Soap in the Grass

VOCAL Marigold Short Story Competition:

Soap in the Grass

I had been longing for Cape Cod since my last visit over eleven years ago. Growing up in New York, we would spend every summer camping at Nickerson Park, and riding our bicycles on the twenty-two mile path that cut through the greenery where sand was not so plentiful. October on the Cape was a comfy, charming, well-kept secret, or so said my cousin, Morgan, who moved there permanently after high school. With a sprawling house that bordered the bike path, staying with him would be the perfect, autumn long weekend.

We spent my first night out on the town, drinking and laughing with his friends, and eating all the seafood we could handle. Every place we went, it was like being with a movie star: everyone knew him and wanted to be with him. Half of what we drank was free and we never waited for a table. We got home so late, orange wisps of color could be seen on the horizon, and my bed was calling.

The next day was for shopping and relaxation. When Morgan had to work for a few hours, I entertained myself, and spent too much money on three chunky wool sweaters. After stopping at Truro Winery before they closed for the season, I drove back to Morgan’s. He called from work and asked if I would like to help him host a small get together around the fire pit. After setting up some snacks with wine from Truro, I decided to take in a quick walk on the bike path before dark.

While walking, I loved that I could smell both the salt from the beach and the essence of the fall foliage around me, with a handful of summer marigolds still visible near the path’s edge. Being October, the path was completely deserted, and all I could hear was the occasional raw gust of winter approaching.

Amongst all the greens, reds, and browns, I suddenly thought I caught a flash of white. I backtracked trying to find it again. About twenty feet from the path, something lay under the vines and mulch. Thinking it may be a rabbit or even a lost dog, I approached with trepidation. It didn’t move. When I got closer, I saw it: the body of a young child, maybe six years old. She was mostly covered in dead leaves and twigs, with only half of her face visible. Her skin was that of an old bar of soap; white, but dirty and dried. Her lips were blue and cracked.

As my heart raced, it occurred to me that I may be standing in a crime scene. It also occurred to me that I was alone on a deserted trail with a dead child. Since there was no cell service on the trail and I had used up most of my battery power taking photos, I had left my cell phone at the house to charge, about a mile away.

Most of the trail looked the same throughout and I was beginning to panic. I knew that I needed the police but I was terrified that if I left this child, I may not be able to find her again. I asked myself what would look worse to the police: possibly destroying evidence in a child’s murder or telling them about a child’s body that I can’t find? I knew I had to move her, and it was getting dark.

I found myself staring at her with both wonder and disgust, before I finally began to clear the debris from her face. She was wearing a green Oscar the Grouch t-shirt and jean shorts. Her short, brown hair was matted with wet vegetation. She was barefoot and both of her fists were clenched. Upon closer inspection, something shiny and sticky reflected in the last light of the day from her fingers. It was a dark, brownish red and I hoped it wasn’t blood. It smelled foul and I wondered whose blood it could be, if it was, in fact, blood.

While secretly hoping her bowels had not voided, I slid both arms under her and lifted her as gently as I could. She was limp and cold, and felt like a bundle of wet sticks. I was shaking, and trying not to cry, when I stumbled on something I couldn’t see. As I pitched forward, I held her tighter, and felt stray branches and twigs scratch the exposed skin on my hands and neck. And that’s when she bit me, hard and deep into the left side of my throat. I couldn’t breathe and as darkness fell, I watched the purple sprays of my arterial blood cover the marigolds and her pale skin, as she used both hands to hold my head still with ferocious strength. The last thing I remember is Morgan standing on the path, laughing.

Lynn G. Henschel