The Elevator. Angela Hunt

      Neither woman smiles, leaving Michelle to wonder if they belong to some legal eagles’ antidefamation league. The redhead stares at the control panel as if she could diagnose the dead circuits with X-ray vision. The cleaning woman takes a tissue from her sweater pocket and blots pearls of perspiration from her forehead.

      “Excuse, please?” The housekeeper lifts her hand and points to the light fixture on the panel. “We have light, no? So we have electricidad?”

      “We have some power,” Michelle says, relieved that she is no longer talking to herself. “When I moved into my office, the building manager said something about the emergency systems being powered by a backup generator. We’ll be fine. We just have to wait for the main system to come back on. Of course—” she raps the plastic dome over the light with her knuckle “—for all I know, this thing might be powered by batteries.”

      The woman nods, but a worry line has crept between her brows. “When power comes back—we will go down?”

      Michelle shrugs. “I would imagine we’ll keep going up, since we were heading in that direction. But what does it matter? As long as we make it to any floor, we can open the doors and get to the staircase. So we’re fine. Maybe we should even be grateful. At least we’re not falling to the bottom of the shaft.”

      She chuckles at her feeble joke, but the sound dies in her throat when the cleaning woman’s round face ripples with anguish.

      “Don’t worry,” Michelle hastens to add. “This elevator is not going to fall. That only happens in bad movies.”

      The housekeeper acknowledges Michelle’s comment with a slight nod, but Ms. Trench Coat either doesn’t appreciate Michelle’s attempt at humor or she’s not listening.

      Michelle crosses her arms and leans against the wall, not certain where to rest her gaze. The little lamp is now glowing at maximum wattage, a token effort that doesn’t eliminate the shadows at the back of the car.

      Michelle faces the doors and clenches her hand until her nails slice into her palm. Shadows and closed spaces elicit far too many painful memories.

      

      “Michelle Louise Tills! Where are you, girl?”

      The girl wriggled forward, digging her elbows into the soft earth, pulling her body through the narrow space. Dust and dirt rose with every movement, tickling her nose, but she would not sneeze. She wouldn’t make a sound, not as long as Momma waited out there.

      “Where are you, Shelly? You’d better come out before I have to come lookin’ for you.”

      Shelly moved deeper into the shadows, the raspy voice scraping like a razor’s edge against the back of her neck. Beyond the lattice apron, a blue warbler perched in the tall pine at the edge of the lot, calling Zhee zhee zizizizi zzzzeeet.

      Shh, bird. Don’t tell.

      “Shel-leeeeeey! I’d better not find you messin’ around with those boys!”

      Past the fraying lawn chairs, the sun warmed the asphalt drive where the Smith boys were playing keep-away. The girl could hear Job Smith’s voice ricocheting among the trailers as he teased his younger brother, calling him noodle arms and stork legs….

      “Shelly Louise! You get out here this minute or I’ll—well, you get out here. I’m losin’ my patience!”

      Her mother’s words, pitched to reach the edge of the lot and no farther, were already softly slurred and she hadn’t even begun what she called “serious drinkin’.” In a while, if the girl was lucky, the woman would give up and go inside the trailer, forgetting about her child while she focused on the tall bottle of amber-colored liquid that demanded every drop of a worshipper’s devotion.

      Shelly dropped her arms onto the soft dirt, then rested her cheek on her hands. If she could lie perfectly, soundlessly still, maybe she could become invisible. Maybe she could go away and wake up as someone else’s little girl.

      Her mother’s slippers shuffled from the last porch step to the lawn chairs, her pale legs casting twin shadows that stretched toward Shelly like tongs. Instinctively, the girl recoiled, lifting her head so quickly that it clunked against the bottom of the trailer.

      She squinched her eyes shut as the top of her head throbbed. Pretty, pretty please, don’t let her hear.

      When Shelly lifted one eyelid, her mother was crouched on all fours, eyes hard and shining through the lattice at the bottom of the trailer. “Young lady, get yourself out here right now.”

      Shelly put her hands over her eyes and wished the image away. A minute passed, maybe two. She breathed in the scents of earth and dust while the Smith boys laughed and the warbler sang so maybe everything was all right—

      When she lifted her gaze, her mother was sucking at the inside of her cheek while her thin brows rose and fell like a pair of seesaws. “Shelly! You don’t want me to have to come in there after you.”

      Dread gave the girl courage. “Go away!”

      “Michelle Louise! I’m gonna count to three and you’d better be out here! You don’t want to test me, girlie. One! Two! Three!”

      Though a warning voice whispered in her head, Shelly didn’t move. She waited, shivering from a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air, until her mother straightened up and moved away.

      Could winning be that easy? Momma was a proud woman, in those days as protective of her reputation as she was of her liquor bottles. A good woman never drank in public, she often assured Shelly, and a good woman took care of her man and her kid before she took care of herself.

      The girl looked toward the gravel driveway, where her father’s pickup wasn’t. Daddy was still at the mine; he wouldn’t be home until after dark.

      She’d come out if he were here. She’d climb into his arms and ride his bony hip into the house. She’d be happy to see him, even if they found Momma passed out on the sofa. Her daddy loved her, but he was rarely home.

      She had just buried her face in her folded arms when new sounds reached her ear—the steady swish of tall grass and the heavy heh, heh, heh of a panting animal. Shelly spun on her belly, turning toward the gap in the lattice where she had wormed her way in.

      She saw her mother’s legs scissoring through the grass, accompanied by four brown-and-white paws, a small head, a snarling muzzle and two rows of jagged teeth.

      “I’ve got Harley,” her mother called, a victorious edge to her voice. “And I’m gonna let him go if you don’t come out this instant. What’s it gonna be, Michelle Louise? Shall I send Harley in after you?”

      For an instant the girl couldn’t speak. The neighbor’s pit bull haunted her nightmares and often drove her from peaceful sleep into her father’s arms. Harley had never actually threatened her, but he bore an unfortunate resemblance to a dog that had attacked her once, pinning her to the ground while it ripped at her upper lip.

      A thin scar still marked the spot.

      “No, Momma.” Torn between her desire to surrender and her fear of the waiting beast, Shelly rose as high as she could. “I’ll come, Momma, but get rid of the dog.”

      “He’s stayin’ right by my side until you walk yourself through that front door.”

      “Momma, I’ll come, but I don’t like that dog.”

      “I’m not gonna argue with you, Shelly. Get your fanny out from under there and get in the house.”

      Shelly gulped down a sob and crawled forward, then froze when the dog lifted his head, ears pricked to attention. When he growled deep in his throat, she knew he could see her…or he smelled her fear.

      Dogs know, the Smith boys had told her. Dogs know when you’re scared of ’em. When they smell your fear, they’ll attack ’cause they know they can take you down.

      “Momma?”