Blood and Blasphemy

by Gerri R. Gray

  A tap at the window grabbed their attention. The officer, a stern-faced woman Jason's father would have called 'handsome,' motioned for him to roll the window down.

  “Put it in park,” Officer Hoskel, according to the name tag, said.

  “Yes sir...er, ma'am.”

  Melinda watched the officer smirk.

  “License. Registration.”

  “I'm getting it,” Melinda said as pleasantly as she could muster. “Just a sec.”

  “Are you two enjoying our fine state?”

  Jason looked up at the officer, trying not to fixate on the hat's rain guard, which looked amazingly like an oversized shower cap. “How did you know we were visiting?”

  Officer Hoskel leaned over, resting her forearm on the car's roof. “Two things. The rental car sticker on the bumper. We don't see too many rental cars up this way. Where'd you get this one? Bangor?”

  Jason stammered, “uh...yeah.”

  “Ma'am, don't worry about finding the registration. I'm sure you have all the proper documentation.” She shifted her stance, stretching to the point that several audible pops echoed from her back. “The reason I pulled you over was a simple spot check. You were a few miles over the posted limit.”

  Melinda leaned over so she could still see the officer's face. “No ticket?”

  “No ticket...unless you want one.”

  Jason answered quickly, “No, that's okay.”

  “Hop in the back of my cruiser and we'll get you up into Fellowship for a tow truck.”

  The couple grabbed their carry-ons from their trunk, deposited them into the officer's and climbed into the back of the patrol car. Climbing in, Melinda noticed that the hard plastic seat had strange depressions in the backrest.

  “It's for suspects’ cuffed hands and arms—so we can still seatbelt them,” Officer Hoskel offered before being asked.

  “Looks uncomfortable.”

  “The seat is, but it's safe and that's what counts these days.”

  They got into the patrol car and buckled up. As Officer Hoskel pulled away from the Dodge, Melinda asked, “What was the other reason?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You said there were two reasons you knew we were visiting the state. What was the other one?” Jason elbowed her and gave his animated 'shut up' expression.

  “Oh, that was the dead giveaway. You pulled onto the shoulder. Locals just stop. Mainers stop or put on a signal and just drive up to the nearest road or dry patch.”

  “So I'm an idiot,” Jason said.

  “So you're an idiot,” Officer Hoskel confirmed, bringing a Cheshire cat grin from Melinda.

  The next ten minutes were met with relative silence. Jason glowered, Melinda returned to her staring out the window, and Officer Hoskel relayed what happened to the dispatcher. The patrol car slipped past a massive moose carcass lying in the middle of the road. They rounded another bend and were suddenly in a little hamlet of a town. A dazzlingly white sign, FELLOWSHIP: CLOSER TO GOD THAN THEE, announced their entering the town proper. The patrol car slowed a hundred yards short of the sign and turned into the only visible gas station.

  “Not exactly a friendly welcome sign,” Melinda said.

  “I'm afraid it's not exactly a friendly town.” She pulled into a single-bay gas station and got out. Rain started to fall again.

  The door on Jason's side opened to reveal the typical jump suited mechanic. “Keys,” the man said flatly. Jason fished the single electronic key and handed it over. “Two hours. Stay here,” and then he was gone, climbing into the tow truck's cab and driving off. A wake of blue smoke hung heavy as testament to the attendant's mechanical skills.

  “Kebler,” Officer Hoskel yelled, “on the state's tab. Don't burn ‘em.” She turned and opened first Melinda's door, then Jason's.

  Melinda took in the anti-Rockwellian station. Blue paint, now marred by palm sized patches of rust spattered across the 'Tommy's Trucks n' Such' sign painted above the picture windows. The street contained no children playing stickball, no bicyclists making their way to or from a favorite watering hole. The closest thing to humanity, aside from their benefactor, was the incessant shrieking of a baby somewhere down the street. The wind blew through the summer leaves and flashed her memory to their two nights in Bar Harbor earlier that week. This sound matched in pitch and volume, though still lacked the intensity of the water crashing against the rocks.

  Jason's arm slid around her waist. “Quite a view, isn't it?”

  “Yeah,” she leaned into him. “Almost feels like the end of the earth.”

  Officer Hoskel called out from the back of the car, “Not the end of the earth, ma'am. That's about five miles up the road. At least that's what the locals say.” She stood, hoisting the couple's two bags out and setting them to the side before slamming the trunk. “Might want to just wait it out here. It's Sunday so you're not going to find anything open.”

  Melinda looked over her shoulder, “Why not? We did everywhere else...even over in Skowhegan.”

  “This isn't Skowhegan. No tourists, and as of a couple of years back, no mill either. You never did say what you were doing up hereabouts.”

  “Work,” Jason said simply and turned to the officer.

  “Up here? There’s no work up here.” Officer Hoskel's friendly demeanor shifted into an official tone.

  Melinda turned to join the conversation, smiling. “He's in sales. Incorporating business websites for towns and villages. New territory here.”

  Hoskel looked down the street “…be a short list here. Seems hardly worth your gas.”

  “It's the residuals once the sites are built. That's how I make my income.”

  “Mmmmhmmmm,” was all the officer offered.

  Jason pressed, “Is there a place here where we can get something to eat?”

  “About a half mile up on the left is a restaurant. Doubt they're open.” She opened her car door and climbed inside. “Best of luck to you.”

  “Um, miss,” Melinda stammered. “Do you think we could get a lift?”

  “For a five minute walk?”

  “I mean, the mechanic's gone and it's about to rain.” Two large drops landed noisily onto the roof of the car, offering nature's version of a rim-shot.

  “Nope. Town ordinances keep me from going past that sign we passed...officially. Nothing much up here anyway.” She tipped her hat. “They'll probably still complain that I came as far as the gas station. Have to pull that moose off the road. Got you here. Got you help.” She grabbed the door. “I'll be back to check on you in an hour or so. Best I can offer. I'd head somewhere else to stay the night, though.”

  “Why's that?”

  “No hotel in Fellowship.” The door slammed and Officer Hoskel’s car pulled away.

  Jason turned to his wife. “So,” he said, placing his fists on his hips, “Captain Screwup has done his duty and now the trusty sidekick will be driving them back down the lonely highway sooner than she anticipated. Tune in tomorrow when....”

  She jabbed him in the stomach. “Quit it.”

  Another drop landed in a puddle by the gas pumps.

  Melinda grabbed her shoulder bag and passed him the computer backpack she'd gotten him for the trip. The red stripe down the side reflected sharply even in the cloudy afternoon light. She couldn't help but to notice that aside from the neon 'OPEN' sign and the pack's stripe, no colors stood out, giving everything before them a muted sense of reality. Red brickwork framing the store had a brown tinge. The red and white striped barber pole mounted above a mailbox down the street had the faded look of an old instamatic photo. Down the road she took in the various driveways and parking spots for the township. No, not a township, a­­­–

  “Hamlet,” she muttered.

  “This, above all,” Jason bellowed, “to thine own self be true.”

  Melinda fought back a smile as she fired another jab to her husband's gut. He doubled over, catching her hand and held it against his stomach.

 
“O,” he continued, “what a rogue and peasant slave am I!”

  A devilish grin escaped her and she pressed forward, grabbing the front of Jason's trousers, fingers slipping inside the waistband. His smile matched hers until she jerked the hand up, bringing with it his underwear's waistband. An initial look of shock shifted into an exaggerated expression of discomfort.

  “I must be cruel,” she said, falling into his Shakespearean platitudes, “only to be kind.”

  Before he could retaliate, as playful couples tend to do, she set out walking past the town limits sign and into what served as the business portion of Fellowship; Jason caught up after repairing his forced wardrobe malfunction. They passed rotted doors hiding the volunteer fire department's truck. Flaking paint revealed weathered wood bleached light gray with age. Curled shingles gave, to her painter's eye, the impression of birds mid-flight. Another short volley of drops splattered across the road and grass, missing them by scant feet.

  “Jesus,” Jason barked, “is it going to rain or what?” Just as the genie granted Aladdin's wish, the skies opened up, releasing a torrential downpour onto them.

  Plodding steps fell into a quarter-step beat as they ran the remainder of the distance to the gravel parking lot of Jenny's Diner. Melinda grabbed onto the glass door's handle and pulled. The door opened and they pushed into the cinder block restaurant. A dozen pairs of eyes looked at them from around the room. Well, Melinda corrected herself, eleven pairs of eyes and one thirty-ish woman with an eye patch who stood in the corner with a Bible. Overhead, the fluorescents were off and what little light illuminated the eatery came from the storefront's windows.

  “Sorry,” Jason said to the group, which continued to stare, unmoving, at them. “We'll just seat ourselves.” He looked at his wife and nodded over to an open corner booth. They dropped their bags and slid onto the vinyl benches. Water sluiced off their clothing and spread a widened pool on the seats. “Mel, what do you want?”

  “Huh?” She couldn't stop returning the stares of the restaurant’s patrons.

  “Lunch. We're here. We might as well eat.”

  “I…” Melinda shook uncontrollably. “What do they have?”

  “I don't know. What do want?” He leaned back and looked at their audience. “Guess we're celebrities here, huh.”

  “Guess so,” she shifted and stared down at the table.

  “Hey,” Jason called out to the one-eyed employee, “could we get a little service here?”

  No one moved.

  “Jason!” Melinda hissed his name.

  “It's okay,” he chided, “I'll get the menus.” He got up and grabbed two laminated sheets from beside the fifties-era register. “Thank you so much for your assistance. I...see you're busy.”

  Melinda felt herself blushing at Jason's digs at the waitress. “Stop it.” She took the menu from him and watched as he slid back into his seat, brushing away the pooled rainwater as he did so. A rip in her seat had sucked much of her puddled water away. Glaring over the menu, she willed her husband to return the gaze and, a handful of heartbeats later, he did. An unspoken conversation ensued.

  Stop it.

  What did I do?

  Stop it now.

  They're being rude.

  Stop being an ass or I'm leaving right now.

  Okay. Okay. Jason gave an exaggerated eye roll after acquiescing to her demands.

  Melinda raised her hand to the woman, who, now a couple of minutes later, hadn't moved. “Um, miss?”

  The waitress remained immobile, save that of breathing and blinking.

  “Could we get a couple of waters?”

  A cook looked out from the kitchen and said, “Water's the last thing we-”

  “Jason,” she hissed a second time.

  Jason avoided returning the look only a seasoned wife is able to give. Instead, he produced a broad smile and said, “Water sounds great!” He shifted in his seat, opened the multimedia backpack and began rifling through it searching for, what Melinda assumed, was a little bit of dignity after his childish display. He produced his notebook computer and placed it lovingly on the table before returning to rooting around in the bag's various zippered pockets. She watched his neck flush deep red, as his actions yielded nothing of substance before turning her attention to the slowly approaching waitress. The patch over her right eye masked the connecting point of two deep slashes, one horizontal ending at brow and the bridge of her nose while the vertical one began within a forehead crease, parted plucked and arched trail of hair and continued down to her chin before ending at a point. At her cheekbone, the scar split the skin deep, leaving a visible seam where scar met healthy flesh.

  “No water,” the waitress said.

  Melinda leaned back and looked at the patrons. No water glasses adorned their tables either...no food for that matter. “I don't...ohhhh, the rain. Did it cut power?” She offered the woman a friendly smile. “I just noticed the lights aren't on.”

  Jason looked up at her. “How about a Coke?”

  “No Coke.” She continued looking at Melinda.

  Melinda tried, “Do you have a special?”

  “No specials. No Cokes. No nothin'.” The waitress raised her Bible. “Today's Sunday.”

  “I don't understand, ummm,” Melinda made the 'c'mon, please tell me your name' motion with her hands.

  “Julia.”

  “I don't understand, Julia.” Melinda tried to sound polite, but even she was getting short tempered with the waitress. “I mean, I understand it's Sunday, but why are you open if you're not going to serve anyone?”

  “Missy,” an old codger sporting what looked to be an even older pair of coveralls spoke up, “we've been here since sundown yesterday. We'll be here til' sunup tomorrow.”

  “Amen,” a family of four said, each parent clutching one of two twin boys. The boys looked dirty and tired, dark circles under the eyes visible even in the limited light.

  “It's the Lord's day,” a woman, primed to have been a circus fat lady in a 1930's circus, chimed in. “You can't partake of anything on the Lord's day.” Her words took on a scolding tone, as if a parent speaking to a child. She gripped her own Bible in a sausage-fingered death grip. “You...you should know that.”

  It was then that Melinda noticed the smell. While the waitress' clothes were clean and pressed, her exposed skin had a telltale mottling left for the unwashed masses. Smells of sweat and other distinctly feminine odors wafted across the booth. She locked eyes with Jason and knew he'd made the same odoriferous discovery.

  God's personal fat lady glowered at the notebook computer sitting on the table and continued, “On the Lord's day, His children don't work, don't partake of the garden's fruit and don't partake of man's bounty.”

  Jason couldn't suppress a chuckle, “What about Soft n' Gentle?” He grinned at the blatant laundry quip.

  Shocked and angry expressions marred the shadowed patrons.

  The obese woman jabbed a digit at the couple, “Do not mock the Lord!”

  The waitress now stood glassy eyed, staring out the window. A tear escaped the patch and trailed down her puckered scar. “You should pray,” she mouthed more than said, only visible to the couple.

  “Tell them,” the fat woman bellowed.

  Melinda and Jason watched the waitress shake uncontrollably, then raise her right hand to her patch. “If thine eye offends thee…” She pulled the swatch of fabric back, exposing slit lids covering nothing but wet pink tissue. As the waitress blinked the scarred lids puckered, pinching a touch of what looked surprisingly like chewed bubble gum, between eyelashes.

  “We're sorry,” Jason said with a level of decorum that, to Melinda's knowledge, he'd never before possessed. While still staring with morbid fascination at the remains of the waitress' eye, he pushed himself to the edge of the bench and stood. “We didn't mean any disrespect. We'll just be going.”

  Their waitress grabbed him by a shoulder. “You can't leave. It's the Lord's day!”

>   “Lady,” Jason's temper began to flare, “we just came from out there.” He shook off the waitress' grasp.

  “The Lord,” the fat woman said, “brought you into our garden. Be not the sinner.” A volley of amens echoed throughout the eatery.

  “Mel, let's get back to the car.” He pointed to his computer. “Put it away, will you.”

  Melinda lifted her husband's lifeline to civilization and reached over to grab his backpack. Something smashed into her hand and the computer fell to the table, a starburst crack in the top of the plastic housing. A napkin dispenser clattered to a stop beside their property, its contents fanning out onto the table. The patrons stood as one and grasped things within reach—another napkin dispenser, two plates, glass saltshaker and a butter knife. She looked to Jason, who stood between her and the group. His shoulders squared like before a wrestling match back in college.

  “Mel,” he repeated, “let's go.”

  “Sinners,” the father of the two boys said. “You defile the Sabbath.” He stood, skeletal frame rising well over six feet. “We know how to deal with sinners.”

  Jason turned to Melinda, then, without warning, grabbed the computer and hurled it like a discus at the father. The wedge of plastic and electronics struck the fanatic just under the nose, separating him from his front teeth in a spray of blood worthy of any slasher film. Customers, along with the waitress, Julia, and fat lady, directed all attention to their fallen comrade. Melinda scooted out of the booth and Jason jerked her by the wrist and pulled her out the door and into the thinning rain. Four men and a rather homely woman walked while watching them intently, all showing the soaked telltale signs of having walked to this destination.

  The oldest of the clutch, eighty if he was a day, spoke up. “You all new in town?”

  Melinda gritted her teeth against the vice grip Jason had on her forearm. “Just leaving,” she managed to call out before being guided onto the road's shoulder.

  “You two should stay for evening services.”

  Jason stopped cold, jerking Melinda's attention before them rather than to the group in the parking lot. Better than forty people stood in the road, or alongside it, framing their path back to Tommy's station. Many of Fellowship's population carried different items clutched in their hands, just as those in the restaurant did, though a few of these were more menacing. She counted five young men casually holding onto hayforks.