An original short story: Our Own Version of Inferno

I chose to set this story in our home city, Memphis. I hope you enjoy it!

Our Own Version of Inferno

It was a heavy, humid night with no breeze stirring. Dan drove through the streets of Memphis, his brow creased with worry, in neighborhoods he would rather not have known about – had not known about until recently. His wife Sue sat in the passenger seat, face glued to the window, keeping a watchful eye on all they passed. Broken down houses, empty storefronts, vacant lots, a woman walking slowly while looking over her shoulder at them as they passed, crumbling walls, broken bottles. Broken lives. At 3:00 am, this part of the city was shockingly awake, alive with people on the streets watching the SUV watching them. Clusters here and there, voices raised, pipes and cigarettes glowing in shadowy faces.

No words passed between them except the occasional directive. “Wait, slow down. Did you see….?  No…never mind, keep going.” “There’s an alley. Turn here.” Time seemed to stand still as they navigated gridlines of squalid streets. Methodically…robotically…hypnotically they drove, Dan reaching down absentmindedly to touch the handle of his Ruger 9 mm, a recent purchase…just in case, he thought.

Only when the first bands of light were showing on the horizon did Sue allow herself to sit back, take a deep breath, stretch her neck. She looked at Dan, who was still totally focused on the task before him. “We’re not going to find her tonight. Wherever she is, she’s settled in somewhere sleeping it off by now.”

Dan exhaled – a long slow expulsion of air that sounded as if he had been holding his breath for hours. He pulled the car over to the curb and parked, his hand rubbing the base of his neck. He turned and looked at his wife, fatigue lining his face. “Sue…honey…” His words, the first he had spoken in several hours, came out more as a croak than anything. He suddenly realized that he wanted—no, needed—coffee. Trouble was, he was so tired he didn’t know if he could actually drive any further.

As if reading his mind, Sue said, “Dan, honey, you’re exhausted. I’ll drive us home. And I’ll find us some coffee on the way.” How does she just know, Dan thought as he gratefully complied. Coffee in hand, they silently made the drive back to their stately home in East Memphis. Their neighborhood was a study in contrast from where they had been. Pristinely manicured lawns, water droplets pirouetting from automatic sprinkler systems, refined houses set well back from the streets. So quiet. Why would she walk away from all this, Dan thought, our home, the life we’ve worked so hard to give her …. from us? The questions formed a ceaseless loop through his mind. No answers to be found. No daughter to be found. Only the questions.

At home, Sue got in the shower while Dan collapsed in a chair in their bedroom, watching the sun rise in the sky and feeling feeble beyond his years. Eventually, they both lay down and slept for a few hours, but it was a fitful sleep, with dreams too frightening to recall. As dusk fell that evening, they got back to work, Sue brewing coffee and filling up the thermos; Dan inspecting the car to make sure they had everything. Flashlights: check; pepper spray: check; extra cell phone, $20 bills, night vision glasses, water: check. Gun. Check. They got in the car and began their night. Our own little version of Inferno, Dan mused grimly as he drove.

“I thought we could start at the project on North Thomas,” Sue said, “You know, the one where we found her a few months ago? I’ve got a feeling she may be there.”  Nodding, Dan turned the car toward the housing project they now knew all too well. Unsuccessful there, they headed west and south, near the foot of the old Mississippi River bridge. There were so many streets to check; so many people to ask. They sometimes offered money for good information. But it was all dead ends. And always, the nagging fear that, 10 minutes after they left a corner, what if she showed up? Always doubling back, just in case.

A few hours passed, and Sue rubbed her gritty eyes. “How about a bathroom break?” she asked. Dan found a gas station/convenience store and pulled up to the pumps. Sue went into the “ladies room” although that was a misnomer by any stretch for the dank and dirty room, its walls covered with graffiti. As Sue peed while crouching over the toilet rather than touching it, she looked at the potpourri of scribbles on the wall. Just as she was using her foot to flush, she saw it. It was her daughter’s handwriting, she was sure of it. “Life begins on the other side of despair” was written in her distinctive flowery cursive. Sue reached out to the filthy wall and touched the words, then put both hands on them and could not stop the primal sobs that took hold of her and threatened to never let her go.

“Sue,” Dan burst through the door, “What is it?” She pointed at the words and she could see him taking measure, then realizing what she already knew. “She was here,” he murmured, “She wrote this.”

"But what does it mean?” Sue asked. He studied the words, then took out his phone and took several pictures. “Dan?”

“I don’t know what it means, honey. I guess it’s just one of her existential quotes she used to throw around.”

“We didn’t listen to her,” Sue wept, “She was trying to tell us something through those sayings and we didn’t listen. When she needed us, we weren’t there.”

“Honey. Stop.” Dan wrapped his arms around her and rocked back and forth. “We’ve always been there for her…always will be there for her. This is a good sign, you know? She’s been here; she may be staying somewhere around here.”

Sue nodded, and, hands clasped, they walked out the door and back to the car.