Bitter Sun

by Beth Lewis

  Samuels made Jenny and me get up. Made us stand there and wouldn’t talk to us. Would barely glance our way. Most of the deputies looked away. A few of Larson’s lookie-loos up at the top of the valley were fixated. In front of the police tape, far upstream, Rudy and Gloria stood with a skinny cop taking notes. They weren’t looking at us. Maybe didn’t see what the cops saw. Maybe saw everything. Jenny and me got one last look at Mora before they laid a tarp on her.

  That’s when the rumours began, starting almost before they took us down to the station. Murmurings of ‘freaks’ and ‘perv kids’ floated through the valley. The radios crackled and came alive, descriptions of the scene were repeated, again and again. Responses came: you shitting me, Miller? Say what? There were kids with the body? Jesus Christ, the missus’ll never believe that. And so it went. Through the fuzzy connection, the news of what the sheriff’s men found by the lake spread to all of Larson.

  4

  They put Jenny and me in the back of Deputy Miller’s patrol car. An old Plymouth with rust blooming at every join and a cage between us and the front seats. Three bolts were missing from the left side and I reckoned I could kick out the rest, get into the front, get us free and clear if I needed to. The radio crackled. A shotgun stood upright, locked to the dash. Ripped seats spewed out dusty yellow foam. A bare spring pressed into my back. Make sure you got a plan, John Royal, my momma once told me, if you’re ever snatched by the pigs. Make sure you’ve got your story right in your head and, if you don’t have a story, make sure you tell your lie before the other guy tells his.

  I held Jenny’s hand. We had no need for a lie but adults sometimes see a different truth in what kids tell them.

  It was barely past eight but the sun was spinning up its wheels, getting ready for another record high. Miller had left the windows open front and back but there wasn’t a breeze. The air inside the car was thicker than outside, full of dust and old cigarette smoke, so dense the fresh air couldn’t get in. Criminals aren’t fit to breathe clean.

  Jenny squeezed my hand. ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘We haven’t done anything wrong.’ I turned to her, smiled. ‘They just want to ask us some questions because we found her. That’s all.’

  The heat rose with the sun, ticked up a degree or two every minute, multiplied by ten for sitting in a metal box. The sweat popped from my skin. My shirt, my legs below my shorts, the backs of my arms, stuck to the seat. We’d been in the car half an hour. Another half and we’d be fork-tender. They’d be able to pull us apart with a spoon.

  I hung my head out the window, breathed out the dust and in the scent of the elders. Thought about all the chores I had to do on the farm. Weed the west field, tend the corn, check the fences near Morton’s boundary, and a dozen others. In the trees, a wren or maybe a warbler sang, undisturbed by the scene on the ground. Birds don’t care. We’re big, slow lumps to them, always looking up while they’re looking down.

  ‘John,’ Jenny tugged on my shirt, pulled me back inside the oven and nodded out of her window.

  Emerging from the track down to the Roost, we saw them. The skinny deputy with Rudy and Gloria. The cop had hold of Rudy, tight by the arm, like he was chief suspect and they’d caught their man. Gloria walked freely alongside. Rudy had a black scowl on his face, red-eyed and resigned to the treatment. He’s a Buchanan, I imagined the sheriffs saying, course he’s got something to do with this mess.

  ‘Hey,’ I shouted, climbing over Jenny to get to the window. ‘Hey, you guys. What’s going on?’

  Gloria jogged over, got halfway before the deputy barked at her but she kept running. ‘They want to take our statements. That’s all.’

  She came right up to the window as the skinny deputy put Rudy into another car. He called her again but she paid no attention.

  ‘I thought we were going to wait,’ I whispered, ‘we were going to tell them together.’

  Gloria looked down, wincing apologetic. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I got home, changed and went out with Daddy but Mandy had my laundry. She asked why my dress was so muddy and why it smelt so strange. She kept asking and asking and it just all came out.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Jenny said and reached out, took Gloria’s hand.

  Gloria took the comfort for a moment then frowned. ‘They’ve made a real mess down there.’

  ‘Miss Wakefield,’ the skinny cop shouted from the other car.

  ‘See you at the station,’ Gloria said, then ran over to the skinny cop who opened the car door for her. She got in the back seat with Rudy.

  Rudy waved, held up his hands and shouted, ‘They didn’t cuff me this time!’

  The skinny cop banged on the roof to shut him up, then got in, cranked up the engine. The tyres chewed the ground as they tried to get a grip, chunks of dirt flew up behind. A flock of birds exploded from the nearest tree. Skinny cop punched the gas and the car popped out of its dustbowl, skidded over the grass. He swerved, wild to the left then the right before getting control, then snailed the car onto Briggs’ farm track. They disappeared into a dust cloud and left Jenny and me staring after.

  It was another half hour of swelter before Samuels and Miller trudged up the valley. Samuels with his light blue shirt turned dark from sweat, red-faced like a cartoon pig, said something to his deputy. Took out a handkerchief, wiped his forehead, his cheeks, under his chin, back of his neck, then started again from the top. Miller, loose roll-your-own hanging out his mouth, dropping flakes of tobacco and ash, hitched up his belt and spoke around the joe, puffing out smoke and losing more strands.

  Samuels’ round little eyes met mine. I felt headsick from the smell of the car. Headsick from the smell of death and dirt on my skin. Headsick from the mutterings of ‘freak’ and ‘perv’. From the grim, disgusted looks. And from Jenny. From that strange, serene expression she wore last night when she lay down beside the body.

  Gloria and Rudy would be at the station by now. Answering questions. The skinny cop would be telling everyone what they found. The rumours of weird kids sleeping next to a body would spread through Larson like locusts through corn. Come on, sheriff, waddle that gut over here and take us to the station, get this over with. But Samuels kept staring. Kept wiping.

  Samuels nodded along to something Miller said, chins appearing and disappearing with every bob of his head. Rolls of flesh. A shiny, pink ocean of it, wave after wave, nod after nod.

  ‘What’s taking so long?’ Jenny threw herself against the back seat and pulled her knees up, tucked into her chest. The red scratch livid on her shin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But they’re going to ask us a lot of questions.’

  ‘So? We didn’t do anything wrong.’

  I shifted on the leather seat, arms and legs sticking. ‘They won’t see it that way.’

  ‘They’re idiots.’

  ‘They are. But we need to agree what to tell them.’

  ‘What’s to tell?’ Jenny’s arms tightened around her knees. She did that when she was embarrassed, held herself close like she would split apart if confronted. Momma used to do it too, before Pa left, before the Old Milwaukees and the whiskey, but Momma didn’t get embarrassed any more. No sense in shame, John Royal, she said, shame comes from other people and who gives two sweet fucks about other people?

  Jenny elbowed my side. ‘Johnny?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  A few more deputies appeared at the top of the valley, crowding behind Samuels. One, his uniform soaked through with sweat, held a handkerchief over his mouth like he was going to hurl. Samuels turned to him, patted him on the shoulder, and the cop turned and retched into the dry grass.

  Jenny nudged me again. ‘What do we tell them?’

  ‘We tell them the truth but we don’t say anything about you and Momma arguing. That’s family business. We say we were worried about foxes or dogs getting to the poor woman before the police could come so we went down there to keep watch. We fell asleep. That’s it.’

  ‘That’s not t
he truth, Johnny.’

  Outside, Samuels’ voice boomed. ‘Wrap it up, boys.’

  He slapped Miller on the back and lumbered toward us.

  ‘It’s close enough,’ I whispered. ‘You remember it?’

  Jenny nodded, arms tightened up around her shoulders.

  Samuels and Miller both got in the car, the axles groaning under their new weight. The sheriff inched the Plymouth out of the field. As soon as we got onto the track, he put his foot down. Fresh air flooded the car, prickled my skin, blew away the stink of cigarettes and leather. It would take about twenty minutes to get to the station. Jenny held my hand as I hung my head out the window.

  The wind and sun pulled at my eyes, stung tears from them. I let them blur, enjoyed the haze. The world had become too real. Too stark and bright white, all sharp edges and hard stares, and I didn’t know what would be waiting when we arrived at the station. For a few more minutes, at least, it was just a car ride.

  I heard a rumble of a big engine on the road behind and turned against the wind, hair flicking in my eyes. I blinked the tears away but the haze didn’t lift. The heat transformed the asphalt to water, shimmering, wavering like a mirage, made the car almost invisible. The car, a light blue or grey, kept its distance, too far away to see its details, but close enough to hear the engine, feel the thunder of it in my chest. I could tell a car’s badge from a glance but nothing much else. I knew it was a Ford but didn’t recognise it from around town or school pick up. This was a back road, a shortcut into Larson locals used. Outsiders didn’t know it. My chest vibrated with the roar of the engine, like I stood too close to a booming speaker. The shimmer grew. The grey paint job, so pale, like no colour I’d seen, didn’t reflect the light, seemed to absorb it. Seemed to pull the colour out of the world, suck it up and devour it.

  ‘Johnny?’ Jenny’s voice.

  The grey car swerved, took a right and disappeared.

  ‘John! My hand.’

  I turned to my sister. I’d been clutching her fingers, my knuckles white.

  5

  Samuels parked at the back of the station and led us through the cops’ entrance. Thoughts of the grey car faded and all but disappeared with one step through the door. Just someone lost on a back road, nothing strange, the heat playing tricks. Get your head on straight, John, this is about Mora.

  A blast of frigid AC hit me, hardened my skin, turned my outsides into a shell. Too hot to too cold, one hell to the other. Samuels took us through a mess of desks used by the deputies and junior officers. One wall was glass and looked out onto a corridor spotted with doors. Some marked IR 1, IR 2, some unmarked. Interrogation rooms. Observation rooms. Cuffs. Locks. Would there be a spy mirror like in the movies? Once they get you in, you don’t get out.

  Samuels walked us into reception. Brown carpets dotted with orange triangles made my stomach churn. The receptionist, Mrs Drake, watched us. Everyone knew Mrs Drake. The witch woman, one in every town. Old, thin, with a loose grey bun on top of her head, arcs of escaped hair framing her face like claws. A mole on her jawline sprouted white whiskers. Her eyebrows arched.

  She touched a crucifix around her neck. The deputies at the Roost had radioed all about what they found the Royal kids doing. Freaks. Was she looking for signs? Horns erupting out our foreheads? Forked tongues? Would everyone in Larson look at me and Jenny like that from now on?

  The churn in my gut turned to a tide, swelling and burning up my throat. I imagined it fizzing through my flesh, turning me to mush on the inside. What was Samuels going to say? Would he take Jenny away into one of those rooms? She’d be scared. My sister would be scared and I wouldn’t be able to help her.

  ‘Sit,’ Samuels grunted, pointed to a row of chairs by the front wall. I hadn’t noticed them, nor who was sat on the far end, head down, under the leaves of an overgrown pot palm.

  ‘Rudy!’ Jenny dashed over.

  He looked up as Jenny sat next to him. ‘What took you guys so long?’

  I nodded at Samuels who leant against the reception desk.

  ‘He drive as slow as he runs?’ Rudy asked.

  ‘You betcha,’ I said, took a chair beside my sister. ‘Where’s Gloria?’

  Rudy slouched so far in the chair he was almost lying down. ‘She’s in there.’

  He pointed to a glass-walled office. Through the blinds, I could just make out Gloria and, beside her, filling the room, her father. Her knees bounced, her head bowed and staring, look of shame on her face like she’d disappointed her father, rather than angered him. Mr Wakefield was nice, a lawyer who worked all the time but he took Gloria on trips, bought her pretty dresses, played Frisbee and tennis in their back garden, knew how to laugh. Not like her mother. Gloria might as well not have a mother for all the attention she paid her. She’s more like a distant aunt, Gloria said once.

  ‘What’s going on? Have they spoken to you yet?’ Jenny asked. I kept my eyes on Gloria, hoping she’d look this way. See us. Know she wasn’t alone.

  ‘Nah,’ Rudy said. ‘Been waiting for Poppin’ Fresh over there to get back.’

  Samuels glanced over like he heard us, said something to the receptionist, still clutching her necklace, but didn’t take his eyes off us.

  ‘What are they talking about?’ Jenny whispered.

  ‘He’s telling the Drake to get your mom down here.’

  ‘What about you?’ I asked.

  Rudy gave a tight smile. ‘My old man is on his way. The Drake said he sounded worried on the phone and would rush right down but you know that’s crap. Hell, I’m just enjoying my last few moments of living before he gets here.’

  I shuddered at the thought of seeing Rudy’s dad. The notorious Bung-Eye Buchanan. I crossed my fingers Jenny and me would be gone before he arrived.

  I glanced at Gloria but could see only Mr Wakefield. Grim look on him. Arms folded over his chest. Black moustache set in a straight line. White shirt, beige suit-jacket on the chair behind him. Called out of work, even this early on a Saturday. No wonder Gloria looked so upset.

  Samuels, still at the reception desk, took out a handkerchief, swept it over his face and the back of his neck. It came away limp. I could see why people called him a joke. Bad genes made him too pale for a place like this. Waxy white skin and blotchy red cheeks, he couldn’t run a hundred yards without wheezing. He was mashed potatoes. He was rice pudding. All starch and sugar stuffed into a straining blue uniform.

  ‘Stay put,’ the sheriff said as he strolled past, small black eyes tagging us, one by one.

  As he opened the door to the office, Mr Wakefield surged upward and his voice, like a warning siren, too loud, shrill edge to it, filled the room.

  ‘About goddamn time, Len.’

  Mr Wakefield’s eyes locked on us, narrowed at Rudy. He paused, just a second, then, as calm as he was angry a moment before, said, ‘I’m sure you have good reason to call me in here on a Saturday. How can my Gloria help?’

  Samuels closed the door and the sounds muffled. Gloria sat rigid the whole time and me, Jenny and Rudy had no idea what to say to each other. My attention flitted from Gloria, her now smiling father, to the Drake, dialling, tutting, then resetting the telephone.

  She tried a few more numbers. Momma was known to go to Gum’s and spend the night there when she was too sauced to drive. The Drake asked for our home number and I called it out to her. I gripped my hands together in my lap, prayed there’d be no answer, prayed Momma wouldn’t be woken by the phone and storm down here, still sodden, and take it out on Jenny the moment we were alone.

  After the third try, the Drake crowed, ‘Where’s your mother? She int home or drinkin’.’

  She was home, I knew, just sleeping it off. Wake the dead more likely than waking Momma on a Saturday morning.

  ‘Why don’t you try the church?’ Jenny said. ‘Don’t the Gardening Society meet on a Saturday morning?’

  I flinched at the cruelty in Jenny’s voice. Momma didn’t set foot in church, and the Garden
ing Society? Mrs Ponderosa and Momma hated each other, old classmates, beauty queen rivals. A stolen boyfriend here and there and the whole town knew it. Those women say Patty Royal is about as likely to rise early on a Saturday to talk God and rose bushes as a snake growing legs.

  The Drake stared for a moment then picked up the receiver and dialled.

  Jenny smirked. Rudy nudged her. They sniggered.

  ‘Stop it,’ I said and Jenny looked stung. I almost told Mrs Drake to ignore her, Momma would be sleeping is all and wouldn’t hear the ringing, but the call connected before I could.

  ‘Yes, hello, pastor,’ she said, and turned away, cradled the phone, spoke quietly so we couldn’t hear.

  A few minutes later, the Drake put the phone down and the reception went quiet. No more dialling. No more clipped, disdainful remarks. Just muffled voices from the office. Samuels and Wakefield. Not a peep from Gloria.

  I rested my head on the wall. Watched the clock. Jenny and Rudy chatted about something, school maybe or plans for after. Getting out of Larson, how, when, where to? Pretty much all Rudy and Jenny talked about when they were together. I’d heard it all before. LA. Movie star. A million bucks and a beach house. Won’t it be great, Johnny, you can all come on vacation and we’ll go swimming in the ocean. Fat chance, bucko, I thought, I’ve got all the swimming I need here in Big Lake and Barks reservoir, who wants the stinking, salty ocean when you’ve got good, rich Mississippi run-off? Good enough for my fields, good enough for me. Can’t grow corn in salt, after all.

  The office door opened. The muffle cleared.

  ‘Thanks for coming down,’ Samuels said, one hand on the door, one held out to Gloria’s father.

  Mr Wakefield shook it. ‘Anytime, Len, anytime. Glad to hear nothing more will come of this. Gloria is a good girl, despite her choice of friends.’

  Gloria scowled at her father but he didn’t notice. I smiled at her tiny defiance, that’s our Gloria. Then my smile faded. What had she told them? Was she in trouble? Was it our turn now?