Better Homes and Gardens

By Garrett Iván Colón

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I

December, 1968

School was nearly out. For the day. For the year. For the rest of my life. Mrs.

Herron's eighth grade English class was twenty-two seconds away from escaping the

wretched resonance of her overgrown fingernails grinding against the scuffed

classroom blackboard. The seconds were disintegrating away as a group of boys in

the back of the room began a countdown, disregarding Mrs. Herron’s attempt to stop

them. Ten. Tick. Nine. Tick. Eight. Tick. A final nudge on the shoulder from Charlie, the

class creep, leaning over my shoulder from behind my desk and insisting that I write

him over winter. Five. Tick. Four. Tick. The last few spitballs fired from the back of the

class, extra soggy, courtesy of the back-of-the-class kids. One last assemblage of paper

balls launched past me, just before the final ring of the bell triggered a momentary

cease-fire, followed by the anticipated rampage of Oak Ridge Middle School students.

Classroom doors began to swing open, stampedes of children being set free for the

season. Marcia Dennings and I were the last two girls to leave the classroom,

shadowed by the lanky silhouette of Mrs. Herron—the sound of her clacking heels

overpowering even the loudest of students. Dozens of black armbands were being

flung into the air, many of which bore a white peace sign. It was a frigid afternoon in

Thorne Valley, one of the loneliest towns in all of Iowa, and it became increasingly

cold as the days vanished.

I walked home that day, as I did every day—cold, alone, and free to breathe in

the air of life for the better part of a mile. The wind was harsh, and the last of the

leaves were collapsing from their trees as I walked along the road. The seasonal snow

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was just beginning to fall. I lived on the left side of Redwood Drive, and so I walked on

the left side of the street. Cracked and crumbled concrete for a sidewalk, potholes

along the asphalt, and moss bleeding through every crevice in sight. Marcia Dennings

and I walked a similar path, though we hardly talked to each other. Each and every

weekday afternoon, as soon as we approached Redwood, she took a right, and I made

a dreaded left.

“Enjoy your winter on the left side, if you can,” she sarcastically shouted, then

giggled.

Marcia always knew what to say. She always knew exactly how to tear me into

tiny pieces, much like the deteriorated sidewalk—crumbled at every corner. The right

side of Redwood Drive was beautiful. Homes of all shapes and sizes, though they were

all equally gorgeous. The landscape was always intact, always fresh, always inviting.

In the distance, the eastbound lake, Lake Ella, was absolutely breathtaking. To

welcome each new day, each and every morning, the sun rose from the east, directly

over Lake Ella. The westbound lake, Lake Arlen, belonged to the left side of Redwood

Drive, and it wasn’t so beautiful.

I continued to walk, in shame, letting every last word of Marcia’s comment

sink beneath my skin. It was cold outside, but the house that I lived in was always

colder, so I went home—to Lake Arlen. As much as I admired the distant view of Lake

Ella, I wouldn’t be caught dead on that side of Redwood. Despite my hopes and

dreams of, one day, seeing the light on the right side, I’d come to know my own lake

as my home. That afternoon, I walked the lake for hours, letting the time pass,

allowing the only peace I’d ever known completely submerge me. The land

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surrounding the lake was as vacant as it had always been. There were rocks—rocks

everywhere. I began carving letters and faces into tree bark, skipping rocks along the

lake, and keeping the prettiest ones in my pocket to bring back to the house that I

lived in. I sat by the edge of the lake and peeked over the still water, where I saw my

own reflection. I’d frequently stare into my own reflection—a constant reminder that

there was someone there for me through anything and everything. Because

depending on my own family was much like a lion depending on its young cub to

retrieve supper for the pack. In fact, that’s exactly what it was like, which reminded

me that I had to start preparing our meal for that evening.

As I treaded on back to the house that I lived in, I’d toss up and catch one of the

rocks that I found at Arlen to let the time pass. I creaked open the front door, the

outside of which was a moss garden, the inside decorated with an abstract

assortment of dents, chipped wood, and knife carvings. Walking my way through an

airless flow of cigarette smoke toward the kitchen, I could hear and see the blare of

news coverage and the seizure-inducing flash of the television coming from down the

hall. The front door was nearly in direct line of the hallway leading to the family room

—an angle that allowed me to see no more than the left resting arm of the couch,

holding the weight of a hairy arm firmly gripping onto a bottle of low-end whiskey. I

heard my younger sister’s voice as I approached the kitchen.

“Hey Dannie.”

Coming as no surprise, Marla had already started getting supper ready. She’d

been home for nearly an hour by the time the middle school side of Oak Ridge was let

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out. Oak Ridge housed most of Thorne Valley’s elementary, middle, and high school

kids, all in separate buildings.

Ongoing efforts to receive information regarding United States prisoners being

held captive by the North Vietnamese remain, for the most part, unsuccessful.

One of the few Americans recently released from captivity has made use of his

acclaimed photographic memory by tape-recording the recalled names and faces

of over fifty prisoners still being held. At this time, their families have been

notified.

Marla and I often listened in on the news surrounding the Vietnam War, even

though we weren’t exactly supposed to. Rumbling from our father would

progressively evolve into shouting, and the rattling that followed from the pressure of

his fist aggressively slamming against the coffee table amplified down the hall.

“Dannie can you please help me get the skillet down please?”

With all my strength, I gripped my two arms around Marla’s waist, lifted her, and

leaned back, allowing her to pull the skillet off of the rusted pot rack.

“You’re getting heavy, Mar. Where’s your step stool?”

“I dunno. Ma needed it. She swiped it from under me while I was trying to get

the boiling pot earlier.”

Bonding with my younger sister was the only thing that ever brought me a

sense of joy in that house that I lived in. She was a little me. So much of her was me,

and so much of me was her, too. We both resembled our mother—brown eyes, dark

brown hair, often mistaken for black from any further than ten feet away, and butter-

white skin that demanded a tan, but couldn’t get one without making lobsters of

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ourselves. She was all that I had left, ever since my brother was drafted into the war

in early ’66. A few of the boys on our side of Redwood went off to war with James, too.

They were close friends of James that swore to stay by each other’s sides through

anything—the kind of friendship that I’d always wanted, but my mother would never

allow. James was just a rebel—military material, one might say, so he would do

whatever he wanted. By the time he turned 18, he was fed up with “the system,” fed

up with Oak Ridge, with Thorne Valley, with our side of Redwood Drive, our family—

he wanted out. I didn’t blame him. To forget the day that he departed would be

impossible. It was the loudest slam of a front door that I’d ever heard before.

Marla and me would always eat dinner together at the little round table in the

kitchen, since our parents didn’t eat with us. Without a word, Dad would grab his

plate, a beer, and bring it back into the living room. Mom would take her food to her

room and eat in sheer solitude. Ritual will tell that after every supper, I’d go upstairs

to my room, initiating a trail of creaks from all but one of the moldy wooden steps. I’d

usually talk to James for a while each night, before going to bed. While in his room, he

was often quiet and kept to himself. Something about his ongoing interest in the

military gave me comfort and security that I hadn’t found elsewhere in the house,

which always made me smile. The walls of his room were decorated with all sorts of

flags, military and rock band posters, collected pocket knives—all kinds of manly boy

stuff. When he left, I’d still visit his room before going to my own. Everything was still

as it was from before he was drafted, except the room was filled with darkness,

emptiness. Marla would never come into his room with me—it was always “too scary”

for her. When James left, it sunk in right away. I’d often find myself on his floor, in

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tears, realizing that the comfort and security I’d once felt from his presence had

walked out the door with him.

Soon after he went, I made friends with a girl next door to me—her room

window parallel to my brother’s window. I’d found her with her arms crossed on the

windowsill, resting her head and looking down at the ground with a face of gloom

that resembled my own, so I opened James’s window and waved for her attention. We

would meet at the window at around 6:30 in the evening—every evening. It wasn’t

until about a week into our friendship that we discovered each other’s names.

“By the way, what is your name?” I heavily whispered across the window.

“Kristina. But you could call me Kristy if you want.”

Kristy was a few years younger than me. She was about Marla’s age.

“I’m Danielle,” I told her, “but everyone just calls me Dannie.”

Kristy’s smile shone from across the patch of grass that separated our homes.

It was a one of a kind smile that lit up the entire left side of Redwood Drive.

Unfortunately, it was also a smile that was seldom seen in her home. She would tell

me stories of a careless pair of parents, an abusive teenage brother, and her pet rock,

Jenny. Kristy was of a frail mind and body—not by nature, but by neglect. She’d

usually keep her pet rock on the floor next to the box spring that she slept on. Soon

enough into our friendship, she began to leave it on her windowsill at night, the

crooked marker-drawn smile and eyes facing in my direction to take place of Kristy’s

absence.

As the days, weeks, and months passed, she would detail nearly every aspect

of her life to me, and I would exchange the same. Kristy’s dark history of abuse and

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abandonment made me realize that perhaps things weren’t so bad on my side of the

grass patch. I was brought to a point of realization that others had it much worse than

myself, and I felt for her. I yearned to hug Kristy after each of her devastating

anecdotes, though her parents would never allow her out of that prison of a home.

From time to time, from James’s window, I’d catch glimpses of her father or brother

barging into her room and beating her around for forgetting to do something or

another. They would throw dirty dishware at her wall, merely out of frustration. Her

parents were almost always in a heated feud. Her brother was an addict; her father—

an alcoholic. I’d never heard those penetrating screams and shouts until I’d opened

my eyes to the reality of what was happening just across from James’s window. As

time went on, I began to learn to appreciate the little that I had, but it wasn’t enough

for me to just accept my secret friend’s misfortune. I couldn’t tell anyone. My parents

would care less. I didn’t want to frighten Marla—she’d already been afraid of James’s

room as it was. I couldn’t contact the police without Mom and Dad knowing, and even

then, they wouldn’t allow me to. This went on…and on…and on. Kristy bore a new

bruise nearly every time we’d meet at the window. She began forcing her smiles.

Enough forced smiles and forged happiness ought to make a young girl fall apart, and

that’s exactly what happened. She began to cry when we would meet at the window.

Kristy cried to me. She cried to me—the only remaining source of this ten-year-old’s

happiness. Watching what happened behind that window was like watching the

worst movie anyone could possibly imagine—only this was real life.

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II

There was one night, in particular, that I knew I’d never forget. After supper,

I’d climbed my way up the stairs, to James’s room window, at our usual 6:30. It was a

cool and rainy evening. Kristy’s window, for the first time in weeks, was sealed shut

and foggy. Realizing that she wasn’t there waiting for me triggered something wrong

in my mind. All I could distinguish was a slow-burning candle on Kristy’s windowsill,

two inches beside a now sad-faced Jenny, dotted markings under the drawn-in eyes,

representing tears, and a gut-wrenching speech bubble drawn from the newly-made

frown that read: “help me.”

That would be the last that I would take of the nightmare. My parents hadn’t

been home on that particular evening. At the top of my young lungs, I cried out for

Marla. As I began to hear her bare footsteps pounding against the wooden floor, I

realized that she ran right past James’s room and into mine.

“I’m in here!”

“Where is here?”

“In James’s,” I told her, as I pried open his rope-tied closet door with one of his

pocket knives.

“I’m not going in there,” she asserted.

“You need to. I need you.”

“I said I’m not goi—”

“Dammit, get in here Mar! This isn’t a game.

“No! It’s too dark in here and there’s alotta weird scary stuff.” All power had

been cut off in James’s room, after he was drafted.

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“Fine. Whatever. Stay by the door and put this on.” I tossed her a jet-black

wrist band with a white cookie-sized peace sign printed on it, then pulled one onto

my own wrist. I found an entire case of them in James’s closet.

“What is this?” she demanded.

“Rule number one for the night, Marla, don’t ask any questions. Please.”

“Look I dunno what you’re up to but you better tell me or—”

I shushed Marla as I stuffed the pocket knife and rope into my jacket pocket. I

grabbed black beanies for each of us.

“Go put your shoes on, Mar. We’re going out.”

“Where’s out?”

“Next door. Now go get’chur stuff!”

To my surprise, she began to listen. I stood by the front door and waited for

her, clenching a small backpack of runaway essentials. It was time for a mission of my

own. It was still raining, but that wasn’t going to stop me. I’d felt, for the first time, as

if James’s courage and ambition were shining through me, all the way from ‘Nam. As

Marla ran down the steps, creak after annoying little creak, I opened the door and

grabbed her arm, stepped out, and closed the door, though something didn’t feel quite

right.

“Wait! Hold on,” I shouted.

“You forget something?”

“Yeah,” I told her, “let me do this the right way.”

I opened the front door, and in James’s name, slammed it shut with all of my

barely-teenage strength.

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Marla gave me an unusual look. “You’re an odd one Dannie. But I love you.”

I grabbed her arm as we treaded through the small puddles along our yard,

making a quick left around the side of the house. Dad’s ladder had still been leaning

against the roof from the previous week.

I pointed. “Mar! Get on that side of the ladder and lift with me!”

“What are we even doing?” she questioned.

“We’re being heroes! Just trust me on this.”

“I hardly trust you with supper!”

With all of our might, we carried the ladder to the opposite house, against the

brutal wind, nearly banging the top portion of it against Kristy’s window. We pulled

either side of the ladder, allowing it to spread apart.

“Dannie are we breaking in this house?! Is that why you gave me this beanie?

What’s even in that backpack? I don’t wanna be a part of this Dannie. I still have a

future!”

“What’d I tell you about asking questions Mar?” I reminded her as I worked my

way up the ladder.

When I finally made it to the top, I cupped my hands around my face and

placed myself against her window. I could see Kristy’s shadow, curled up, with her

knees tightly pressed against her chest. I knocked gently, then a little louder, and

louder still. Kristy ran to the window, just as I motioned her to open it, her nose and

cheeks bloodied.

“I can’t,” I faintly heard over the falling rain.

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She pointed to two locked chains, leaning against the window, preventing her

from opening it. I reached into my jacket for the pocket knife and started to pound the

bottom end of the knife into her window, as a look of intense fear wiped across

Kristy’s bloody, crying face. She motioned me to stop.

“Trust me on this, Kristy!” I shouted through the lightly frosted glass.

Despite her concern, I kept going…and going…and finally, a big enough hole

was created, which allowed me to hand over the knife.

“Cut the chain links!” I whispered through the shattered opening.

Her deep stare of excitement and concern overwhelmed her, but time wasn’t

on our side.

“Go ahead! Do it!” I smiled into her eyes, handing her a tissue from my pack.

The poor girl was speechless. She began working at the chain links, her weak

body only allowing her to offer so much strength. Once she finally removed both

chains, she pulled up the window with all of her remaining girl-power, leaned

through the window, and gave me a brittle hug that had been a long time coming.

“Who is that?” I heard from the bottom of the ladder.

I looked down and placed a finger over my mouth, letting Marla know to stay

quiet.

By the time I looked back up, Kristy was already putting her shoes on. She

grabbed a notebook, presumably her diary, blew out the candle on the windowsill,

and gently stepped over. I went down a few steps, holding her by the hand and

helping her shaky body move onto the ladder.

“Wait!”

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“What is it?” I asked.

She reached over and grabbed a hold of her pet rock, Jenny. “Okay. I’m good.”

We slowly made our way down, Marla tightly holding the base of the ladder to

help stabilize us. At that point, it had just come to my realization that the rain was

slowly letting up. When we finally touched ground, Kristy smiled and gave me

another hug. She hugged Marla, as well.

“Thank you,” Kristy mumbled through her weeping voice, progressively

allowing her first real smile to take shape.

“Do you think your parents mighta heard us?” I asked.

“Dunno. What are we going to do?”

“We’re gonna find our happiness, Kristy. Your happiness. I’m not sure when.

Not sure how. Heck, I’m not even sure where. But we’re going to get there. We’re

gonna get what’s ours.”

She smiled—a look of concern about the future still hinting from her

expression.

We heard a piercing scream break out from the direction of Kristy’s window,

followed by a deep shout of her name.

“Let’s go!” I whispered to both.

And so we ran…we ran down Redwood Drive, splashing our way through

puddles, and we didn’t stop until we were sure that we wouldn’t be found. We

drained ourselves to the point of walking. I took out three packages of Pop-Tarts that

I’d kept in my pack and gave one to each of the two girls, keeping one of the packages

to myself. When I glanced over and looked into Kristy’s hungry eyes, I couldn’t help

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offering her one of my two Pop-Tarts. She smiled, dried tears still traced from each of

her two candy-blue eyes. At the time, I hadn’t a clue of where we would go or where

we would end up. We just had to get away by any means necessary. All I know is,

somehow, we made it to where we are now in life, and that’s what matters the most.

“So where do we even go from here?” Marla wondered out loud.

“We go wherever it takes us.”

“Wherever what takes us?” she persisted.

“…Hope.”

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