Griselda

 

The very last thing Griselda wanted to do was attend a fistfight. She was emotionally exhausted, both from revisiting the place where she’d known so much heartache, but also from her earlier scrape with Jonah. And the way Quint had stared at her, almost insisting that he knew her, had really creeped her out. All she wanted to do was head back to the cabin, wrap herself up in blankets, and escape into sleep and dreams.

That said, sitting in the back of Shawn’s SUV with Jonah’s arm protectively around her shoulders, leaning into the solid warmth of his body, she couldn’t force herself to put up a fight. It was just too comfortable, and she was just too weak.

“Hey, Zel,” said Tina, turning in her seat to catch Griselda’s eyes as Jonah and Shawn trash-talked about who would lose more money tonight, “I meant what I said before. I don’t like blood either. Let’s find a comfy place to sit down and pretend we’re at a barbecue or something.” She reached down, then shot Griselda a smile as she showed her a bottle of Wild Vines Tropical Fruit Chardonnay. “Picked it up at the gas station next to the restaurant.”

Griselda couldn’t help rewarding that sort of ingenuity with a grin. “Cheap and sweet?”

“Just like me, honey,” said Tina, giggling.

“You ain’t cheap,” argued Shawn, reaching over to place his hand on her thigh. “But you are sweet.”

“Eyes on the road,” said Tina.

“Later?” asked Shawn, grinning at her hopefully.

“Oh, you know it, baby.”

Jonah squeezed Griselda’s shoulder, holding an empty Coke bottle over her head and spitting into it so it almost looked like he was filling it back up with soda.

“How come you never talk to me like that?”

Griselda snuggled deeper into his chest, breathing in the familiar smell of tobacco and soap.

“Guess I like playing hard to get.”

“Well, I hate to tell you, but I already got you, baby. You’re mine.”

Her body wanted to stiffen on instinct, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to stay limber. I’m not yours.

He must have decided to drop it, because he kicked Shawn’s seat as they turned down a country road and started bouncing along.

“Shawn, you cocksucker, you gonna loan me a Benjamin?”

“Whaddaya, think, dickhead?”

“I think I’m betting on that dude Seth. He sounds badass.”

Though she’d already convinced herself that she had no connection to the Seth who was fighting tonight, a shiver went down her spine to hear the name spill from Jonah’s mouth. It wasn’t the sacrilege of him taunting her with the name Holden, as he had earlier, but she still didn’t like it.

Shawn was still following Quint’s truck when they jostled into an open field at the end of the dirt road. The sound of heavy metal music grew louder and louder the closer they got to the center of the field.

A good fifty trucks were parked in neatish rows, with small groups of men hanging out by the tailgates, drinking beer, smoking, and spitting. Two large, tall, stadium lights suddenly lit up the entire field as Shawn parked the SUV, and they piled out of the car.

Holding Jonah’s hand as they picked their way through the maze of trucks, Griselda didn’t notice many other women, but here and there she caught the eyes of another girl, mostly leaning up against her man, smoking cigarettes, and narrowing her eyes as Griselda and Tina passed by.

The energy was wired and angry, and Griselda huddled next to Jonah as Quint led them closer to the ring of bales, where the crowd got thicker. She noticed, however, that several men moved aside to allow Quint to pass, greeting him by name, with a semblance of respect, like he was someone. As it turned out, he was. He and his son, Clinton, were the bookies of the event.

“What took you so long, Pop?” asked a sandy-haired, younger version of Quint, who was flush against the hay bales, in what could be considered the first row of viewing. He held a notebook in his hand and was furiously writing down bets.

“Met up with these college boys at Rosie’s.”

Clinton flashed his eyes at Jonah and Shawn, taking in their polo shirts and cargo shorts with a look just short of disdain. “College boys, huh? I see you brought your women. Did you bring your wallets?”

Neither Jonah nor Shawn had attended college, but working at the cable company in D.C. allowed them both a lifestyle that would have seemed luxurious to a lot of the folks on this field, thought Griselda, taking in Clinton’s ripped, too-tight Metallica T-shirt and worn-out work boots. As she checked out the tattoo of a daisy between his thumb and forefinger, she felt his eyes land on her and linger.

“Hey,” he said. “Where do I know you from?”

“Aw, fuck,” said Jonah. “Here we go again.”

Shawn snickered, taking the bottle of Wild Vines out of Tina’s hand and taking a swig.

“She’s real familiar-lookin’, huh?” asked Quint, looking at his son, then back at Griselda.

“Yeah,” said Clinton, softly, thoughtfully, like he was working hard to place her. “You from around here?”

“No,” said Griselda, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

Clinton narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to her, but Jonah reached out and placed a palm on the other man’s chest. “Close enough, dude.”

Clinton’s eyes changed course, looking down at Jonah’s hand lazily before shifting his glance back up to Jonah’s face. “I ain’t as big as Seth or Eli, but if you don’t remove your fucking hand from my person, I will remove it for you.”

Jonah searched Clinton’s face for a second before grinning and dropping his hand. “Man’s got a right to protect his woman.”

“Which is why you ain’t on the ground,” said Clinton, looking back at Griselda for a moment before shaking his head like he just didn’t have the mind power to figure out the mystery of his connection to her.

Griselda was disgusted by Jonah’s dick measuring and creeped-out again by Quint and his son. Damn, but why did these men seem to know her? She racked her brain, trying to remember if Caleb Foster had ever taken photos of her and Holden, but she couldn’t remember any such occurrence. Then she remembered something else, and her mouth dropped open as she looked down at the ground in shame.

Of course.

All along the country road where she and Holden had been taken, there had been missing children signs posted by the local police. She’d seen one on a bulletin board at the Charles Town sheriff’s office when she finally showed up there. If this father and son had lived in this area all their lives, they’d likely seen a picture of Griselda as a ten-year-old child, posted at the local post office, in a bar or bank, at the Laundromat. Everywhere. It was why she looked familiar, but they weren’t able to place her. It was why they kept narrowing their eyes, wanting to see her slightly differently and, though they didn’t realize it, slightly younger. It made her belly turn over.

She took a deep breath to settle her stomach, but the close smells of chaw, smoke, booze, and men’s sweat infused her nostrils. Clapping her hand over her lips, she threw up into her mouth, hunching over in case a little escaped. Desperate not to embarrass herself, she swallowed the regurgitated fries and beer, and looked up at Tina just in time for the other woman to understand what was about to happen. She grabbed Griselda’s arm, pulling her away from Jonah.

“What the hell?” said Jonah, grabbing her other arm and yanking her back against him.

“She’s about to get sick, Jonah! Jesus! Let go!”

Griselda looked up at Jonah just as her stomach lurched again, and he cringed as her shoulders hunched and cheeks filled. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. Can you help her out, Tina? I think the fight’s about to start.”

“What do you think I was trying to do?”

It was the angriest Griselda had seen good-natured Tina yet, but she was grateful as Tina led her away from Jonah and Shawn, back through the crowd. She stumbled over the uneven ground, but if she could just get away from the crowd, away from Quint and Clinton, and get a few deep, clean breaths, she’d be okay. She was sure of it.

Tina dropped Griselda’s wrist and put her arm around her shoulder, leading her toward a solo hay bale on a little hill, almost hidden in shadow, about twenty feet from the parking area. From here they had a partial view of the ring if they stayed seated, but if they stood up, they could make out most of the fight area. At any rate, they could rest here and rejoin Jonah and Shawn as soon as the fight was over. When Griselda was seated, Tina shoved the bottle of fruity wine onto her lap.

“Wish I could offer you a mint or some water, honey, but this is all I have.”

Griselda took the bottle gratefully, holding it between her thighs as she took several deep, shaky breaths. The smells of gasoline and smoke were strong here, but more palatable somehow, and she was finally able to fill her lungs and her stomach settled.

“Thanks,” she said, exhaling slowly. “I owe you one.”

“No problem,” said Tina, sitting down beside her. “Puke and sandals don’t mix.”

Griselda chuckled softly, nodding.

“You know?” Tina continued, taking a cigarette out of her purse and lighting it. “I try to see the good in everyone, but your boyfriend holds on a little tight, doesn’t he?”

Griselda shrugged, opened the bottle of Wild Vines, and touched the rim to her lips. It was obnoxiously sweet, but it was better than the almost-puke taste she was presently enjoying. She took a swig, hoping it would stay down, and feeling grateful when it did.

“But,” continued Tina, her cheerful voice back now, “maybe it was a stroke of luck, you feelin’ sick, because I was not excited to see those two fools beat each other’s faces in, and your tummy kinda set us free. So, thanks, upset tummy.”

She giggled, knocking her knee into Griselda’s.

Griselda was just about to offer Tina the bottle when the roar of the crowd suddenly distracted her. Standing up, the wine bottle bumping limply against her leg, she looked over the hundreds of heads, three men thick, around the ring, to see a lone figure walking down the far hill across the field from them. When he got to the bottom, he threw his flannel shirt to the ground and stepped into the ring.

***

Seth

 

Striding purposefully down the hill, he ignored the catcalls and heckling, focused intently on the brightly lit oval in front of him. Just before he got there, he pulled off his shirt and threw it down, giving a menacing look to the people crowded around the ring. They shuffled aside quickly, some of them slapping him on the back and wishing him luck as he stepped over the bales.

He scanned the ring for Quint and Clinton, his guard up, because the fight would start the second his opponent set foot in the fight area.

There were very few rules at fight club:

1. Once you’re both in the ring, the fight is on.
2. No weapons.
3. When you can’t get up, you’ve lost.

He finally found Clinton, standing ringside beside his father, who was talking with a couple of college boys Seth didn’t recognize. Fucking tourists? Looked like it. Probably came up to fish or hunt and somehow ended up here.

As Seth stalked the ring, the crowd quieted to an excited buzz. At the opposite end of the oval from where Seth had entered, the crowd parted so that Eli could jump over the bales, stirring up a cloud of dust as his bare feet landed in the ring.

Fuck, he’s big.

Seth was fairly certain that Eli had done nothing but weight train in the three months since he’d lost to Seth. His pecs bulged, and his arms were thick and solid as he pulled his T-shirt off and threw it back into the crowd.

But Seth had something Eli didn’t have: a god-awful fury that turned hatred into fuel.

Seth rushed his opponent, flying across the ring in a rage, imagining Caleb’s face staring back at him.

Girls like Ruth are evil . . .

Seth threw a two-punch combination, hitting Eli hard in the face then clocking him in the chin before Eli could get his bearings. His face whipped to the side and then up, causing him to stumble back, but he shook his head and roared to life, coming at Seth like a bull and slamming him in the stomach. Seth gasped from the pain, the air knocked out of his lungs, but he caught Eli’s neck in a headlock and twisted savagely until Eli jerked back, out of Seth’s grip.

The crowd was wild tonight, taunting and screaming, but Seth didn’t need their energy to feed his wrath—it was a living, breathing, fiery thing that demanded vengeance.

. . . and filthy creatures. Impure and deceitful . . .

Seth jabbed at Eli, then threw all his strength into a right hook that slammed into the side of Eli’s head, making him lurch backward. Seth swept his leg, pummeling Eli’s face as they fell to the ground together. Suddenly Eli rolled, flipping over on top of Seth. He took a fistful of Seth’s hair in his hand, lifting his face and smashing his fist into Seth’s nose . . . cheek . . . cheek again. Seth opened his mouth, and the next time Eli’s fist landed, he clamped down with his teeth, tearing a chunk of flesh from Eli’s hand and making him scream before recoiling.

. . . and an abomination.

Seth jolted up, spitting blood and flesh to the dirt, and launched his body onto Eli’s back. Grabbing Eli’s arm, Seth twisted it at an almost-impossible angle, then held it against Eli’s back while he grunted and groaned beneath Seth. Eli grappled at the dirt with his free hand, finally managing to grab a handful and somehow throw it back into Seth’s face.

Wilt thou also destroy the righteous . . .

Momentarily blinded, Seth dropped Eli’s arm, and Eli bucked Seth off his back, rising to all fours. Seth, on all fours across from Eli, had raised his hand to wipe his eyes when he felt a fierce punch to his temple. His knees collapsed, and his chest hit the ground hard. Eli rolled him over, straddling his chest with his considerable girth and landed two more punches on Seth’s face, the crack of bone alerting Seth to the likelihood of another cheek fracture.

. . . with the wicked?

He grunted from the pain, sliding his arms through the backs of Eli’s sweaty knees and pinching him hard under the thigh. Eli shrieked with surprise, garnering a loud laugh from the bystanders, and Seth used the advantage to wriggle out from underneath him.

Are you whole or broken, Holden?

Scooting back on his ass, his face on fire and blood blurring his vision, Seth drew his leg back, then shoved it forward, catching Eli in the center of the chest and knocking the wind out of him as he fell back. Seth crawled the short way to Eli, punching him hard in the balls before straddling his chest. Eli groaned with pain, his body trying unsuccessfully to jackknife as Seth whaled on his face indiscriminately with his fists, over and over and over again, until his knuckles were covered with blood, slick and slimy, and he heard the wet choke of Eli trying to gasp for breath.

I’m broken, Gris. I’m finally broken.

“Seth! Seth! It’s done! Seth! Stop! It’s over!”

Through a feverish haze of vicious anger, he heard Clinton’s voice directly above him. His fists stilled, and he leaned back, sucking down a raspy boatload of air and staring up at the starry sky.

Over?

No way.

It’ll never be over.

Struggling to his feet, Seth swayed, staring down at his opponent, whose face looked like a mask—misshapen and covered with a thick slick of reddish-black blood. Sliding his glance to Eli’s chest, he noted that it still swelled and fell with breath, so he wasn’t dead.

Clinton put his hand on Seth’s arm, and Seth turned to him. Through one swollen eye and one blurry from blood, he looked at his friend.

“It’s done, Seth. You win.”

Clinton held up Seth’s arm, and the crowd went wild, chanting, screaming, cheering, and jumping into the ring to celebrate.

“Good,” mumbled Seth.

He shook off Clinton and started across the ring toward Quint, who beamed back at him, his triumphant fists in the air. But Seth was suddenly distracted. Behind Quint—just behind him and to the side—he saw long, strawberry-blonde hair. The girl’s back was to Seth, but her hair fell past her shoulders, in soft, beautiful waves. The amber color was painfully familiar, and he dropped his eyes to her tight waist and the gentle swell of her hips in blue jeans. Sliding his eyes slowly back up her body, he noticed that her hands were on her hips, and it appeared as though she was yelling at the taller of the two college boys because her posture was rigid and the boy was laughing at her. She shook her head before turning away from the guy next to Quint, giving him her back as a gesture of anger, and pivoting to face the ring.

And suddenly all of the air—every last particle of oxygen—was sucked out of that field.

Unable to breathe, frozen in place, Seth’s eyes widened, and his whole body started to tremble. He tried to blink because—holy fuck!—this had to be a hallucination or a head injury, or maybe he was dead and this was heaven. Because standing there beside Quint, arms crossed angrily over her chest, was a girl who was the spitting image of Griselda. She was ten years older, but her amber hair flowed free around her shoulders, and her blue eyes flashed with an expression so familiar it made his heart race and ache at the same time.

The college boy put his hand on her shoulder, turning her around partway with a jerk so that her profile faced Seth, and he felt it again, like a shot to the gut: she was familiar. She was so goddamned familiar, he felt like this was a trick, or he was in a movie, or like maybe that hit to his cheek had somehow fucked up his brain. Because—oh my God—this girl looked so much like Gris, he could almost believe it was . . . and there wasn’t a force on earth that could have stopped him from moving closer.

Plowing through well-wishers, he pushed his way across the ring as he kept his eyes glued on the girl, who was arguing furiously with the college boy now. She was so distracted, he had a perfect view of her profile as he drew closer, and his knees buckled in an awe that was so huge it frightened him. Weak and shocked, confused and crazy, he still staggered forward, examining her features with every step closer.

It can’t be her.

She’s dead.

You’re hallucinating.

When he was about ten feet away, the college boy shifted his eyes to Seth, and after a moment, her neck twisted to see what her boyfriend was looking at. Her lips parted, her eyes locking on Seth’s. She cringed, searching his face as her blue eyes widened in revulsion, not recognition. If Eli’s face looked like burger, there was a good chance his did too. She didn’t recognize him, but fuck if he didn’t recognize her.

Gris. It’s you.

“Is it you?” he rasped, his heart thundering, his lungs barely able to fill, and his head increasingly whirling.

Like the sweetest sweet dream, or the most delusional insanity, she stood before him once again, resurrected from the dead. His Gris. Dead and yet alive. Was it possible? Was it possible that she had somehow survived? Dug herself out of that grave and survived?

No. Dead people do not come back to life.

I’m seein’ dead people. I’ve gone crazy, he thought, laughing to himself, which hurt like fuck. Even with the same-colored hair and similar blue eyes, it couldn’t be Gris. She was dead. He’d seen the grave. He’d visited it again the same day he returned to West Virginia, and there wasn’t a trace of her body left, ravaged by wild animals and dragged away in the night. She was gone. Gone, gone, gone. And yet . . . and yet, if he could just get a little closer to this girl, maybe he could reach for her, look into her eyes . . . just to make certain.

He shook his head violently, blood and spit flying in both directions as he tried to block out the congratulations and cheering, forcibly pushing away someone who got in his path. When he was about five feet away, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, then looked back at her, his chest constricting and his heart stopping as he dropped his eyes, half afraid, to her chin. And there, in the crease under her lip, was a two-inch scar.

His eyes jerked back up to hers, and his heart thundered in his ears, blocking out the noise of the crowd around him. Feeling her name on his tongue for the first time in ten years, it bubbled up from a lost and almost-forgotten place.

The knife pierced his side a first, second, and third time, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, and he felt the slices—the sharp, foreign pain of blade to flesh—but still he didn’t stop.

Without dropping her eyes, he pushed someone else out of his path, shrugging off someone who tried to put an arm around his shoulders. Whoosh again, as a fourth stab cut through his skin, making him twist slightly and gasp in pain. But still he wouldn’t release her eyes. He couldn’t let her go. It was impossible that she was alive, and yet somehow . . . he flicked his eyes to the scar again for reassurance, and there it was.

He was almost there. Two more steps and he’d be over the bales. He’d reach out his hands and fall into her arms. Bracing one foot on the hay bale before him, he gathered his strength to step over. Quint was yelling something, leaning toward Seth and yelling something, but Seth used all his draining strength to stay focused on her.

“G-G-Gris?” he sobbed, and her eyes widened, just before her face was suddenly whipped sharply to the side. Her body seemed to go limp, falling into the man she’d been fighting with, and Seth screamed, “G-G-Griiiiiiiiiis!”

Lurching forward, he was reaching for her when a blow to the back of his head knocked him out cold. His unconscious body fell, slumping over the hay bales between them, soaking the pale yellow strands with his blood.