by Benton, Ken
Joel had tried over the years, in several different relationships, to solve the mystery of the something else. All he managed to learn was that once a woman’s scorn was triggered it could not be appeased by logic, by any kind of explanation, or even by an apology. They always seem to sense that the true motivation for the apology is to quell their anger, even when it is sincere.
Joel suspected the male psyche was incapable of ever zeroing in on the female stronghold protecting the identity of the something else. They would make sure men could never get to it. If they failed at this, men could simply offer a sincere apology for the actual core issue, since sincere apologies are easy for men to muster when peace in the home is at stake. Heck, men are capable of becoming honestly sorry for their part in the Indonesian tsunami. Revealing the true issue to a man would be giving him a nuclear weapon for ending the fight. And women do not want the emotional journey of their anger cut short. They have an innate need to see it run its full course.
Not that Debra was being excessively unreasonable. They’d had no more than one or two minor spats the six weeks they’d known each other. Debra was an extremely rational female, from what Joel could tell. And her anger wasn’t solely directed at Joel. He knew much of it was a lamentation over the mere occurrence of the incident, regardless of where the blame rightfully lay. Joel could certainly relate to that.
She’d quietly come outside as Joel organized the remaining goods for this evening’s trading session. Joel became suddenly aware of her presence, standing there in a black sweater watching him from the porch. Red already took the first wheelbarrow load over, and one more trip should do it when he returned.
“I haven’t seen you smile all day,” Debra said in a voice characterized more by criticism than concern.
Joel shrugged. “Some days smiles don’t come easy.”
“And today is one of those days,” she said crossing her arms.
Joel had no response and began needlessly rearranging the remaining items.
“Joel, shouldn’t this be a happy day?”
He tilted his head at her.
“I know you miss Sammy. I know you two have a unique closeness. I also know you helped him go because you understand he needs to see his parents, and you want him to have that relief. As far as Ricky is concerned, you were forced to make a snap decision which you now question, but it was made with conviction at the time. If you can’t live with it, whip up a plan to fix the situation into one you can live with. You’re good at that.”
Joel opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out.
She continued. “What’s really bothering me, and I shouldn’t even tell you this…”
That got Joel’s full attention. Was he about to be given the nuclear weapon?
She shook her head in an agonizing way, her ponytail flipping from side to side before settling on one of her shoulders. Joel realized his best chance of gaining the intel he desperately sought was to keep his mouth shut. A customer sometimes needs a moment of self-rationalization before signing the contract.
“I just … I just…” she stammered.
Almost there. Joel formed an expression of genuine concern and raised his eyebrows.
“It’s a big day for us, don’t you think?” Debra asked.
Joel tilted his head again. “Big day?”
“For us, Joel. For us. With the guys gone, it sort of ushers in a new period in our relationship. It’s you and me now here. Living together. Yes, we have Red, and sometimes Callaway, sleeping out with Nancy and the birds—but inside the house it will be just the two of us. We could view this as, I don’t know, like the day we moved in together or something. With an attitude of celebration, looking forward to our life together. You know?”
Joel opened his mouth and actually had something to say this time, but was cut off.
“So when I watch you do nothing but mope around all day, well, it isn’t what I want to see today. I’m getting a little tired of it, truthfully. That’s all.”
She somehow slipped back inside before Joel could draw another breath to reply.
Just as well. Better to say nothing than to talk too quickly. Going in after her was probably the best thing to do, but the sound of gravel lightly crunching told Joel that Red was almost back, and they couldn’t leave the trade goods already across the street unattended.
Half an hour later Joel and Red had their station set up for the evening, utilizing one of the sapling-tables and the wheelbarrow to display the goods. He kept the flaked oats and sewing machine behind him until he could show them to Hal and see if he wanted them, since they were rightfully half his.
The marketplace began receiving diurnal shoppers early, including a few strange faces that arrived in an old VW Bus and a motorcycle with a sidecar. Nice to see some road traffic resuming. It wasn’t unusual for diurnal shoppers to come early, especially non-locals who had a ways to travel to get back home before dark. Joel traded his livestock feed for a new pick and shovel, a small bag of red onions that were reasonably fresh, a couple sheets of partially-burned plywood, and a bottle of sunscreen that looked legit. The nice thing about onions is they are self-replicating. As long as you only use half of one, the other half will always grow back if you can keep the hogs from getting to it. The plywood would help in making cage traps for the hogs.
Hal Bronson usually showed up early. He didn’t today. The fact made Joel uncomfortable. He was short of allies at the moment.
Red didn’t usually attend the full trading session. Joel never invited him to before. But as the sun dropped close to the horizon and Hal still didn’t show, Joel asked Red to come back after taking the plywood home.
Chapter Ten
With the low sun reflecting in the rear view mirror, Mick couldn’t be sure of the color of the SUV now following a half-mile behind him. It appeared white or tan, or possibly even yellow like the Celica. It was moving fast, at pace with Mick, but keeping its distance.
There weren’t a lot of SUVs on the roads, but then there still weren’t a lot of cars on the roads period. The ones you did come across tended to keep a courteous distance from each other. Mick and Sammy saw maybe eight total vehicles earlier on the trip westward, including a couple SUVS—older models, like early 90’s Blazers or Broncos. Mick didn’t get a close enough look at the one that went speeding by at the gas station to identify anything but the silver color.
This was the first other car on the return trip he’d encountered, and he was halfway back by now. No doubt most diurnals were done driving this late in the day, and it was too early for nocturnal traffic. In less than an hour the evening crossover period would begin. He would hopefully be almost to Joel’s by then.
And then they would have to drive back, and be outside in full darkness. Either that or leave Sammy in his cubbyhole for the night and come get him in the morning. That would probably be a wiser plan. Sammy had survival supplies, was reasonably well hidden, and the nights were not currently very cold. But Mick knew Joel, and knew how he felt about Sammy.
The lack of other vehicles on the interstate was a good thing. Mick couldn’t afford to be polite and give everyone their pocket of space, as seemed to be a new unwritten rule of the road. The only reason he was willing to keep it down to 80 was out of concern for the condition of the spare tire. There were no more spares to put on.
As the interstate straightened after the long curve through the hills, Mick recognized a landmark that caused him to become aware that he was thirsty. This was the spot where he and Sammy both drank from their water bottles earlier. Come to think of it, that was the last sip of water Mick had today. He’d been through a lot since then to work up a thirst. He wouldn’t get to quench it for at least another hour. For now he’d have to settle for nibbling on the dried fruit mixed among his ammo in the baggie.
Sammy had their remaining water, plus a little food, with him in the backpack. He also had the blunderbuss. Mick didn’t regard it as much of a protection weapon after firing it at
the gas station and not visibly hindering any of his targets, even the one guy he was certain he must have winged. But those adversaries were a least 15 yards away at the time. Defending the cubbyhole would be a much more practical usage for it, as that wasn’t bigger than six feet across.
It better be a more practical usage. That gun was all Sammy had.
Mick checked the mirror in time to get a glimpse of the SUV behind him from a partial side view before it completed the curve. The setting sun was now out of his mirror. He caught a better look of the vehicle.
It appeared to be a late-90’s 4-Runner. But it wasn’t yellow in color. Maybe tan. But also quite possibly silver.
* * *
The first noctos to show at the trading post were old man Dunn and his son, accompanied by Lyle Bronson, Hal’s oldest son. They arrived early this evening, so must have been anxious and set out before the sun was fully below the horizon.
Hal still hadn’t shown.
But Rob Danson did. The first thing the Dunn trio did was approach him as if on a mission. Rob didn’t give Joel more than a glance yet, and didn’t set foot on the trading grounds. He just stood off on the street, as if waiting for the Dunns to meet him. This would undoubtedly be when the Dunns learned why Ricky never came home from fishing this morning. It was probably better they hear it from Rob than Joel.
Still, Joel didn’t like it. The marketplace was not as busy as usual, with only a few diurnals still lingering about. By now Joel already completed most of the trading he was likely to conduct today with the early-bird nonlocal crowd. There sure didn’t figure to be much business to transact with the neighborhood noctos this evening. But it was better to be here, to see what they were up to and be involved in whatever communications were about to transpire, however unpleasant.
“Do you want to take the first load of what we have left back across?” Joel asked Red. “I don’t think there’ll be much more activity this evening.”
Red hesitated, something uncharacteristic of him. Joel stared at him in curiosity. Red remained in place and compressed that wavy heap of hair behind his head, the same way Debra did when putting hers in a ponytail. Red simply released it so it sprang back out.
“Debra said not to leave you alone while the Dunn residents are here,” he finally answered.
“Oh?” Joel tried not to act overly-interested. “When did she tell you that?”
Red motioned towards the cabin. “When I took the plywood across.”
That’s when the Dunn trio, with Rob Danson trailing at a distance, approached Joel and Red. Everyone but Lyle was visibly armed with a rifle or shotgun. Old man Dunn had his shotgun on his shoulder, as always, the side of the barrel resting against his balding skull cap. He was the first to speak.
“I thought you wanted this to be an equal opportunity marketplace,” he said in his trademark rough southern accent.
“What do you mean?” Joel replied, aware that his own shotgun rested against the table within arm’s length.
Dunn spit on the ground in front of Joel’s table, causing Joel to frown.
“This here.” Dunn pointed around the lot. “A crossover-time market, where day-folk and night-folk all just get along and crap. Ain’t that what you said?”
“Mr. Dunn, do you have a complaint about something? You’re here, I’m here, trade goods are available and on display, and we’re all together, right across the street from my house, same as every evening.”
“Yes I have a complaint, McConnell. We got ears. We can hear the trading taking place on this lot a full two hours before sunset. By the time we arrive it’s all but done. How is that a fair opportunity market? You keep starting it earlier and earlier, until we aren’t able to get food and supplies anymore. Is that your plan? That and plotting some frame-up to wrongfully imprison our best food producers, so you can starve us out?”
At that moment Dunn’s twenty-year old son brought his rifle forward. The motion prompted his buddy, Lyle, to react by reaching a hand in his pocket. Rob Danson stepped closer to the pack, but did not reposition the rifle he was carrying.
Joel reached for his shotgun in a casual manner as he responded.
“The extended trading hours goes both ways, doesn’t it, Dunn? We have ears, too, and can hear your activity continue well into the night, sometimes with cars coming and going, now that word is out about this place. I’m not complaining about that.”
As Joel lifted his shotgun, Lyle produced a pistol from his pocket and the Dunn kid swung his rifle barrel forward to bear on Joel.
“I wouldn’t!” Red’s voice suddenly boomed, commanding everyone’s surprised attention.
Out of nowhere, Red was brandishing Debra’s new Ruger .22 pistol, both arms stiff to the grip and holding an impressively steady bead on the Dunn kid. Joel acquired that gun for her in a trade a few nights ago.
Lyle Bronson spoke. “Well, look who’s brave all of a sudden, and not running like a disoriented chicken across a field. What do you think you are gonna do with that popgun, gingerbread man?”
Both the youth’s weapons moved and came to bear on Red.
“Don’t!” Joel yelled even more forcefully than Red had, his shotgun barrel leveled at them both in two seconds. Red remained still and focused, his aim never moving from the Dunn kid. It seemed those two did not like each other.
Old man Dunn swore, spit again, and leveled his shotgun at Joel. The five of them now resembled a typical scene from a Quentin Tarantino movie. Joel hoped it wouldn’t end the same.
“Don’t underestimate Red’s weapon,” Joel continued in a calmer tone, which required considerable effort. “It’s loaded with Stinger LR rounds. Think of it like a .25-06 rifle aimed at your head, only with more power and much more rapid firing. But if you beat him, I guarantee it will be the last thing you ever do, come what may to me.”
The Dunn kid glanced nervously at Joel and his Dad before resuming the standoff with Red.
Rob Danson chose this moment to get involved. He came around everyone and stepped even with the table, between the opposing groups, to speak.
“I don’t want this!” he said. “Not on my account, and not on Ricky’s. He wouldn’t want this either!”
Joel confirmed via a quick glance that Rob’s weapon was still shouldered before replying.
“Well whose side are you on, Danson?”
“Not yours, McConnell!” After a few seconds he added, “Not theirs, either. I’ll personally shoot the first one of you who fires, whoever the hell it is, unless he is shot before I can get him—in which case I’ll shoot whoever fires the last shot and is still standing. You all know I’m in a sour mood, so don’t try me.”
Joel set his eyes on old man Dunn and slowly put his shotgun back on the ground. Dunn kept his pointed at Joel.
“Enjoying the moment, Dunn?” Joel said.
Dunn spit again, shouldered his weapon, and said, “All right, enough.”
His son reluctantly obeyed and swung his rifle back across his torso.
Red’s aim moved to Lyle, whose scowl was now carved in stone. The revolver he continued holding on Red was something of a heavier caliber to be sure, but it would depend on who fired first if their standoff did not end peacefully.
“I’m sorry about Ricky,” Joel said in a loud and sincere voice. “I really am. He’s the only one of you I actually like. I created this marketplace in good faith, desiring peace and neighborhood cooperation. If I could go back to this morning and do it over again, I’d keep Ricky from being arrested. Not for any of your sakes, and not because of this crap tonight. For my own reasons.”
Everyone looked at Joel except Lyle and Red, whose weapons remained pointed at each other.
“But I can’t,” Joel continued. “And the fact is, he got caught stealing, right in front of an army patrol vehicle, and then tried to justify himself by spouting off a bunch of entitlement bullshit like how you nocturnals deserve everything you can steal from the diurnals because of your plight, and how we a
re a bunch of insensitive bastards if we aren’t okay with that.”
Joel looked at Rob, who gave no visible reaction. But the expression on old man Dunn’s face did soften some.
“Lyle, lower your weapon,” Joel said. “What would your dad say if he were here?”
“But he’s not here, is he?” Lyle replied. “Have you noticed? He’s always here, but not tonight. What does that tell you?”
“Lower your weapon,” Joel repeated. “Both of you.”
It took another five seconds, but Lyle complied, without changing his expression. Red then lowered the .22, coolly and methodically. He’d had practice pointing pistols at people in his former lifestyle. Joel never imagined that coming in handy for his own benefit.
Before anyone could say another word, a car with a loud motor arrived at the marketplace entrance which commanded everyone’s attention—especially Joel’s. It turned out to be a beautifully restored classic Chevelle.
Two men emerged from it dressed in expensive clothes. They were so out of place they made Joel suspicious.
“Gas tickets,” one of them shouted waving a fistful of purple papers that could only be the dubious vouchers Sammy and Mick pinned so much hope on. “Who needs gasoline tickets? Now good at sixteen stations on the new Black Eagle chain, stretching from the Florida panhandle to the Ozarks.”
The Dunn party acted interested and approached him. It was probably feigned as a way of ending the confrontation without backing down. Joel welcomed it. He and Red packed everything back up in the wheelbarrow. Before the two of them walked off, Joel turned to Rob Danson, still standing at the side of the table.
“Can you use any flaked oats, Rob? No charge.”
He only shook his head.
“All right. Thanks for help here.”
“Didn’t do it for you,” Rob replied turning his back.
Crossing the road, Joel again saw Jessie and Archer standing a short distance away, no doubt waiting for him to leave. The sight of them didn’t bother him as much tonight as it did last night.
