The Four Before Me

by E H Night

  He sat his screwdriver down and looked into Alice’s eyes as if he was searching for something in them. A drop of dirty sweat dripped from his brow and down the side of his cheek, almost resembling a tear. He wiped it away, unintentionally increasing that resemblance, and cleared his throat. “She was a sweet girl,” he said. “She loved her family, and everyone she met seemed to love her, too. She had these big brown eyes that could melt the heart of anyone who looked at them.” He smiled for a moment before continuing with a more somber expression. “There was this guy who was absolutely taken by her. A lot of men liked Sarah, but this one was completely head-over-heels. He was actually the last known person to be seen with her, but when the cops questioned him, his alibi was completely solid.”

  “What? That’s frightening. What was the alibi?” Alice asked, surprised at the direction the conversation was already taking.

  “He claimed that he had been at Kirt’s Pub all night, and he had the receipts and witnesses to prove it. I still don’t feel right about the guy, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

  “Oh… I see. Did Sarah like him, too? Or was it more of a one-sided thing? Sorry if I’m asking too many questions. I can mind my own business if —”

  “She liked him at first,” he continued. “I think so, anyway. They’d gone on a few dates, but then she let him down. He didn’t seem to handle the rejection very well, and he called her a lot after that. I remember stopping by to fix her sink one day, and he called five times that hour.”

  “Five times in an hour? That’s ridiculous! Why did she meet up with him that last time?”

  “I’m not sure. He had claimed that they were still friends and would still go out sometimes, but it all just seemed so weird to me. It still does, actually. The look that she had on her face each time he called — that was enough for me to know that they weren’t friends. People aren’t afraid of their friends.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t sound good at all...” she replied, with her voice trailing off sympathetically.

  “I’ve even been thinking about getting my hair cut at Edna’s and dealing with all of the perm fumes to avoid seeing his face as much. Just the sight of that guy makes my blood boil. I know I can’t completely avoid him, but that might help a little bit, you know?”

  “Wait — what do you mean by that?” she asked, confused.

  “Oh, he’s one of the barbers over at Pete’s. Goes by Benji.”

  Chapter 7

  “Like A Prayer”

  Roger drove through the streets a little faster than usual, rolling past each of the rusty sun-faded stop signs. He cranked the driver’s side window down and stuck his left arm out. His hand played with the breeze as he made his way to the edge of town. The tiny moisture-loving bugs smacked into his palms as he approached the lakeside house. He knew that Betty would be home, and he was determined to have a conversation with her while she was still sober. The sun was going down, which meant that her bottles would soon be rising up.

  When he had dropped her off at the house after she’d been discharged, he had been in too much of a hurry to go inside and check on things. He had only spared enough time to feed the pigs before hurrying away again. There was a little bit of guilt in the back of his mind for not making sure she had everything that she needed, and for not at least going in to see if Will was doing okay. Roger’s brother definitely wasn’t supposed to be alone for extended periods of time, but he was more than capable of at least heating food up by himself. He justified the negligence by assuming that at the very worst, Will might only need to be told to bathe. He had a bad habit of playing with the pigs and not washing their muddy shit off of his clothes afterward.“A night of dirty clothes won’t hurt him,” he thought, reassuring himself, as he turned into the long and winding driveway. “It might even toughen him up a little. People treat him like a child, but he’s a grown-ass man. He’s a little strange, sure, but he’s completely capable of taking a shower on his own. He shouldn’t have to be told to do something like that.”

  The car’s tires kicked up several pieces of gravel while it traveled along the curve to the back of the house. Roger put his foot down heavily onto the brake. He didn’t bother to straighten out the steering wheel before cutting the engine. Daylight was coming to an end, and there was no time left to lose. With more of a gallop than a walk, his feet hurried across the driveway and made their way to the back porch. He knocked twice out of courtesy, and then let himself inside with the spare key from under the flower pot.

  The house smelled strong inside, like paint thinner, old urine, and stale cigarette smoke. Somewhere, all mixed in, was the smell of rancid meat. Betty must have left pork out to thaw again, and forgot about it completely. It wouldn’t have been the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last time either. Roger coughed into his arm and held back the urge to gag. The last thing the house needed was a new smell mixing in.

  The lights were off, and there was no one in the living room. He headed in the direction of the kitchen, and turned the wiggly plastic knob on a table-side lamp while passing by. The dim yellow light illuminated a trail of empty wine bottles and broken picture frames. The trail led up to a small mountain of trash bags, and the intrusive buzzing of flies became more obvious to his ears. He coughed again and opened the curtain by the table. The disaster became a lot more visible in what was left of the sunshine.

  He turned, and his eyes met what was left of Sarah’s. The picture, red with paint and wine, was evidence of Betty’s mental decline. “Dammit. Betty!” His face reddened to match the one before him on the canvas. “You’d better get down here right now!”

  He knocked the easel over with the back of his hand. Footsteps scurried on the floor above him and eventually made their way to the stairs. Betty scuttled over each step, wearing a blue moth-eaten nightgown. The gown was wrinkled and stained from an assortment of mysterious spills. Her hair was a mess, and it became very obvious that she’d been asleep the entire day.

  “What the hell is that?” Roger yelled, pointing to the painting on the floor. “Is that supposed to be Sarah or something?”

  His sister sobbed and leaned against the handrail at the bottom. She didn’t use words to reply, but her reaction was enough to confirm his suspicion.

  “She’s gone, Betty,” he said, scolding her. “You need to get a hold of yourself! She’s not coming back, and even if she somehow did, what would she think if she saw that you were behaving like this? You’ve been acting like a crazy person!”

  “I know she’s gone. And you’re right! She’s not coming back!” Betty’s voice broke into louder sobs, and she fell to the floor.

  Roger’s posture grew less aggressive, and he knelt down beside her. “Dammit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. She’s gotta be out there somewhere, but we can’t keep our lives paused while we wait for answers. We have to keep going.” He looked around the room again. “We can’t keep siting around, getting as drunk as skunks, painting weird pictures, and scaring every person in town. You have a business to run. No one is going to want to buy meat from the town lunatic. You scared that poor girl half to death. You’re hurting my business now too, you know.”

  Betty looked up and nodded. “I feel really bad about going to Alice’s house,” she mumbled.

  “Well, you probably should. I was just over there, and she seems really jumpy.” Roger stood up and helped Betty to her feet. His hands patted her shoulders, as if he were dusting the sadness away, and he pulled her in for a comforting hug. “Sorry for yelling. Things will get better. Just promise me, no more drinking, okay?”

  She looked to the floor like a child. “Fine. No more drinking.”

  “Good. Now, where’s Will?”

  “I’m not sure… He’s been outside all day again, I think.”

  ◆

  Will strolled through town early that morning, taking his usual path, pulling a red wagon along with him to collect things to recycle. He was taller than average, about 6’
2” and surprisingly stocky, considering all of the walking that he did. His gray-blonde hair was slightly receded, and the thin spots revealed a sun-burnt scalp underneath. An old belt, clearly too large for him, held his jeans tightly under his belly due to the additional holes that had been added in to make it stay on. The extra leather hung by his pocket, wobbling with each step that he’d take.

  He grunted and muttered as he made his way past the little shops and houses. Most of the words that fell out from his mouth were just random phrases that he had heard on the TV or radio earlier that day, but he occasionally grumbled about the assortment of things that were bothering him. At the time, he had been very annoyed with the food choices at Betty’s.

  “Pork sandwiches. I’m so sick of all of these damn sandwiches.” He stopped walking for a few seconds and stared at Medley’s. “Damn sandwiches.” He started moving again, and headed into the store. He had a very specific route, even among the groceries. A few faces smiled at him when he passed by, but the people knew not to bother him with much more than that. He smiled back inwardly, but his facial expressions didn’t mirror the feeling very well. His brow wore a seemingly permanent scowl.

  Will walked over to the bread section and started to organize his favorite kind, Wonderbread. He picked up each loaf individually and stacked them on top of each other, one by one, with accuracy. The other loaves were left alone. They didn’t even matter to him. The Wonderbread, however, was his deity, and his hands were there to worship. Unlike many churchgoers who only attended services weekly, Will organized the bread daily. When the yeasty smell filled his nostrils, visions of his mother flashed around in his head, and he momentarily escaped into one of the scenes.

  “Now, William, you’d better eat enough bread if you want to grow big and strong. Here, this is the best kind you can get in the whole entire world. It’s just like chewing on a cloud.” His eyes were closed, and he reached around blindly to grab another loaf off of the pile in front of him, picturing himself grabbing the soft plastic bag of bread from his mother’s hands. “Yes, Mama,” he said out loud.

  He continued to stand in the aisle for several seconds with the same loaf still in his grip. His mother’s brown hair and loose modest dresses continued to fill his mind. A smile spread all the way across his face as he imagined her wiping the mess of jam from his mouth with a raggedy dish rag. He could almost smell the old water that had mildewed in its fibers. “You’re a good boy, William. Let’s get another piece of toast for you,” he recalled her saying once.

  To the onlookers, the townspeople, Will was just an oddball who always obsessed over little things. He’d been a little unusual since the baseball accident with his brother, Roger, but he was typically friendly and well-behaved. There was no denying that he was noticeably different than everyone else, but he never caused any problems. He was very passive, and sadly, usually the victim of taunting. Even though he had once been a sharp young boy, with a mind as bright as his snow-colored hair, something changed in his brain after the baseball bat had smacked him in the head. He was still highly intelligent. He just spoke less, obsessed more, and had little moments where he would lose clarity. Sometimes Will’s dreams were indiscernible from reality, and this annoyance occasionally caused problems for him. Other than a personality change though, he was still very much his old and original self. But sadly, even in his forties, he wasn’t able to escape the playground bullies. New generations carried on the tradition of torment after the previous ones had matured and lost interest.

  He finished his ritual, exchanged a nod with Jim near the register, and went on his way out of the door. A woman passed by, and he sheepishly waved.

  “Oh, hi there, Will. How are you doing today?” she asked, kindly returning the wave.

  Will shifted uncomfortably and stared at the woman’s feet. “I’m good. What size shoes do you wear?”

  The woman looked down, confused by the abrupt change of subject, and then met his eyes again. “Uh, These are a 7, I think. I usually wear a 7 or 7 ½. Why do you want to know all that, Will?”

  “My mom wore size 7. She liked pretty shoes like yours.”

  “That’s very sweet of you to think of her, Will. Judy would be so proud of the thoughtful and caring man you’ve become.” She spoke to him as if he were a child, despite him being fully capable of having an adult conversation.

  Will was used to it. He grinned, still staring at her shoes. “Can I have them?” he asked.

  “Well, I mean, I need them right now. I can’t go walking around the store barefoot, now, can I?” she replied, chuckling at the thought.

  Will didn’t respond.

  “How about this,” she began. “I need to clear out some of my old things anyway. I’ll go through my shoes tonight, and I’ll set some pretty ones out on the porch for you to pick up. You know which house is mine, don’t you? The little blue one over on Third.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he said, with a smile replacing his typically-serious expression.

  “Sure thing. Now, you take care, okay?”

  “Okay, you too,” he said flatly, and continued walking again.

  He made a loop around the parking lot and decided to head back in the direction of his house. A lot had been accomplished during that trip, and he didn’t feel the need to wander much more after such a huge success. He pulled his wagon along, in the direction of the lake. After passing through a few of the usual streets, a small group of boys, appearing to range in age from seven to ten confronted him. Each of their taunting voices pierced his ears like knives.

  “Hey, it’s Wonderbread Will! I heard that Elvis doesn’t really sing his own songs! He just mouths them out on stage!”

  The boys giggled together.

  “Yeah! He can’t really dance either! He just puts ants in his pants and wiggles around!”

  “He dyes his hair like a chick!” yet another voice chimed in, higher in pitch than the others.

  Will froze in place and listened angrily while the boys insulted his favorite musician. He clenched his fists and tears welled in his eyes. From the late 50’s until a couple of years before, he and his mother would sit and listen to Elvis together each evening. From the way that Will’s mother had spoken to him about the singer, it was reasonable to assume that Elvis was the closest thing to a father in Will’s life. Betty would often make up stories about him, and how he was going to visit Will one day. After his mother’s voice had faded into the earth, he was still able to hear Elvis’s. Those songs were as precious to him as his memories.

  “Guess what else!” the tallest of the boys called out.

  “No, don’t do it. He looks like he’s getting really mad,” another boy whispered nervously, nudging the tall one with a bony elbow.

  “Just watch. It’ll be funny,” he said, pushing back. He cupped his hands around his mouth, preparing to project his voice. “Elvis is dead! Just like your Ma!” he yelled.

  Will shook with an overwhelming amount of emotion. He let out a loud and painful groan in protest. As quickly as he could move, his feet darted toward the boys, and they all took off running down the sidewalk. “They’re not dead!” he yelled, “They’re not dead, you little shits!”

  Tears streamed down his face as he chased after the group. After a couple of blocks, the boys had completely outrun him, and he slowed down to catch his breath. He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, and retrieved his wagon that he’d knocked over into the ditch. Will walked the rest of the way home, humming songs as if nothing had happened at all.

  The boys laughed together in the distance.

  Chapter 8

  “Sweet Dreams”

  The wind howled and whistled through Wintersburg. April had come to a close, and May’s unpredictability was fresh upon the land. The warm air pushed itself through the trees and past the small cracked buildings, forcing what was left of the cold to hide away in the safety of the night.

  Alice flopped around in her bed, tangling and untangling herself
with the sheets. Her hair was moist with sweat, and the discomfort of it eventually caused her to wake up. She walked over to the bedroom window and opened it a few inches. The chilly breeze rushed inside, as if it were running away from something, but she welcomed it into her home with a big sigh of gratitude.

  She rested in front of the window, with her hands combing through her hair. The earth’s natural blow dryer blew the sweat away from her scalp, and her eyes grew too heavy to keep open any longer. She told herself that she’d only close them for a minute — she just had to finish cooling off first. The wind continued to feather across her skin, and it eventually lulled her back to sleep.

  Something tickled the tiny hairs on her arm, and she opened her eyes slowly. Each pupil scoured the room for answers, searching for some type of a new presence. On her bed, she saw the blurry figure of a woman, lying in what was supposed to be her place. Alice rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked once more, unsure of whether or not she was dreaming. The color of the sheets was different, and the bed was too, but the girl definitely looked a lot like her, at least from where Alice was sitting. “If I’m right here, how can I be over there?”