American Home Wrecker

A work of fiction by: Lori Townsend
Edited by David Holthouse and Monica Gokey

Cover design and painting by Johanna Bohoy, Bohoy Design/Lightcaught. The watercolor "New Day" was painted in November, 2008 upon the election of Barack Obama. The cover version which is ripped apart symbolizes what the "home wreckers" in the book have attempted to do– divide America and abolish the work of the first U.S. African American president.

Copyright: 8-21-16
Revised: 11-02-17

Chapter One

The trailside gravel was mushy after an afternoon drizzle. Celia realized the sunlight that was deserting daytime hours at an alarmingly rapid clip was going to leave her in near darkness by the time she returned to the parking lot at Westchester Lagoon. She cursed as she tried to pour on a bit more speed. It was September 16, and the hole in the late fall sky above Southcentral Alaska where the daylight leaked out was gobbling more than five and a half minutes each day of precious light. Celia hadn't run this trail in several days. Nearly half an hour of lost light meant her calculations were off for how long she could run the trail and not be afraid. Growing up in Bangor, she was used to city life, but wary of wild things. Not so much rapists or people looking to steal from her, she was scared of the huge lumbering moose of Anchorage. She had been warned they did not possess an affable temperament. A horse kicked her when she was six years old and large ungulates with long legs and hooves spooked her.
Bears terrified her more.
In the advancing gloom, she was sure dangerous beasts were lurking. She had learned that Alaskans were hardy souls who populated the trails every day of the year, regardless of bitter January cold or September rain.
A surprising number of Anchorage residents used the miles of trails that connected to the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail, named for a former mayor and governor of Alaska. They used the trails to commute to downtown jobs each day, preferring to take their chances with moose, the occasional drunk, homeless camper, and other commuters on bikes and skis rather than vehicle traffic and stop lights.
Celia rounded a curve, heading down hill and picked up speed to get back to the safety of her car. She saw movement ahead of her and fought panic, sure a moose was about to run her down. The shape separated into two dark figures, Celia figured they were men, even though one was much smaller than the other. A new wave of fear gripped her as momentum carried her closer and her eyes clarified what her mind didn't want to process. The men were hunched, half carrying, half dragging a third person.
Celia stopped, jamming her toes into the front of her shoes. Her stomach lurched. New coworkers at Regional hospital where Celia worked as an RN had warned her that drunks frequented the trails and assaults sometimes happened to women running them alone.
Alaska was the rape capital of the nation.
Celia didn't have enough time to consider what she should do before the two upright figures decided for her. They silently looked up at her. She couldn't see their faces under the dark hoods, but their movements were suddenly uncoordinated and startled. They looked at each other, dropped their hold on the still figure they'd been pulling along and ran in the opposite direction of where she stood. The body fell with a thud, half on the trail, head and wide flung arms reaching into the brittle grass.
Celia realized this was not a drunken pal getting aid from fellow booze swilling comrades. This person was hurt, or possibly dead.
She hesitated for a second, her breath coming in hard gasps as she tried to calm herself, looking around for anyone who could help, and wanting to be sure the men who had just alarmed her were not coming back.
She carefully approached the form. It was getting harder to see.
"Hello?" She called softly, hoping for a moan and maybe a drunken belch, but a breeze rustling dead leaves and sighing through the upper branches in the heavy forest around her was the only sound. She knelt down and gently turned the body face up.
An older woman, her face horribly swollen and purple, stared with one glassy eye.
Celia sucked in her breath, startled to see an old lady here in the setting that normally only saw Spandex-clad urban professionals speeding along on lightweight bikes or young kids on roller blades. An old woman with white hair and a battered, bloody face.
Celia knew before she gently laid two fingers on the bruised neck, that CPR would not be necessary. The elder woman's skin was already cool to the touch. Celia slowly stood up.
A tendril of sweaty hair that had escaped her hat touched the back of her neck like an icy finger and she jumped, yelling for help as loud as she could. The dead woman's one eye stared at the sky, reflecting nothing. The other was gruesome, swollen. Her throat was a patchwork of terrible bruises. Dark blood matted her wispy, grey hair to her skull. Her housedress was torn. Blood and dirt streaked over the old-fashioned print of tiny blue forget-me-not flowers.
Celia ran back up the trail, fishing for her phone in the zippered pocket of her light jacket. She punched in 911, still running, telling the dispatcher she needed the police and fast. She started to cry, stumbling, nearly falling as she raced back down the trail to her car.
The openness of the parking lot was reassuring after the lonely darkness that lay like a shroud over a dead woman in a grandmother's dress.