“What happened to your eye?” Juanita asked.
Molly put her hand up to the red, puffy area around her eye. “Well, a couple of hours ago I got socked in the face by a scrawny little rooster. Not your man, Juanita. He walked out after the rats was dumped.”
“Sounds like him,” Juanita said.
“This here’s the thing.” Molly looked nervous. “I know I ain’t got no right to ask, but y’all got something powerful going on. You take care of business and I want in.”
“Well, you’re crazy,” Dixie snorted.
“Hold on, It took some guts to come here tonight,” Juanita said. “She’s got my vote.”
“Mine, too,” Charlene weighed in.
“Yeah, why not?” Sylvia said.
“Yeah, I guess.” Dixie didn’t look convinced.
Molly started to cry. “I swear you won’t regret it.”
“Here.” Juanita handed her a cup. “Stop bawling and fill the cup with sand from that pile. Don’t spill a drop!”
The others walked behind Molly and filled their cups with sand.
“Now,” Juanita commanded. “Follow us. Repeat what we say and mean it.”
Molly watched as the women poured sand into the large jar, then she followed suit. Juanita lifted up the jar as the others held hands and circled her.
“We’re getting even, you bastards!” the women yelled as they moved to the right, then to the left.
“C’mon, girls.” Dixie waved the champagne bottle. “We got more bubbly.”
* * * *
When Charlene saw Skeeter standing on the porch, she went over and stood beside him. “My God,” he said. “Them women have turned into a scary bunch.”
“Then why did you help us?” she asked.
“Why? Because of family, because Joe deserved it, and because of you, Charlene. I couldn’t see you risk jail time.”
“You’re late.” Charlene took his hand. “I’ve been worried about you, too.”
“Had a little run-in with the sheriff on the way home. Has he been here yet?”
“No, but we heard the radio news report. Is there trouble?”
Charlene and Skeeter turned and watched as the sheriff walked around the side of the house and headed toward the picnic table.
“Evening, ladies. Drinking champagne, I see.” He looked around at the women.
“Evening, Jim. Care to join us?” Juanita asked.
“Why not.” He sat down, taking up one end of the bench. I’m surprised to see you here, Molly. What happened to you?”
“Oh, I had a misunderstanding with a little jerk, Sheriff, but it’ll be taken care of now.” She picked up the jar, now half full of sand, and tilted it back and forth. The fine white sand flowed like water. “Juanita and I are tight again. I figure I been a damn fool complaining ’bout my best friend in the world.”
The sheriff also watched the swirling sand. “Juanita, I’m sorry to hear about your girl. You know how I feel about that kinda thing.” He looked her in the eye. “Guess you heard that Joe disappeared?”
“We heard a news report on the radio.”
“I see,” Jim Minns said. “Mind if I ask where you ladies were tonight?”
“I was at the Firemen’s Carnival with my grandson and Charlene’s boys.” Juanita said.
“And where were the rest of you ladies?”
“Charlene, Sylvia and I visited my granny up in Romney.” Dixie smiled winningly.
“I’m sure if I ask Granny, she’ll vouch for you.” Jim Minns picked up the jar of sand and turned in thoughtfully in his hands. “Strange. This is the third time I’ve visited you ladies recently.”
“We love to see you, Sheriff,” Dixie said.
“If I was a gambling man, I’d say those are good odds that something’s going on here.” Jim Minns set the jar down and looked hard at the women. “Joe may have been a sonnuvabitch, but now he’s missing, and that’s serious.”
Juanita stared back at the sheriff. “I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone. Maybe he just took off rather than face his day in court.”
“Juanita, I know you hated him, and I know you had reason. But, I’ll have to keep investigating. Remember, I keep an open door if you need to talk.” The sheriff got up, tapped the sand container one more time and walked toward the driveway. “Goodnight, ladies. I know I don’t have to tell y’ all to be good.”
After the sheriff left, Charlene and Skeeter came down to the picnic table. Charlene looked nervous, but Skeeter grinned. “That man don’t have a clue. You women worry too much. Ain’t gonna be that many people even miss Joe McCaffrey.”
“I hope you’re right,” Juanita said. “but we couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks, Skeeter.”
“It was a job that needed doing.” Skeeter grinned and took Charlene’s hand. “I’m gonna help this girl get her kids off your couch and into their beds. ’Night, ladies.”
* * * *
The women pulled up chairs around the fire. “My God, I thought the sheriff would never leave,” Molly said.
“So tell us what’s going on, Molly,” Juanita asked.
“It has to do with a man named Carmichael.”
Dixie looked concerned. “Not that badass, Nate Carmichael?”
“The same,” Molly said. “He sold me bargain beauty equipment that fell apart the next day. I’d paid with a credit card that got hacked. Damn shit wouldn’t answer my calls, so I tracked him down at the County Line Bar tonight.” She dabbed at her puffy eye. “When I raised hell, he socked me and told me to keep my mouth shut or things would get worse.”
“Maybe we should pay the man a little visit,” Dixie said.
“That won’t be so easy. There’s only three of us.” Sylvia looked doubtful.
“Three’s enough to make a plan.” Juanita stood up.
“Three’s enough to break a man.” Dixie also stood.
“Teach him the error of his ways.” Sylvia joined them.
“Reckon up his sinful days,” Juanita said.
“But four can make a plan a fact.” Molly stepped forward.
“If we enter in a pact.” Juanita picked up the heavy jar of sand.
The women held hands and circled around the fire. Juanita raised the jar high, then took a handful of sand and tossed it over the flames. “There is nothing we can’t do, if we will it to be true,” she cried.
One after another, the women threw handfuls of sand into the blaze. Their circle reversed direction and their chants became louder. “There is nothing we can’t do, if we will it to be true!” Juanita lifted the jar high, then scattered the rest of the sand to the four winds.
The women’s chants drifted over the mountain ridges like the smoke from the fire. Their message reached every hollow in the valley and intruded into Joe McCaffrey’s drugged dreams at sea. “There is nothing we can’t do, if we will it to be true!” It was a cry that carried power and carried hope.
EPILOGUE
A few days later, Jan got a phone call from the Florida State Police. The U.S. Coast Guard had found her husband floating off the coast on a piece of driftwood. He had pled innocence regarding the large amount of drugs he’d been carrying. Joe McCaffrey claimed that relatives in West Virginia had kidnapped him and left him in the hands of cutthroats. He had escaped at great risk and should be welcomed as a hero as he had kept drugs out of the hands of thieves and warlords.
However, it was found that West Virginia had issued a bench warrant on McCaffrey for failure to appear at a court hearing. The State of Florida agreed to return him to West Virginia only when he had been tried on the current drug charges and fulfilled any term of punishment meted out by the Florida court. In the meantime, Joe was in jail awaiting trial. Although this news was frightening for Jan, Juanita and the other women told her not to worry. If Joe ever did return, he’d have a new attitude and be bitching in Spanish.
That Saturday night, the women invited Sheriff Minns over for a drink. The moon had ri
sen high above the mountain ridges and the fire had burned low by the time the sheriff was drunk enough to confess his fears.
“You know I love you girls and I’ve been mighty worried about you.” Minns glanced at the empty sand container on the picnic table.
“Jim.” Juanita held up her hand. “Let me set your mind at ease. Now that Nate Carmichael has packed up and left town, we’re done. You can breathe easy.” The others nodded in agreement and Dixie refilled his cup.
“I wondered why Carmichael high-tailed it outta here. I gotta admit he was no loss.” Jim sipped his drink. “For a while I was afraid I’d haveta throw all of you in the slammer.”
Jim, let me do some explaining,” Juanita said.
Jim held up his hand. “I don’t want to know. If you say you’re done, that’s good enough for me. I’m looking forward to taking it easy for awhile, now that all the bad asses are thinking twice before they make a move.”
He raised his cup. “To you—the wicked women of Peachtree Holler.”
NOTHING MORE TO LOSE
Clint McCabe was riding on a freedom high most of the way up I-70. Telling that shithead foreman off was the best damn thing he’d ever done. Now each mile brought him closer to West Virginia. The radio wailed out country music and McCabe kept the beat with the flat of his hand on the dashboard. Outside Frederick, he got his first glimpse of the distant mountains. He lit a cigarette and began to relax.
He had 38 bucks and a half a tank of gas. But what the hell, he was on his way home! South of Berkeley Springs he swung left onto Route 13 and headed toward his grandfather’s place. The closer he got, the more edgy he felt. How would Pap react? It would probably hinge on how much he’d had to drink. “Well shit!” McCabe shouted above the thumping beat of the guitars, “I ain’t never had no damn luck, so why should it change now!”
Gospel music blasted from the radio as he pushed in the screen door and entered Pap’s kitchen. The room was small and cluttered. Pap, his attention centered on the stove, didn’t hear his grandson’s greeting.
“Hey, Pap,” McCabe yelled again, “Whatcha up to?”
Still holding the old wooden spoon he’d been using, the elder McCabe turned toward the door. A small, wiry man, he moved quickly to his grandson. The spoon clattered to the floor as the old man hugged him.
“You trying to scare me half to death, boy?” Joseph finally rasped. “Whatcha doing here on a Wednesday anyway?” Watery blue eyes stared out at McCabe. His grandfather’s bony, worn features were unrelieved by any hint of a smile. “You know I’m happy enough to see you, Clinton, but I got a feeling something’s wrong.”
Smiling uncertainly, Clint McCabe reflected his grandfather’s uneasiness. “Everything’s fine, Pap. I just come home for a little vacation. City got too much for me.”
“Vacation hell!” Joseph bawled over the urgent chanting of the gospel song. “You done quit your job, ain’t you?” He rounded on his grandson. “Oh my God, Clinton, ain’t you ever gonna amount to anything? I know the devil’s got into your soul, boy. You’re gonna burn in the fires, boy!”
By now old Joseph’s ranting was even louder than the gospel music. The younger man stepped backward, away from his grandfather’s fury. He’d known the old man was crazy, especially when he drank, but he hadn’t expected this reception.
Joseph sat down heavily at the table, his meal forgotten on the stove. Weeping, he grasped the half full glass of whiskey at his elbow. “I done railroaded forty years,” he mumbled. “Never missed a day. Give me a gold watch.” He gulped the drink. “Done tried, Clinton. Done tried to raise you up right since your mama died. Prayed for you, boy.”
“Hey, Pap,” McCabe said over his shoulder as he left the room, “I won’t be staying. Just come by to pick up a few things.” He turned away from the look on Joseph’s face. “Sorry, Pap, I just couldn’t stand it down in D.C. Felt like I was caged up. Could you and me talk later?”
“You gonna burn in the fires, boy!” Pap’s voice followed McCabe out of the kitchen.
Old McCabe was still weeping, the whiskey glass empty now, as his grandson quietly let himself out the front door. Dragging his old camping gear to the truck, McCabe wished things had gone better with the old man.
* * * *
A week later, McCabe was sitting by a fire on the shore of the Cacapon River. He looked across at the exhausted tourists huddled in small groups. The evening meal was over and most looked ready to turn in. Listening to the soft chords of the harmonicas, he decided that the Grayson brothers’ version of “Sweet Baby James” wasn’t bad. They were also members of the river guide crew, sent out by the local resort. John and Zeke Grayson had been working summers at the resort for years and had helped McCabe get the job. It had been a lucky break, as jobs were hard to find in Morgan County. He was sure he could count on at least three months of work, depending on the weather.
“I got a full house,” Zeke Grayson drawled as he laid down the worn playing cards. The firelight played on the lean, tanned faces of the river crew as they concentrated on the game.
“Hell, you gonna clean me out, Grayson,” McCabe groaned as he shoved over his pile of cash. He didn’t really care if he lost a few bucks. It was damn relaxing to play a little poker with these guys at the end of the day.
“Hey McCabe,” Grayson called from where he lounged against a pile of gear, “Hear you could hardly run fast enough to git away from that blonde tourist chasing you last week.” John was grinning broadly. His shaggy red hair fell over his eyes, making it hard for McCabe to gauge his intent.
“Yeah, we hear she chased you through camp and all the way up the mountain,” Zeke added. “She was yelling, ‘Oh Clint, Clint, wait for me. I surely haven’t seen all the sights you promised to show me yet!’” Zeke’s voice took on a high-pitched, city accent.
“Oh my goodness, Clint,” John continued in a lilting soprano, “the guide book promised I’d see Wild, Wonderful West Virginia, but you just keep running away!”
The rest of the men were whooping with laughter, stomping their feet, and shouting encouragement. Zeke was up on his tiptoes, twirling around the circle of the fire, lifting imaginary skirts high above his muddy sneakers. “Oh, Mr. McCabe,” he moaned, “You are such an animal!”
Although McCabe turned bright red, he laughed along with the others. He’d been the butt of good-natured ribbing since he’d joined the group. He was the youngest of the crew and his dark good looks and lean, hard physique seemed to attract the ladies. There had been a few he’d thought were knockouts, but he’d been uneasy around them. The women he’d known so far had been direct and uncomplicated. These women were neither. Maybe it was their age, he thought. The women who could afford the ‘Scenic Cacapon Cruise’ were older—in their thirties. Usually they had successful careers and were used to dealing with men in an offhand, yet aggressive manner. They scared the hell out of him.
“Speaking of women,” Zeke said. “Whatever happened to Lisa Marshall? Weren’t you two together for a while?”
“Wish I knew,” McCabe answered slowly. “I’ve called her a couple a times. She’s always busy. Told me I should join the freaking army.” He snorted. “I hear she’s seeing some guy from Martinsburg. He’s divorced, or so he says. You know that ain’t gonna work out.” He hoped his bitterness didn’t show.
* * * *
Later that night, he was about to drift off to sleep when he heard the Grayson brothers talking softly. They must have thought that he was sleeping inside the tent. From the direction of their voices, McCabe figured they were still near the fire.
“McCabe’s O.K., matter of fact I like the guy,” John said, “but he sure as hell better git it together. Army, hell! He wouldn’t last in the military, ain’t the type.”
“Soon as he got his first leave, they’d never see him again.” Zeke agreed. “He’d lose hisself in these hills and that would be the end of him!”
“When they court-marshaled his ass, they’d call him Unfit
for Military Life,” John said.
“He asked me about helping him to git on driving school bus with you and me. But hell, John, soon as hunting season come, he’d take off for a week or two! He just ain’t reliable.”
“Well look at his family, Zeke. His daddy done run off and his Uncle Jason’s still in jail. His cousin, Jake, drifts from job to job. Old Joseph is the best of the bunch, but since he’s got religion, he’s gone crazy—drinks like a fish since the old lady died.”
“Yeah,” Zeke said. Poor bastard ain’t got a chance. He’s a damn good worker though. Hope he hangs on ’til the end of August.”
Well shit! McCabe eased his head back down on the pillow. A man seldom got to know what others really thought of him. He grinned. At least they agreed with him about the freaking army.
* * * *
A week later Jake McCabe’s old Ford pickup rattled up to the evening campsite. He found his cousin setting up the big mess tent with two of the other crew workers.
“Need to see you a minute, Clint,” Jake said.
One look at him told McCabe that something was wrong. Jake’s usual jauntiness was gone. His dark eyes were somber. “It’s the old man, ain’t it?” McCabe asked.
Jake nodded. “Come to git you just in case,” he said. “Pap ain’t good. A neighbor lady found him last night. He’d had a stroke. He asked for you, Clint.”
* * * *
Joseph McCabe died two days later. He has lapsed into a coma by the time his grandsons made it to the hospital. Clint McCabe was amazed at the overwhelming sense of loss he felt. His depression was only increased by the large amounts of booze he drank to get himself through the traditional McCabe family funeral and wake.
The whole county turned out. Old Joseph had known everybody. Uncle Jason was released from Regional Jail for the day of the funeral. No one was glad to see him. His son, Jake, was embarrassed. Jake and his young wife, Jan, smiled nervously at the pale, withdrawn stranger. The rest of the McCabe family ignored Jason entirely. Uncertain, but taking their cue from the family, friends and neighbors passed silently by Jason McCabe.
Wicked Women and Other Stories Page 5
