The Hag (Not Girl) On Fire

...\~/...

After two years of being a stay-at-home mom, Michael finally convinced Amanda to get another job. Stripping was out the question since they were married now, so the woman filled out application after application, and finally landed a job in retail. The question 'Why do I need a job when we have the money you stole?' came up many times, and Michael always told her the same thing: the heist money was for dealing with their bigger finances, such as trailer rent, car and medical insurance, ammunition for future jobs, fortification for their getaway car and equipment; Amanda's hard earned dollars would go toward the smaller things, like groceries, clothes, etcetera. Plus, and Michael kept this reason to himself, Amanda being away allowed him to spend time with his kids alone...and to let Trevor see them without Amanda constantly looking over his shoulder.

"Canton, huh? Good ol' Lester thinks we're finally capable of handling bigger jobs?" Trevor asked, rocking a two year-old Jimmy to sleep. "About fuckin' time."

"Hey, watch your language around the kids. Tracey's already starting to-"

Suddenly, the four year-old girl, who was sprawled across the dining room table on her stomach, accidentally knocked over her sparkly lime green nail polish. "Shit!" Tracey cursed, quickly picking it up, and cleaning the mess up with a paper towel. Trevor started laughing, his whole body shaking, disturbing little Jimmy's slumber. The two year-old tilted his head up against his uncle's torso with a questionable, tired gaze, and the man quieted himself, letting chuckles out every once in awhile.

Michael shook his head, fighting to keep a grin of his own from surfacing. "See! And Manda thinks it's my fault that Tracey's cussing when it's actually yours!" the father scolded. Another muffled snicker escaped Trevor and Michael shot the mustached man a glare. "Control yourself! You're encouraging her!"

"Daddy, stop moving! You're messing it up!" Tracey shouted, a streak of nail polish now on the side of Michael's ring finger. "I need you to stay still!"

"Oh, sorry, sugarplum. I'll try to be careful."

That's right. Tracey was painting her father's fingernails. Michael set aside his masculinity and pride for his daughter's amusement, and he had to admit the color was nice to look at. His daughter said something about it bringing the lighter green flecks of his eyes out and that the sparkles were to make him look glamorous or glam-ous, if he quoted Tracey correctly. He almost said no to her fingernail painting idea when he discovered Trevor was coming over, but his daughter had given him her famous puppy-dog eyed look and he caved in. Surprisingly, Trevor hadn't laughed once...yet. Michael was just waiting for the man to start his jabs.

After several minutes of silence went by, Michael just had to ask.

"Alright, Trevor, what's your angle?"

"Angle? I don't have an angle."

"I'm sitting here, getting my nails painted by a four year-old, and you haven't said a word."

That's when Michael caught a shimmer of something and Trevor held out his hand, wiggling his sparkly, flaming hot pink nails at Michael. "She said this color would make me look fabulous," Trevor explained, giving his bewildered friend a piercing look, daring Michael to laugh at him. The man didn't because then Tracey had to give her input. "I painted his toenails too. His feet stink," she said matter-of-factly, swaying her feet back and forth.

"The whole man stinks," Michael corrected, watching Tracey blow on his wet nails.

"Hey, my aroma is pure. I refuse to smell like manufactured daisies like you. Ladies love purity, not fakeness," Trevor said, sitting up straighter.

"And I will forever be confused as to why women find you attractive in the first place."

Michael turned his attention to his daughter, watching her wipe away excess nail polish off his nails and fingers. Then, a flash of bluish-black against her fair complexion caught his attention when her sleeve rode up. Michael pulled his hand away, despite Tracey's protests, and pushed her sleeve up to her elbow as gently as he could. Ugly bruises decorated her forearm and Michael felt his daughter stiffen under his intense gaze. "Trace, where did you get these?" he asked, tracing the hideous marks with his fingertips. Trevor was leaning forward in his seat now, attentive and tense, his eyes narrowing angrily.

"I-I fell," Tracey stammered, struggling to pull away, but Michael kept a firm grip on her. The girl watched nervously as her father lightly put his fingers over the bruises, eyebrows furrowing in realization.

"They form a handprint," Michael said, looking at Trevor. Then, he cut his eyes back to the four year-old. "Who did this to you?"

"I said I fell! No one did nothing!" Tracey cried, shrinking visibly away from Michael.

"Tracey Marie, don't lie to me! This is serious!"

"Leave me alone!" And the little girl pried her father's fingers from her and scrambled hurriedly off the table, running to her room with the slam of her door sounding shortly after. Michael was standing now, hands curled into fists, his face scrunched up in that expression that appeared when his short temper was about to flare and he wanted answers. Trevor silently went over to the couch to lie Jimmy down, tucking blankets around the boy to keep him comfortable, and then he directed his full attention to Michael.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Michael snapped, refusing to look at his friend.

"Are we going to find the fucker who did this to her or we just going to stand here with our thumbs up our asses?" Trevor asked, his own skin prickling in anger. Whoever did that to their little Tracey was going to pay and they would probably end up dead with their head on a stake. For a moment, flashbacks of his father hitting him only made Trevor bristle, remembering how it felt to be on the receiving end. Trevor flicked his eyes in the direction of Tracey's room, frowning. It was obvious the person who grabbed her threatened Tracey or maybe it was someone they all knew? What if it was some creep at her preschool? What if, what if, what if...? Ludendorff was small and mostly friendly, but that didn't mean it didn't have its fair share of freaks.

Trevor made his way towards Tracey's bedroom and said, "Come on, let's go see if we can get her to answer our-"

"No." Michael pointed at Trevor and the man stopped mid-step. "She won't tell you, even if you ask her. Trace is stubborn; she's just like her mother."

"So, what? We're just going to let that fucker roam around? What if they do that to another kid?"

"Let me talk to Amanda first, then we'll figure out what to do." Michael's voice was hoarse, a sign that he was furious, despite trying to keep a level head.

Trevor seethed, quivering. "Fine. Call me when you find out whoever did that to her." He took a step towards Michael. "Then, the bastard pays."

Amanda stepped into the trailer, stamping her boots against the welcome mat to rid of any snow, shutting the door to the heavy snowfall outside. Snowflakes melted in her brown curls, covering her shoulders and sticking to her eyelashes. The clothing store she worked out was higher class compared to the rest of Ludendorff and he was getting used to Amanda coming home with a American Hawk bag with new clothes, sometimes bearing gifts for him as well. When she spotted him sitting at the table with a grim expression and his hands folded before his mouth, she smiled brightly and flourished her bag happily.

"They let me get fifty dollars worth of clothes! Ah, the benefits of working retail!" she exclaimed, coming up behind him after disposing her shopping bag on the couch. Michael felt her arms wrap slowly around his neck, hot breath fanning across his ear and jaw. "And," his wife began, voice thick and sultry. "I got a sexy little number just for you to enjoy later, babe." When her husband didn't respond, she backed away slightly, hands still rested on his shoulders. "Is there something wrong, hun? Did you get some bad news today?"

Michael remained frozen for a second before gesturing to the seat across from him and Amanda walked over to sit down, heels clacking as she did. The woman lowered herself slowly, never once breaking her blue gaze from his green one. She knew this look - the one that usually told her he had some grave news to tell her, like a heist didn't go well and he would have to leave town for awhile. She hated those talks. Amanda really, truly did. And the way his whole body was tense, how the muscles in his jaw worked, how his lips were set in that straight, emotionless line, those were all signals that this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.

"Michael, what's-?"

"Tracey's got bruises on her arm," Michael interrupted sternly, his voice rough and hoarse. He always sounded like that when his temper was reaching boiling point.

In the back of her mind, Amanda knew what he meant, but she said, "So? She's a kid. She probably got them after playing rough at preschool or something." The way the hair on her arms stood on end told her that she knew exactly what her husband was implying.

"They form a handprint, an adult handprint."

Amanda kept his gaze and then visibly sagged in her seat. "Did she say who did it?"

"No. She said she fell and ran to her room. She hasn't been out since."

Concern and worry crossed Amanda's face, as well as guilt. "I knew I shouldn't have gotten a job yet. These kids need me here." The woman rubbed her face with her hands, a habit she had when she was becoming stressed. "Do you have any guesses as to who it could be?"

"Like I said, Tracey wouldn't talk to me. I have no idea."

A tense silence fell between them and Michael saw many expressions change on his wife's face: anger, annoyance, worry, and then a look that told him she was about to ask that one question.

"Don't, Amanda. Don't."

"What? I have to! He's a violent psychopath! For all we know, Tracey did something that made him mad and he grabbed her!"

"Gah! Amanda, you always think it's Trevor! He's loves the kids and he would never hurt them! You just...you just..."

"I just what, Michael?" Amanda asked, leaning forward as if challenging him.

"You just haven't seen Trevor like I have. You're always gone when he's around the kids. Tracey adores him! Why, I don't know, but I know for a fact he would never hurt them."

His wife stood, towering over him and looking at him with irritated, narrowed eyes. "Fine. Let's go ask her."

"But she's probably asleep," Michael said, following after her quickly.

Amanda knocked on Tracey's pale pink door, Michael remembering how he and his daughter painted it as a way to bond a couple months ago. Sparkly stickers spotted the door, like dragonflies, butterflies, and airplanes (Tracey said Uncle Trevor would like those), and he watched as the door slowly opened to reveal a solemn looking four year-old. Tracey's eyes were red, as if she'd been crying and rubbing at them, and bits of snot still stuck to her nose. Her hair was messy and falling out her ponytail, giving her a disheveled appearance, and he noticed how light her hair was becoming, almost a dirty blonde now. The girl didn't say a word to them as she ran to her bed and hopped onto it, grabbing a plastic toy crop duster plane that Trevor had gotten her when she was two. Tracey refused to look at them as she flicked the propeller on the plane, blue eyes watching it spin.

"Honey," Amanda called out gently, entering the room to sit beside her daughter. "Can I see them? The bruises?" she asked, fingers sliding the girl's sleeve up slowly.

"No," Tracey spat, and moved away from her mother.

"Baby, we need to find out who hurt you so we can tell them to never do it again," Amanda urged.

"I don't want them to get hurt," Tracey mumbled, tracing the logo on her plane. "I like them."

Amanda rubbed her daughter's back soothingly, but the woman cut her eyes towards Michael to give him a pointed look. A shiver crawled down Michael's spine and the hair on his arms stood on end. So the attacker was someone Tracey cared for and didn't want to get hurt? That didn't help Trevor at all. Last night, Michael remembered how livid Trevor looked and how angrily he reacted. No, it couldn't have been his friend. Amanda never liked Trevor and she was just searching for a way to keep the man away from her kids and from herself. She thought Trevor was violent and impulsive, and Michael had to agree with her, but Trevor also had a soft side when it came to Tracey and Jimmy.

"Was it...was it Trevor?" Amanda managed to get out. "Did he get angry and grab you?"

Tracey froze, clutching tightly at her toy airplane. Then, her blue eyes met her mother's, and she said in the flattest voice, "Uncle Trevor would never hurt me." And she turned back to her plane.

Both Michael and Amanda exchanged glances. They didn't know Tracey was capable of such a tone; it almost sounded bitter and cold. Maybe she heard the two of them discussing things out in the dining room since the walls in the trailer weren't exactly thick. The girl was smart for her age, so maybe she figured out that her mother disliked Trevor? Michael wouldn't be surprised if she had.

"Well, if it wasn't Uncle Trevor, then who was it, babe?" When Tracey didn't answer, Amanda added, "Trace, we need to know who this person is? What if they hurt another little girl? What if...what if they come back and hurt your brother? Do you want that?"

"No..." Tracey looked across the room, the gears in her head turning as she thought. When she looked back down at her plane, she said quietly, "It was Ms. Beattie."

"The babysitter? The elderly woman that sometimes watches you?"

Tracey explained, "I broke a plate on accident. She dragged me to time-out." She turned her head to her mother, looking guilty. "I didn't mean to. I said I would clean it up, but she wouldn't listen."

Amanda pulled Tracey into a hug and kissed the top of her hair. "It's alright, baby. We'll go talk to her tomorrow morning and ask her about it. And we promise that there will be no guns, explosives, and fire involved. Right, dad?" Amanda said, tossing a pointed look over at her husband. The man nodded in agreement, even if he didn't like the terms. He had wanted to seem a little intimidating by walking in Ms. Beattie's house with an AK-47. Amanda said, "Good. Now give me a kiss, Tracey." The mother leaned in when Tracey got on her knees to give her mother a peck on the cheek and wrapped her little arms around Amanda's neck. Michael's stomach churned when he saw the bruises on his daughter's arm.

"Now give daddy a kiss and a hug," Amanda ordered.

Tracey did as she was told, sliding off the bed and ran over to her father, letting the man pick her up.

In his ear, she whispered, "Please don't hurt her. It was an accident."

Ms. Beattie was a sixty-something year old woman who had a crop of fluffy, snow white hair and walked with a slight stoop due to old age. When Michael and Amanda needed someone to watch out for the children, Ms. Beattie volunteered and the parents were impressed enough by her that they trusted her with their children. Her trailer was rusty and run-down, just like every other trailer in the park, but she tried (and failed) to make it look better with faded pink, plastic flamingos in her small yard and creepy gnomes that Michael always felt watched him when he walked up to the porch.

"Alright, promise me you'll keep your temper in check," Amanda said, putting a hand on his chest to stop the man in his tracks.

"What do you expect me to do, Manda? I may be a criminal, but I still have morals, you know, and decking an old lady in the face seems pretty immoral."

"Just checking to see if we were on the same page, Michael."

Amanda's heels clacked against the snow-covered porch and she opened the screen door, knocking politely on the main door. Inside, they heard cats meowing, and Ms. Beattie shout, "Coming!" Moments later, the door opened and revealed the five foot woman. She was dressed in white slacks and a pastel pink cardigan, a cat patch sewn on to the breast pocket. Her wrinkled lips cracked a smile when her soft green eyes rested on Michael and Amanda. "Oh, hello, dearies! It's always so nice to have such a young, beautiful couple such as yourselves visit!"

Skipping the pleasantries, Michael pushed past Ms. Beattie and entered her trailer uninvited. Guns, explosives, and fire were prohibited, and he promised to keep his anger under control, but that didn't mean he couldn't be a little forceful and intimidating. Ms. Beattie gasped at the intrusion and turned on Michael, her powdered face reddening. "How rude!" she cried. "I was just about to invite you into my home and-!"

"Give it up, Beattie. We know what you did!"

"And what did I do, exactly?"

"You grabbed our little girl and bruised her arm! Over a fuckin' plate!"

"Michael!" Amanda chastised, stepping in. She turned to Ms. Beattie with an apologetic look and said, "I'm so sorry, Ms. Beattie, but we found bruises on Tracey's arm and she mentioned you. We wanted to come see you personally to hear your side of the story before accusing anyone. And we promise to be civil and keep our anger in check, don't we, Michael?" The last part she hissed, glaring with icy blue eyes at her husband, whose hands were curled tightly into fists.

He held Amanda's stare for a couple seconds before diverting his gaze. "Fine," he huffed.

Amanda spoke to Ms. Beattie once more. "I apologize for coming to you on such sort notice, but I hope you understand the urgency of the situation. Tracey's our daughter and we hate to see her hurt and we hope this was all a misunderstanding and she got hurt elsewhere." Before Ms. Beattie could respond, Amanda added quickly, "You've been so generous to us, taking in the kids when we couldn't be there. We really appreciate it."

Ms. Beattie stared at Amanda for the longest time, redness blotching her cheeks and neck. "She broke one of my husband's plates," the old woman started, shuffling over to the china cabinet. She gestured to the many plates, pure white with elegant blue patterns etched into them. "My husband got these when he was stationed overseas and brought them back as a surprise. Tracey and I were dusting them off when she broke one. The little brat didn't even apologize."

Michael stepped toward the woman hostilely, but Amanda moved in front of him.

"Tracey says she offered to clean it up, but you grabbed her and dragged her to time-out." Amanda offered her sweetest smile, the one she often forced when dealing with rude customers at work. "I raised my Tracey to be polite and to own her mistakes. I know she wouldn't intentionally break something of yours and then refuse to do anything about it. She's a good girl."

"That was a piece of my husband she broke and I'll never get it back. She deserved what she got!"

"No child deserves to get treated like that, Ms. Beattie," Amanda said quietly.

"Yeah. How about I bruise your face and see how you like it," Michael spat, and that earned him a glare from his wife.

Ms. Beattie walked to the door and pulled it open again, pointing outside. "I want you to leave. You're disturbing the peace." She and Amanda stared at one another, and finally the younger woman broke away from Michael to walk out the door. Michael stayed in his place for a minute before following his wife out, never once breaking Ms. Beattie's stare. Amanda was already in the car when Ms. Beattie slammed the door behind Michael, and he walked down the porch stairs and climbed into his car. Hands gripping the steering wheel firmly and eyes looking straight forward, Michael said, "So, we're not going to do anything?"

Amanda turned towards him. "What can we do, Michael?" Her husband opened his mouth to say something, but she beat him to it. "Other than gunning her down, blowing her up, or beating her to death?"

"I don't know. Press charges?"

"She's old, Michael. The judge will probably throw it out."

"You never know."

"Let's...let's just forget about it. Tracey's okay and we'll just never let Ms. Beattie near our children again. Plus, Tracey didn't want us to do anything to her."

"She would be mad at us for weeks."

"Yeah..." Amanda went quiet, propping her elbow up near the window and rested her chin in her hand. "I really wanted to kick that woman to the ground."

Michael just laughed. He sure was rubbing off on her.

Trevor stood on his porch, his shoulder propped up against the beam. He flipped his Zippo lighter, the Air Force insignia emblazoned on the side, open and closed. The tiny flame, glowing blue and orange, was enough to make his insides tingle excitedly, just knowing that such a tiny flame can cause a lot of damage if used properly...and if there was gasoline involved.

We heard the door slam at the trailer across the street and looked up. He always thought that trailer was an eyesore, with those stupid pink flamingos littering the yard and those creepy ass gnomes peering up out the snow. He always wanted to use them as target practice, to see how many he could destroy before the old bat came home in her sputtering station wagon. He always hated that old hag. She was the one that Amanda wanted to babysit the kids instead of him. A sixty year old woman instead of him. Trevor flipped his lighter open again, hovering his thumb over the fire until the burn became too much. He closed the lid, watching Michael hurry down the steps of the old bat's trailer porch, and get into his car, oblivious to the fact that someone was watching them.

So, it was the old hag, eh? She was the one that bruised Tracey?

Trevor flipped his Zippo open again.

"Investigators say that an outside source must've started the fire since all appliances and electronics were checked thoroughly and said to be in good shape. Nine-one-one was called at around twelve thirty last night and the fire department were the first to arrive at the scene. The investigation of Ms. Loretta Beattie's death and the cause of the fire are still underway. We will update you all when we get more information. Back to you, Steven."

Michael and Amanda gawked at the television screen, little Tracey munching away happily at her cereal. The news about Ms. Beattie's sudden death, one where she was burnt to death by an unknown cause, was something that the parents had not expected to hear so early in the morning. According to the newscast, nothing was salvageable, and Ms. Beattie's corpse would've been unidentifiable if the police hadn't known who the owner of the trailer was prior to the fire.

The front door opened and Trevor entered, stomping the snow off his boots as he closed the door.

"Uncle Trevor!" Tracey cried excitedly, hopping out of her chair and ran up to the man. Trevor kneeled down to pick her up in his arms, standing up to his full height.

"Hey, there, nightingale," he greeted, walking over to the table with the girl still in his arms. "So, did you hear about the fire last night? Not to happy about it being so close to my place, but I was so sorry to hear about the old hag's passing." His tone was insincere and sarcastic, words dripping with venom as he spoke. Michael recognized the grin on Trevor's face, the same one that he always had when he got a headshot with his sniper rifle or when he had a man on his knees before him, begging for mercy, to which Trevor would give none. A chill ran down Michael's spine at the sight and he immediately knew what Trevor was hinting at.

"You psychotic bastard," Michael hissed. "You...you..."

"You, you," Trevor mocked in a high-pitched voice. "Spit it out already."

Michael shook his head. "Nah, I don't need to. You know exactly what I want to say. You're just lucky Tracey's in the room."

"Oh, chin up, sugar-tits. At least those gnomes won't stare at us anymore."

"Trevor?"

"Yes?"

"...Shut the fuck up."