A. C. Briggs 12-16-03

Stark Story

Rain blurred the reflections of the streetlights on the passing cars. The quiet symphony of drops blended with the splashes as tires ran through puddles and the fwip-fwip of the windshield-wipers. People hurried by, swathed in coats and sweaters and such, holding them tight against the pervasive wetness of the rain. Some of the stores that lined the city streets had closed their doors early in gloomy anticipation of lousy business.

A girl stood on the sidewalk, ignoring the various pedestrian walkers as they ignored her, her attention fixed solely on one object. Her face was pinched and wan, not starved, precisely, but hungry. It seemed unfinished, somehow, like a sculpture left carelessly undone. Her hair could have been pretty; as it was, it lay lank and colorless along her shoulders. Thin hands clutched a worn, third-hand coat about her thin frame. A faded skirt enveloped her legs in folds of denim. A single cheap ring with a tiny glass gem adorned the middle finger of her left hand.

She did not acknowledge the rain or the cold, staring into the wet darkness at the grey stone building looming, half-seen, in the deepening gloom. A glimpse of a rain-wet slate roof, shadowy stone walls built in the fashion of ages past. No light shone from those stained glass windows, no open door to ask her in out of the cold.

“So here you are!” The voice was loud and male. The girl made no movement to acknowledge his presence.

“Gahd,” her brother said, shaking water out of his shaggy hair. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Why the hell can’t you just do what you’re told?”

Her brother wasn’t tall, but he was stocky and strong. His face held the permanently dissatisfied look of one who just knows that he deserves better than he has. His hair was several weeks overdue for a haircut and his hands were deeply scarred with work. His clothing was second-hand, rather than third, and his heavy work boots had been new once.

“I mean, how hard can it be to understand? I told you to stay with the car! I just had to grab a pack of smokes.” His voice was rising and his face reddened. Finally, he let out an explosive sigh. “There’s no use talking to you, is there? C’mon, Lizzy. Back to the car. It’s dark and cold out here.”

He propelled her down the sidewalk, not gently, but she followed docilely enough. The city felt different with the rain, lending it a sad grandeur. It looked like the remains of some impossibly gargantuan civilization, worn shiny with age, abandoned and forlorn.

Lizzy’s brother fumbled with his keys, cursing as he dropped them and finally opening the door. He pushed her in. She hit the seat with a soft thud as he slammed the door. He inserted a key in the ignition, mumbled something uncomplimentary at it when it refused to turn, found the right key, and started the car. He eased it out into traffic, his free hand fumbling for the radio. It blared out, overpowering all other noises in the night. He sighed, leaning back in his seat.

“Turn it off,” Lizzy whispered. He cast her a surprised look. She turned to face him. “Turn it off!”

“All right, all right!” He keyed the radio off. “What the hell were you doing at the church anyway? It’s not Sunday or anything.”

Lizzy stared out the window.

“It’s not like you ever go to church. It’s not like you ever do anything. Just sit around and mope… and wander off, when no one’s looking. And eat.”

Lizzy continued to stare out of the window, counting the buildings as they zipped past, her brother’s tirade a muted buzzing in her ears.

He pulled the wheel to the right, easing the car in between two others. He got out, sorting through his key-ring for the house key. He had the front door open before he realized that Lizzy was still in the car. Irked, he swore under his breath and stumped back down the worn stone steps to the car.

“Is that you, Paul?” a creaky voice called from an open window across the street as he yanked the car door open and pulled his sister out.

“Yep, it’s me, Missus Freedmen,” he called back, pushing Lizzy towards the door.

“Lovely day, isn’t it, Paul,” Mrs. Freedmen asked.

Paul slammed the door and locked the car.

“Paul?” his senile neighbor called again.

“Wha—oh, yes. Lovely day.” He pushed Lizzy through the door into the house. “Old bat,” he muttered, shutting and locking the door behind them.

The house was small and dingy. The single bare bulb that lit the front hall flickered erratically, sending brashly artificial light over the worn carpet. Lizzy followed her brother down the hall to the second door. He unlocked it with yet another key, shoving it open.

“Home sweet home,” he said dryly. He shut and locked the door behind Lizzy and himself. Lizzy flopped into one of the hard wooden chairs around the small table crammed into the small kitchen, fiddling with her ring.

Outside, the rain had paused, allowing chinks to appear in the thick, muffling clouds. The last few rays of sunlight illuminated the kitchen briefly. Lizzy caught them on her ring, fascinated by the reflections.

“Stop that,” Paul admonished her irritably as the tiny reflection caught his eye. He stuck his head in the refrigerator, debating if the pizza was too old to eat for supper. The little spot of light found his eye again. With a growl, he went and yanked the threadbare curtains shut. The light vanished, leaving the kitchen in darkness. Paul flipped the light switch and it flared on, in slightly better shape than the one outside in the hall.

He decided that the pizza was fine and got himself a slice. After a pause, he got one for Lizzy. She ignored it, watching the light fade behind the curtains as the steady pounding of the rain slowly returned.

Sometime that night the rain froze, paving the streets in diamond and coating the scrubby trees and bushes in cold majesty. Lizzy stared out the window, fascinated by the transformation. Paul swore as he slipped on the icy steps, landing hard on his backside. He got up, glaring around at anyone who might have noticed, and limped over to the car to start the heater. Then he went back inside for a can of soda and a coat.

“Now you listen to me,” Paul said to his sister. “You stay here. Stay here, all right?”

Lizzy looked up at him, blinked, then went back to studying the frozen beauty around them. He stood there for a long moment, wondering if he’d gotten through to her. His watch beeped. He checked it, gave Lizzy one last long look, and left for work.

It was just past noon when Lizzy found the tall stone building again. No longer half-hidden in the wet gloom, it was gilded in the early afternoon sunlight. Every stone was illuminated in gold, almost outshining the stained glass.

Lizzy stepped forward, onto the stone path that led to the door. She made her way down it slowly and confidently, eyes fixed on the shining edifice. She was almost to the door when it opened. She froze as people streamed out, laughing, talking people. She turned and ran the other way, down the path, slipping, falling, picking herself up, and running again. Three blocks later, she stopped, panting.

“Lizzy Stark? Is that you, dear?” A hand almost touched her shoulder. She shied away, turning around. A middle-aged woman, wearing several layers of coats, sweaters, and shawls and very thick glasses was standing behind her. “What are you doing this far from home? Is Paul around? Didn’t he go to work?”

She backed away, shaking her head violently.

The woman sighed. “Come on, dear. Let’s go home. You don’t want to get lost, do you?” She herded Lizzy down the street. “Come on. It’s not too far.”

“Hello Tabitha!” yelled Mrs. Freedmen as they passed under her window.

“Hello Mary. How is the rheumatism?” the woman yelled back.

“No worse than usual. The girl run off again?”

The woman nodded, pushing Lizzy before her into the house. “Got your key, dear?”

Mutely, Lizzy produced the key to the apartment she shared with Paul. The woman unlocked it. “Now you stay in there. You don’t want to run off and get lost again, do you?” She handed the key back to Lizzy. “Oh dear. I still have to get the—” and she was gone.

Lizzy sat by the window, gazing out at the world. As the day moved on, the sky slowly darkened. The lights came on inside the buildings and the sun set and the stars came out. A key rattled in the lock. Paul pushed the door open, stomping dirt off his boots and flipping the light on.

“Mrs. Werner told me she found you out on the streets again,” he said by way of a greeting.

She paid him no attention.

“God, what is wrong with you? Can’t you understand a simple instruction? Can’t you just stay here for once?” He rubbed a hand through his hair, falling into a chair. He sighed, looking at her. “It’s no use talking to you, is it?”

Lizzy appeared not to notice him. She twisted the ring on her finger, looking up at the darkening sky. He pushed a bowl of cereal at her. She regarded it with mild interest and picked up the spoon.

The next morning dawned bright and warm. Paul left for work, admonishing Lizzy not to wander off again, though he knew all too well how ineffective it was.

Sure enough, Lizzy was back at the old stone building before noon. The ice was melting off the roof and walls, pouring down the stained glass windows, making the sad faces cry. She watched as the ice went, leaving the place a tired old relic of a former century, sandwiched between two glass high-rise office buildings. No darkness to lend it mystery, not ice to gild it in splendor; just a small square granite building.

Lizzy stepped onto the path again, her feet carrying her forward. She paused at the door, running a hand over the heavy carved wood. Then she opened it and stepped inside.