COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2014 by Sally Walker Brinkmann
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidebooks.com
WICKED WOMEN
Morgan County, West Virginia
Molly Finch was watching TV late on Friday night. The 11:00 o’clock news had just begun when she heard the screeching of brakes. A delivery truck had stopped on the side of Route 522 in front of her house. In response to repeated banging on her front door, Molly found herself facing a tired-looking driver.
“You Molly Finch?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she answered hesitantly through the cracked and chained door.
“Finch of Friendship Labs?” He shuffled log sheets.
“What? What the hell are you talking about? This ain’t no lab. You’ve made a mistake,” she snapped, but she patted her platinum blond hair in place. He wasn’t a bad-looking kid.
The driver checked the address again. “No mistake, Ma’am. Look, I’m on a schedule. I’ll just drop your order by the garage door. Please sign here.”
“I ain’t signing nothing.” Molly’s voice took on a shrill edge. “Get outta here.”
“Look, Ma’am.” He backed away. “I don’t know what the problem is. This was a rush order. It cost extra but the order’s paid for. It’s yours, so I’m dumping it and leaving.”
“You ain’t dumping nothing,” Molly shouted as the man hurried toward the truck. Fifteen minutes later, 20 containers of lab rats, squeaking and scrambling in their cages, were stacked on Molly’s gravel driveway.
“Have a good day,” the driver yelled over Molly’s sobs and curses. He jumped into the truck and drove off.
Dumbfounded, Molly watched him drive away. She ran a small beauty shop in her home—not a laboratory. Finally, she got up the nerve to walk down to the pile of cages. She had never seen a rat up close before and now stared open-mouthed at hundreds of them. A sheaf of papers was clipped to the nearest cage. She forced herself to get close enough to grab it. Then she ran back into the house and bolted the door behind her. The statement read: “25 white rats, female. 200 white rats, male.” She skipped through the rest of the bill to the bottom line. “Amount due: $625.00.” Her credit card number was entered on the payment line.
How the hell could this have happened to her, and why? Then she saw the small card clipped to the bottom of the bill. Printed in large letters was this message. “When a friend is a rat, then rats will be her friends.”
Still holding the papers, Molly sank down on the couch and cried, “Shit! That bitch, Juanita. This is all her doing. It’s to do with her old man and me. Oh, shit!” Molly pounded the couch cushions with her small fists and started to bawl. “That sonuvabitch sure wasn’t worth it,” she sobbed.
* * * *
On the ridge road above Molly’s house, an old black Bronco started up and moved slowly away. “Yes!” Dixie yelled. “We done stuck it to that grabby bitch, Molly. That’ll be the last time she messes around with somebody else’s man.”
Amid the laughter and cheering, Juanita poured out paper cups of champagne and passed them to the other women. “Yeah, I’d have loved to see the look on her face. Matter a fact, she’s welcome to that bastard. And, Sylvia, I have you to thank. Your cousin at the lab got the timing perfect. Molly’s gonna be stuck with the shipment until morning.”
“She’s gonna haveta spend the night with the rats—perfect!” Dixie whooped, banging on the side of the car through the open window and yelled, “Sweet dreams, Friendship Lab.”
Sylvia pulled the car off the road. “I propose a toast. To us. To the women.” She drained her cup and cheered.
* * * *
It all began on a rainy summer afternoon. Charlene remembered that she’d had to knock loudly on her neighbor’s front door. Finally the door opened a crack, revealing a large woman wearing jeans and a baggy shirt. Her face was lined and her hair had been dark once, but was now streaked with gray. Her solid build and steady, dark eyes reminded Charlene of the women she had known in her own family. They were a strong, unbending lot that thrived here between the river and the mountain.
“So, you’re the new neighbor. I’m Juanita Sweet. Come in.” The woman’s low, husky voice carried a hint of command. Her dark eyes weighed up Charlene carefully.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to use your phone. My cell battery is dead.” Charlene was exhausted from the move and Juanita Sweet’s scrutiny unnerved her. She was ready to give up the idea of confronting her ex-husband on the phone, even though this was her last hope.
“Sure.” Juanita smiled and led the way back to a small, neat kitchen. “You’re from around here, ain’t you honey?”
“Yes, but I’ve been away for a few years. I’m Jackson and Iva Lu Browns’ daughter.
Juanita nodded. “I know your family—almost married one of your uncles. Too bad about your folks; I was at the funeral.” She reached over and patted Charlene’s arm. “You done the right thing to bring your kids home where you belong. Raising them by yourself in the city wouldn’t have been easy.” She gestured to a mobile phone. “You make that call and I’ll brew us up a fresh pot of coffee.”
While Charlene called Bert’s number down in Richmond, she watched Juanita moving purposefully around the kitchen. The large woman’s presence was comforting. When Bert answered, his reaction to her plea was predictable. By the time she hung up on him, she was furious.
Juanita guided her to a chair and set a cup of coffee in front of her. “Bastard,” she hissed. “You done good to leave him.” They sat in silence for a while.
“I’ve got leads on a couple of jobs,” Charlene finally said. “But I owe the landlord now and I’m flat broke.”
“Don’t worry about no rent. The landlord’s my uncle. He owns this place too.” Juanita smiled reassuringly. “He’ll wait. But that ex-husband of yours needs some grief.”
* * * *
“C’mon over,” Juanita urged over the phone a few days later. “Bring the kids, Charlene. I’m just gonna grill up some ribs for the gang.”
Charlene heard the thump of country music blasting from the neighboring yard and walked over. Juanita’s friend, Dixie, was no surprise—another country girl from Romney, West Virginia. Dixie was sprawled out on one of Juanita’s rickety lounge chairs. Her long, tanned legs were propped up on the corner of the picnic table. “So, Charlene,” she asked, “how does it feel to be back home?”
“Good, but everything’s changed here. Do you feel that way when you go back to Romney?”
“Romney? Left that place after high school and don’t go back at all unless I haveta. Followed a man down here, but I got tired of listening to him so I just walked out.” Dixie paused, staring off at the mountain ridges. “Since then I’ve heard alotta promises from alotta different men.”
The screen door banged and Juanita, laden down with a jug of wine and bags of chips, headed toward them. “Hey Charlene, glad you could make it. Where’s the kids?” she yelled, trying to make herself heard over the thumping country music.
“Left them with Aunt Flo. I needed to get out.”
Juanita nodded “Yeah, well you need a night out after what you just been through with that bastard of a ex-husband. Don’t worry, a pretty girl like you won’t have no trouble finding a man. Here, have a little wine.”
Juanita was pouring the second round of Merlot when a newcomer joined the group. Charlene had watched her park the black Ford Bronco in the driveway and head toward them. Her long, tie-dyed skirt swayed and her bracelets jangled with each sandaled step.
“This here is Sylvia.” Juanita waved her hand in introdu
ction. “She’s come up here to Morgan County a couple of years back to make pots and promote vegetarianism. Poor thing can’t cook worth a shit, so I give her a hot meal from time to time.”
“Hi, hope you like it here.” Sylvia’s smile was open and friendly. She was a tall, slender woman with long auburn hair done in one smooth braid. But behind her smile, Charlene picked up on the tense way Sylvia held her body.
“Nice to meet you. I grew up around here, so there won’t be any big surprises. Are you from D.C. or Baltimore?” Charlene asked.
Sylvia grinned wryly. “I haven’t managed to blend in yet, have I? I’m from the D.C. area. Are you looking around for a job? I’ve gotten to know some of the shopkeepers in town, so maybe I could help.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Charlene said. “I’ve left applications at a couple of places, but I’ve been expecting my Ex to send money for the boys.”
“Ha! Don’t hold your breath,” Dixie chimed in. “Have you tried over at the factory yet? I met Juanita when I was looking for work at the sewing factory.”
“Looking for work!” Juanita stood up and moved toward Dixie. “First time I saw Dixie, she looked like a down and out hooker. Skirt up to here—midriff top up to there.” Juanita made exaggerated hand motions and minced along on imaginary high heels. “I never used no sewing machine before, but what the hell, just hand that sucker here,” she said in a breathy voice.
Dixie jumped up on the picnic table and pantomimed Juanita, swinging her hips and striking poses. “Just lead me to that machine. I can do any job in this here factory.” She looked around at her cheering audience, thrust her hips forward and purred, “I can do you too, Bubba.” She bowed and climbed down amid laughter and clapping. “The old fart still didn’t give me no job.”
“I was there and she ain’t exaggerating all that much,” Juanita said.
“I really didn’t want none of that routine factory shit, so Juanita put me on to cleaning houses. There’s enough money in it for me and I set my own hours. It ain’t so bad.”
Juanita passed a large bowl of chips. “And you ain’t even got around to your dazzling social life yet.”
“Dazzling, shit! Men around here are about as piss poor as they were back in Romney. Mind, I ain’t saying I don’t like men.”
“Well, I hate every one of them,” Sylvia said. “A month ago Lloyd was crazy about me and was going to represent me in the divorce at no charge.” Sylvia jumped to her feet and moved quickly around the table scooping up chips and salsa.
“That don’t sound like the Lloyd I know.” Juanita poured her another glass of wine.
Sylvia took the glass and leaned against the table. “Well, he’s handled the divorce all right, but he’s dumped me. He’s living with a red-headed bimbo and I’m out in the cold.” She sipped her wine, then continued. “Now he’s had the nerve to send a bill. That jerk claims I owe him three thousand dollars. I can’t stand his duplicity.”
“Duplicity? What the hell does that mean, Sylvia?” Dixie asked.
“She’s talking about double-dealing, but that ain’t nothing, honey,” Juanita said. She gestured toward a pile of white sand in the corner of the yard. “You talk about bastards. Well, that pile of sand is the last thing my ol’ man ever gave me—and he got it free when he worked at the sand mine,” she said in a low voice. “He was supposed to build me a cement patio, but about that time he cut out with my best friend, Molly.”
Juanita got up and walked over to the pile of sand. Hands on hips, she kicked at it. “Look at us, girls, we’re sitting in the dirt.”
“We ain’t only sitting in the dirt, we’re sitting in the shit.” Dixie stood up and walked over to the sand pile.
Kneeling down, Juanita ran the grains through her fingers. “You know, it’s just about time we done something about it.”
“Like what?” Sylvia asked. “God knows I’ve thought about retribution.”
Dixie grinned. “I like the idea of retribution. The preacher always harped on retribution. All them Old Testament boys paid the price to the Lord.” Gently, she sifted the sand through her fingers into her empty cup. The two women linked arms and walked back to the picnic table.
“Retribution,” Juanita rolled the word off her tongue. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“Yeah,” Charlene chimed in. “I like the idea of getting even. I want my ex-husband to get his. He hasn’t paid child support in months.”
“Yeah,” Dixie said, “take your ol’ man, Juanita. He definitely needs some straightening out, but let’s start with that bitch, Molly. She was supposed to be a friend.”
“You’re damned right about Molly.” Juanita’s eyes narrowed into slits. “She did my hair every week. I always tipped her, too. Then she turned around and did my man.”
“You can bet he didn’t give her no tip,” Dixie chortled.
Juanita’s expression turned serious. “We can’t forget my son-in-law, Joe. Jan called earlier and said that bastard wouldn’t let her come over here tonight—threatened her.”
Dixie snorted. “Joe thinks beating on women is a contact sport. Sonnuvabitch was probably drunk again. I’d kill him.”
“Why does she put up with him?” Charlene asked. “He ought to be in jail.”
“The last time he beat her, she couldn’t get outta bed for two days. Now she’s afraid for the little boy.” Juanita’s voice became a whisper. “If I ever get the chance, I will kill Joe.”
“Yes,” Sylvia said suddenly. “We need to make a plan. It’s time for retribution!”
“Right,” yelled Charlene. “It’s time!”
Dixie nodded. “This is about evening up the score.”
Juanita didn’t say a word, she only smiled, then she dumped pretzels out of a large plastic jar and replaced them with the sand from her cup. “Retribution,” she shouted. “O.K. girls, everybody get some sand and add it to the jar.” She watched as each woman gathered a little sand from the pile and brought it back to the table.
“Say after me.” Juanita commanded. “We’re getting even, you bastards!”
In turns, the women poured their sand into the jar and chanted, “We’re getting even, you bastards.”
“Now all together,” Juanita called as she swirled the sand in the bottom of the jar.
Four voices rose in unison. “We’re getting even, you bastards!” Then the women cheered and danced wildly to the country music.
A layer of white sand covered the bottom of the jar. And that’s how it all began.
* * * *
A few days later, Juanita was fixing dinner when the sheriff showed up at her door. “Well, if it ain’t Jim Minns. C’mon in. How are you doing?”
“Good. And you, Juanita?” A big man in his forties, Minns settled his bulk in one of the small kitchen chairs.
“Working too damn hard, but I’m O.K.”
The sheriff cast an appraising eye over her. “Well, you look good.”
“Thanks. How about some coffee, Jim?”
The sheriff looked at her steadily. “This ain’t exactly a social call, Juanita.”
Juanita kept her gaze steady as the silence lengthened.
“This here’s the thing,” Jim Minns said uneasily. “There’s been some trouble over at Molly Finch’s place. You know anything about it?”
“About what? I ain’t had nothing to do with that bitch for months.”
Jim Minns looked at her appraisingly again. “It seems that somebody had a bunch of rats delivered to her door. Cost her a pretty penny and she’s vexed.”
“She’s vexed, is she?” Juanita realized that her testy tone could give her away.
“She thinks you might know something about it.”
“Look, Jim, if I’d been planning to even the score with Molly, she wouldn’t have a hair left on her head. You know that.”
A broad grin spread over the sheriff’s face. “I tried to tell her this ain’t your style. But all the same, stay out
of her way.”
* * * *
A week after the roaring success with the rats, the group was gathered around the picnic table at Juanita’s place. Dixie waved a bottle of champagne. “We ain’t drinking jug wine tonight, girls. We deserve champagne. So, how does it feel, Juanita?”
“It feels damn good, but we may have a problem. The sheriff was sniffing around a few days ago. Seems Molly’s been whining to him.”
“Does he suspect anything?” Sylvia asked.
Juanita shook her head. “No, he figures I’d have snatched her bald-headed.”
“That’s what you should have done,” Dixie said. “Bet she’s looking over her shoulder.”
“Well, girls, who’s next on the ‘Shit List’?” Sylvia asked.
Charlene jumped up. “How about my ex-husband? He’s missed sixteen months of child support.”
“Sixteen months, sonnuvabitch. So far we just been having a little fun, but now we haveta get serious.” Dixie had a slow way of speaking—of dragging out her words. She grinned, but it wasn’t a friendly expression. “How much does this deadbeat owe?”
“Over five thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot. What’s he got that’s worth any money?” Sylvia asked.
“He’s got a big gun collection,” Charlene said, “and he just bought a new Harley.”
“A new Harley,” Dixie mused. “What means the most to ol’ Bert? How can we really piss him off? Could we sell the Harley for parts?”
“No,” Juanita said quietly, “you girls got it all wrong. The question is what can we grab the easiest that we can turn over the quickest?”
“The guns,” Sylvia said. “There’s always a market.”
Juanita grabbed the jar of sand and held out her other hand. “Here, take a hold of my hand and form a circle. Now say: ‘There is nothing we can’t do if we will it to be true.’” Repeating the verse, the women followed her lead and chanted as they circled to the right, then to the left.
Juanita raised the jar and swirled the sand slowly. “C’mon, girls, one more time.”
Four strong voices shouted to the sky: “There is nothing we can’t do if we will it to be true!”
Wicked Women and Other Stories Page 1
