by Ronald Kelly
The little girl grinned wickedly. “Yeah. I know.”
“Come on, Paul,” urged Boyd as he turned into the parking lot in front the Frosty Freeze. “A little snack ain’t gonna hurt none.”
Paul stared through the windshield as they stopped out front, scanning the menu that hung above the two order windows. “Could I have a couple of those little hamburgers?” he asked. “The ones that are kind of like Krystals, except they’re greasier?”
“Sure,” said Boyd. “Anything you want.”
Their father left the truck and went up to one of the windows. A few minutes later he returned with their orders. Bessie had a medium-sized hot fudge sundae with chopped nuts and whipped cream. Paul had a couple of Burger Buddies and a peanut butter shake. Boyd went all out and bought himself a triple bacon cheeseburger with extra onions and a basket of home fries. He had been so busy working on Dud Craven’s coffin that day that he had missed lunch.
As they ate, Bessie looked up at her father. “Daddy, did you hear about what happened to poor Jamie Bell?”
Boyd felt a little uncomfortable. “Uh, yeah. Sam Huey over at the hardware store told me.”
“Wasn’t it totally gross?” she asked.
Paul chomped into a Burger Buddy, taking half of it out with one bite. “I heard that every drop of blood was gone from her body. Like something had sucked it right out.”
Bessie coughed, speckling the dashboard with droplets of hot fudge. “Stop it, Paul, or you’re gonna make me hurl!”
A devilish look came into the boy’s eyes. “Well, you see, she had this huge hole in the side of her neck, and—”
Boyd cut him off with a look of warning. “That’s enough, kids. I don’t think this is something to talk about, not while you’re eating.”
As the children went back to their food, Boyd thought of the murder in the woods behind the drive-in concession stand. Although the details of the killing were supposed to be under wraps, Sam had practically known every gruesome tidbit, or else claimed he did. Boyd hadn’t known the Bell girl, except for seeing her in the grocery store from time to time, or at the high school ball games. She had done some babysitting in her spare time, but she had never watched Paul or Bessie. He felt thankful now that she hadn’t. He knew how good-hearted his kids were and how badly they would have taken it if something like that had happened to someone they knew.
Sam had also told Boyd about Wendell Craven turning up missing. Although the minister was Joan’s first cousin, Boyd had never cared much for the guy. He had always been a little too high-and-mighty for Boyd’s taste, and he treated his wife like shit. Boyd thought of the timid little woman with the glasses. If Wendell had run off with some woman, as Sam theorized he had, maybe it was for the best. Then, at least, Tammy Craven would be out from underneath her husband’s shadow and free of his constant criticism.
Boyd put all thoughts of Wendell Craven and Jamie Bell out of his mind, instead turning back to his two children. He wanted to enjoy them for as long as he was with them that afternoon. God knew he didn’t get to spend as much time with Paul and Bessie as he’d have liked. Especially not after his trouble with Joan had come to a head.
As he finished his burger and fries, he cracked jokes and asked his children about school. He asked Paul which sports he would be trying out for next year and listened to the details of Bessie’s upcoming field trip to the Knoxville Zoo. He hung on every word, and at least for a little while, felt like a real father again.
Boyd turned into the driveway on Stantonview Road a little after four-thirty. The sun was already dropping toward the west and the shadows in the Andrews yard were growing long and thick. Boyd and the children had lost track of time catching up on things that had been neglected during the past three months. Before they knew it, two hours had passed.
He parked the truck and glanced over at them. Bessie and Paul looked a little scared. “Uh, could you come in with us, Daddy?” the girl asked, fiddling with the end of a pigtail.
“Sure.” If Joan was going to jump down anyone’s throat, he wanted to make sure it was his.
They gathered up their books and left the truck. Boyd hung back a little as the two passed their mother’s car and went in the back door. The moment the screen slammed shut, Boyd could hear Joan’s voice.
“Where have you been?” she asked sharply. “I’ve been worried half to death!”
“Well, you see, Mama—” Bessie began.
But Joan was in no mood to listen to excuses. “You should’ve been home by three o’clock, as usual. But no, you both come dragging in at four-thirty! What’s the story?”
Boyd sighed deeply. The happiness he’d felt for the last two hours was gone now. His stomach was tied in knots. He supposed it was time to make his appearance and bail his young’uns out before Joan tanned their hides.
He walked up the steps and opened the back door. “No need to fuss at them, Joan,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “It was my fault. They were with me.”
Joan stared at him for a long moment, her face flushed. Then she laughed harshly and shook her head. “I should have known.”
“He didn’t do nothing bad, Mama,” said Bessie. “He just took us to the Frosty Freeze, and—”
Joan suddenly noticed the dark chocolate that coated her daughter’s lips. She looked up at Boyd, her eyes blazing. “Boyd! Damn it, you know I don’t want them eating junk food before suppertime!”
“There ain’t no need to cuss in front of the kids,” he told her. He glanced over at the kitchen table. Blanche sat there with a Woman’s Day magazine in her hands, her tiny eyes sparkling. He thought she looked like a buzzard drooling over the body of a dying cow.
“I can’t believe you’d do something like this, Boyd!” Joan yelled. She thought for a moment, then smiled sarcastically. “No, let me change that. I can believe you’d do something like this. Feeding them ice cream an hour before supper is one thing. Picking them up from school on a whim is another.”
Boyd forced a good-natured smile. “Aw, come on, Joan. It ain’t like I kidnapped them, for God’s sake.”
But Joan’s eyes told him differently. “I don’t mind you spending time with them, Boyd,” she said tensely. “But I would appreciate it if you would call and let me know first.”
Boyd couldn’t believe his ears. “Oh, you mean call and get your permission, is that it? Joan, Bessie and Paul are my children just as much as they’re yours. And I’ll see them any damn time I want to.”
“That’s just like you, Boyd Andrews!” said Joan. “Totally…”
Boyd said it before she could. “Irresponsible? You know, Joan, I’m getting kind of tired of you hanging that same old sign on me. I put up with it before because I felt guilty about what I’d done. But you just don’t seem to want to give me a break. You just lay it on thicker and thicker every time I come over.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t come over anymore,” said Blanche from the table.
“And maybe you oughta keep your confounded trap shut, old woman!” growled Boyd, his eyes livid.
Tears welled in Bessie’s eyes. “Stop it! Please, stop fighting!”
“Come on, squirt,” said Paul. He looked on the verge of tears himself. “Let’s go into the living room.”
“Yeah, you young’uns go on in the other room,” said their grandmother sweetly. “This ain’t fitting for you to hear.”
Boyd gave Blanche a poisonous look, then turned back to Joan. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so mad. “Come on, Joan,” he said. “Why don’t you step down off that high horse of yours and give me a little slack?”
“I’ve given you too much slack already, Boyd,” she said flatly. “If I’d put my foot down, maybe you wouldn’t have come home drunk that night and you’d still be here, instead of living in that trashy trailer.”
“Well, it did happen, Joan, and as I’ve told you before, I’m sorry it did.” He took a step toward his wife, his eyes softening. “Come on, honey.
This ain’t no good for either of us. And it sure ain’t good for the kids. Why don’t we just sit down and—”
Before Boyd could finish, Blanche cut in, fanning the flames, trying her best to keep them going. “What I’m wondering is why Boyd was there to pick up the kids in the first place,” she said slyly. “I mean, shouldn’t he have been up in Kentucky, working that construction job?”
The misery in Joan’s eyes suddenly flared back into anger. “Yeah, what about that, Boyd?” she asked bluntly.
He knew he couldn’t lie. If he did, they’d only find out the truth, and matters would be worse than they were right now. “I lost the job in Kentucky, Joan,” he said. “I came in late a couple of times and the boss canned me. Said he’d rather have a local boy in my place.”
Joan looked shocked. “I can’t believe this! Boyd, you know we still depend on you to pay the house note and utilities. What’re we going to do now? I’m making good money at the bank, but that barely covers my car payment and credit cards.”
“I’m sorry, Joan,” apologized Boyd. “But there wasn’t anything I could do about it.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Blanche. “Are you sure you weren’t fired because you showed up to work all liquored up?”
“Was that it, Boyd?” Joan demanded to know. “Was it because of your drinking?”
“Hell, no!” said Boyd. He wanted to tell her that he hadn’t taken a drink in three months, but he could no longer make that claim. His trip to Eagle Point had robbed him of that defense.
Joan glared at her estranged husband as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him. “You know, Boyd, maybe Mama’s been right all along.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, maybe it’s time I put a stop to this crap once and for all,” she said. “Maybe it’s time I started thinking about what’s best for the kids. And for me, too.”
Boyd sensed what was coming. “Come on, Joan. Please don’t—”
Then she said the word. It rang with as much force and finality as Boyd had dreaded it would.
“Divorce,” she said. “Maybe that’s what we should be discussing, instead of clawing and fighting with each other.”
They heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see Bessie standing in the dining room doorway. “Mama, no!” she screamed, tears rolling down her freckled cheeks.
Paul stood silently behind his sister, his face as pale as flour.
A look of regret came into Joan’s eyes. “You two go on up to your room,” she told them.
“Not until you say you’re kidding,” said Paul, trembling.
Their mother could no longer look them in the face. She turned back to the stove and stirred the pot of vegetable soup she had put on for supper.
Bessie howled mournfully and was led off by her big brother. Boyd didn’t think he had ever heard his daughter cry so hard, even when she was getting a spanking.
Blanche closed her magazine and tented her fingers, trying to appear wise. “I believe Joan should get custody of the children,” she said. “After all, she’ll get the house, and she does have a steady job.”
This time, Boyd couldn’t restrain himself. He walked over and slammed a work-hardened fist onto the table with enough force to rattle the salt and pepper shakers, as well as startle the old woman, if only for a second. “You just shut the hell up, bitch!” he snarled. “You’ve done your best to sour things between me and Joan, and it’s about time you stopped!”
The frightened look in Blanche’s eyes turned to cold contempt. “You don’t scare me one bit, Boyd Andrews! You raise a hand to me and I’ll have Stan Watts lock you up so fast it’ll make your eyes cross!”
For a moment, Boyd stood on the brink of losing it. He would have liked nothing better than to walk to the far end of the table and beat the tar out of the meddlesome old bat. But fortunately, he reined in his temper before he did something he would regret. “Aw, to hell with this!” he said, walking toward the back door.
Joan’s voice stopped him before he got there. “Boyd, we’re going to have to talk about this sooner or later. And you know it.”
“I’m not talking to you about a divorce, Joan,” he said flatly.
Joan turned from the stove. Her eyes were full of angry tears. “Then you’ll be talking to my lawyer about it. I’m not joking, Boyd. I’ve made up my mind and I’m not going to back down.”
Boyd felt his heart sink. He could tell by the look in her face that she wasn’t lying. “You’ve got my number,” he told her. “If he calls, I’ll be there.”
“Oh, he’ll call, all right,” said Blanche. She could no longer conceal the glee in her voice and no longer cared, either.
Boyd glared at his mother-in-law, then looked toward Joan. His wife was stirring the soup pot, bawling like a baby. Boyd saw the pain in her face and knew, somehow, that he was the one who had put it there. Unable to stand there any longer, he left the house he had built himself, slamming the screen door behind him.
Chapter Eighteen
The soft glow of neon bathed Wendell Craven as he stood near a window of the Cheating Heart, just out of sight. His face was grim and purposeful as he appraised the sinners who congregated inside. The honky-tonk had a low turnout that Monday night; its peak nights were Fridays and Saturdays. As far as he could see, there were only seven people in the barroom. One was the bartender, a burly man named Vernon Smith, who stood behind the bar, smoking a cigar and polishing the chrome of the spigots. Four men just as menacing as Vernon sat around a barroom table, drinking Wild Turkey and playing poker. The last two were a man and woman who slow-danced next to the jukebox. They looked right trashy in Wendell’s eyes, French kissing and rubbing up against one another like they were making love with their clothes on.
Wendell stared through the window, vaguely aware that he cast no reflection on the glass. He studied the ones inside and listened to the sinful beat of the country music that blared from the jukebox. Many a time Wendell had driven by the Cheating Heart and parked in its lot, wishing he could walk in and enlighten the heathen as to their evil indulgences. Drinking, gambling, cussing, lying, fornicating: the beer joint was a haven for those who sinned on a regular basis.
But Wendell had never found the nerve to walk through the front door. He had never mustered the courage. He had been scared of what might be said or done to him. He was scared no more.
Wendell thought of what had taken place since the night before. After he had listened to Grandpappy Craven’s blasphemous proposal and left him behind, Wendell had roamed the countryside for a while. He had considered what he had become and grudgingly accepted the fact. He mourned the thought of having to do his work in the dark of night; preaching the gospel on a bright Sunday morning had been one of his great loves, one of his strengths. But he knew he had other strengths now, strengths far beyond those he’d once possessed. Before, he’d had only his voice and his faith with which to convert the sinful and do God’s will. Now he’d been blessed with much more: immortality and an incredible strength, as well as powers he would have once considered demonic and evil. But as he had practiced those newfound powers, clumsily at first, he began to realize that they were there to be used as he saw fit. They were not the master of him, but powers to be mastered. And he intended to use them to full advantage.
The young minister remembered when he had returned to his church later that same night. He had stood in the darkness of the pine grove and watched as Chief Watts and Officer Mathers had combed the parking lot and the church, investigating his strange disappearance. He had seen Tammy standing there, too, with tears in her eyes and that worrisome look on her face. Poor, pathetic Tammy. Part of him had wanted to embrace her, while another had yearned to strangle the very life from her. He despised her weakness, even more now than before. How could someone like him, so full of confidence and strength, have been attracted to such a passive, spineless woman?
Wendell had almost left the cover of darkness and approached t
hem. He had felt the urge to tell them of the miracle he had experienced, as well as the truth of life after death. But he had fought the impulse, and rightly so. He recalled what Grandpappy had told him about how his own wife had betrayed him and confined him to a tortured limbo for nearly a hundred years. Wendell knew that the policemen would not understand. They would fear him, perhaps enough to want to destroy him. And Tammy would be the same. She was accustomed to reading books about vampires and the undead. She would recognize him for what he had become with no trouble at all. But would she take it upon herself to do anything about it? He thought not. She was much too cowardly to do anything that required the least amount of bravery or willpower. At least in that regard he felt safe.
But he hadn’t felt safe enough to reveal himself; not yet. He had remained in the dark for a very long time, watching Watts’s pathetic attempts at investigation with amusement. Then, when the chief had started toward the pine grove, Wendell had sensed it was time to leave. He was drawn to the place of his death, for some reason he couldn’t comprehend at first. He gathered up two handfuls of earth and pine needles and deposited them into his pants pockets. Then he had concentrated, blocking out the sound of approaching footsteps. He felt a great coldness seize him and a strange mist engulf him. Wendell molded a form in his mind and, in turn, molded himself into that form. By the time Stan Watts entered the pine grove, Wendell was already winging his way above the treetops in the form of a black dove. He would have preferred a white one, one of purity. But strangely enough, every metamorphosis he had attempted had taken on the same ugly black hue. No amount of effort on his part had been able to change that.
Wendell had flown the night sky, having never felt so free and strong in his entire life. Then the first soft glow of sunrise lightened the darkness and that freedom was gone. A deep dread gripped him and he knew he had to find shelter for the day. Wendell had spotted a house in a residential section of town—one he knew was deserted and up for sale—and had landed in the backyard. Changing himself into a snake, he had entered the basement through a crevice in the foundation. Once inside, he had regained the form of a man and taken refuge in a dark closet, covering the floor with a liberal coating of the earth and pine needles he had brought with him. Why he did those things, he had no idea. He only knew that such rituals were necessary for his survival.
