks to the wooden stairs, reaches the bright green door to her private home, and comes to a halt as she struggles fiercely with her purse to fish out her keys. She eagerly pushes the familiar door, but it refuses to move; she allows her eyes to trace the door until they fall upon the orange vacate notice on the door. The pleasant air rushes out of her lungs, causing her to fold over in incredible pain.
What do I do now? She leaves the key in the door, walks to the steps, and sits as the snowy air dances past her. She feels her skin radiating heat like burnt meat on a grill. The urge to smoke a cigarette hits her—the ones she got from the drug store earlier— and she fishes them out of the bottom of her purse. She pulls a long white cigarette out and lights it, inhales, letting the feeling of euphoria wash over her body as it calms her. She lets the toxins slip past her lips as she takes her phone out and presses a button.
“What’s up?” a female voice says.
“Hey Jessie, do you think I can stay with you for a night?” Fiona asks, feeling her face get warm. She takes another drag of the cigarette and hopes that her friend will say yes.
“What happened?”
“They finally kicked me out,”
“I’m sorry, sweetie, but my brother just broke up with his wife and is already on my couch. Why don’t you stay at Liam’s?”
“He has been acting weird,” she says. Her grip on the phone tightens as she sees the life raft take off without her already filled.
“It can’t hurt to try, right?”
There’s a dull click and then silence. Pushing herself off the steps, she puts the smoldering cigarette to her rosy lips one more time before she flings it across the overgrown yard and leaves. The morning street has now become cluttered with people on their morning commute. Fiona walks past the advancing lines of people faithfully following each other like ants and turns onto Parker Street.
The people rush past her as she walks cautiously towards Liam’s. The overwhelming sight of homeless people sleeping peacefully on the concrete ground naturally prompts her to keep walking. Fearing they could smell the burning shame of her situation on her bare skin. She carefully looks at an older woman covered with used boxes and short-lived newspaper for personal warmth, snow dusting her grave face and freezes. The sight sends shivers down her spine as she turns away from the woman. She jogs away and promptly turns on Livingston.
Liam’s shabby house is on the lonely corner at the other end of the street. It sits awkwardly in a grassy lot littered with trash. An old Chevy sits peacefully on blocks with the used engine on the ground. The snow tries to incorporate the rusty metal with nature forcibly. She stops involuntarily at the chain-link fence and holds desperately onto the cold, lifeless metal. She hasn’t had this feeling of helplessness since she graduated from college.
The anxious thought of calling her mother flashes through her head, and the rambling conversation of who was right and wrong plays in her mind. She walks through the mighty gate, up the walkway that snakes through the overgrown yard to the dingy door, and gently knocks. She looks around at the weather-stripped paint, the broken shutters that hang slanted, and the yellow patches of grass—the sound of the locks unlatching snaps her head straight forward. Liam instantly fills the frame of the door. His face scrunches from the morning light before he takes her in.
“Hey babe,” he instantly reaches for her, carefully pulling her in for a tender embrace. “What are you doing here?”
“I got kicked out of my apartment and wondered if I could stay with you,” she says, forcing a grin on her face.
His face cracks and the grotesque appearance of panic instantly replaces his loving face. She eagerly tries to push through the door only to find that his foot is forcibly holding the door in place. She looks at him confused, unsure of what he is playing at, and stands at the door. She crosses her arms and clears her throat, desperately trying to control herself with difficulty as she waits impatiently for his absurd explanation.
“I want to break up,” he says, refusing to look her in the eyes. “I hope you find someplace to stay.”
He shuts the door on her, and she can hear the muffled voice of a woman on the other side. She runs away from the horrid sight of the cold house that looms behind her. Her chest feels like someone has sliced her open and used an ice cream scooper to remove her heart. She stops, unable to move any further, her body aching from the pain and exhaustion.
How could he do this to me? She sits down on the curb, unsure what to do or where to go. She carefully pulls her knees into her chest, earnestly trying to keep herself warm from the falling snow that has begun to pile up in her. She pulls out another cigarette, puts it to her mouth but stops. She knows there is no time; she must keep going.
She shakes the snow off and walks, unsure where she is going but sure that her feet will take her where she needs to go. She places the cigarette back into the pack, pulls out her money, and counts it. Ten dollars.
She looks up and sees a hotel at the end of the street near Denny’s. She pulls her phone out, knowing that there is nothing else she can do; she must call her mother. She pulls out a cigarette and lights it.
“Mom will try to control the conversation, so I have to talk fast,” she says to herself. She starts to walk back and forth, thinking about what to say to her mother. Her mother was known to boast about being right for years after the event, and it was that fact that made her sick to her stomach. She knew she had to think of something to get her mother’s help.
“Hi Mom, I was just calling because I was…” she pauses. “Mom, I need money for a place to stay, and I don’t want to talk about it.” She took another drag from her cigarette. “Okay, I can do this,” she says as she pulls out her phone and calls her mother.
The ringing makes her heart beat faster and faster the longer her mother forces her to wait before a click answers.
“Fi—,” her mother starts.
“Mom, I just need you to listen to me all the way through before you say anything.”
“Okay,” her voice already sounds strained.
“I was kicked out of my apartment, and I just need money for a hotel, so I can get some sleep and will figure everything out when I get up.”
“Fiona Day, what is going to sleep going to do for you?” She asks, not waiting for an answer. “I think we all knew that this was bound to happen, so how about instead of a hotel room I send you money for a bus ticket home. We can figure this all out and get you back on your feet.”
“I need to get some sleep,” Fiona says, her words short and snappy.
“Fine, I’ll send it. I hope you can take responsibility for your actions.”
The line goes dead. Fiona looks down at her phone, unable to process what her mother has said. She throws the phone at the ground, reaches into her purse, and pulls out her beanie to cover her head from the snow. The sky darkens as the snow starts to lash at people on the street and piles on the sidewalk. The smell of salt fills the air as the plows drive past, getting a head start on the brewing storm.
She forces herself to walk, the air biting at her fingers and toes, and knows if she’s outside too long, she could lose them. Her body has begun shaking uncontrollably. Her teeth chatter so hard she bites her tongue. She stops at her bank, pulls out her card, and checks her account at the ATM. It’s there.
She feels the guilt sink in; her stomach feels ill, and she pulls her card out. She was right. I couldn’t do it by myself. She walks away, knowing that her feet will take her where she needs to go.
The shelter appears at the end of the street; it stands welcoming and beckons her. She jogs all the way there and stops. She pushes the door, and it opens for the first time that day. She hesitates for a moment. The warm air wraps around her and gently guilds her in.
“Do you need a bed?”
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