Sintown Chronicles III: In Dark Corners

by David O. Dyer, Sr.

  "Whoa,” he chuckled. “Why three rooms and what's this about a pecan orchard?"

  She sipped her iced tea, blotted her lips and cut a bite of roast beef. “After my uncle died, I moved back to my parents’ home. I do not need all of those rooms and sure as hell don't want to clean them. I use just the living room, kitchen and one bedroom."

  "Is there a stream nearby?"

  She cocked her head to one side. “As a matter of fact, there is. A small pond also. How did you know?"

  "Lucky guess. I figure you must bathe in the stream. I'd like to watch sometime."

  "Okay, funny man. I use one of the bathrooms also."

  "I assume the pecan orchard was handed down from one generation to the next."

  She shook her head. “It's a long story."

  "It's going to take a while to eat all this food."

  "Promise you'll stop me if you get bored?"

  "Promise,” he said, his mouth stuffed with a huge bite from a yeast roll.

  "Mom and Dad were accountants with different firms. One of Mom's clients was an elderly couple who owned the orchard. Somehow, Mom discovered that the old man was sick and she visited. One thing led to another and they became friends. The old couple could no longer harvest the nuts themselves, so Mom and Dad took over, working weekends and sometimes taking time off from their jobs to work afternoons."

  "Did you help?"

  "Later. I wasn't born during this part of the story. Mom and Dad refused to accept compensation for their efforts. It was just something they wanted to do to help the old folks out. That's how people used to be in the South back in those days."

  "Do you have any idea of how expensive pecans are? That elderly couple could have paid your parents handsomely."

  "Do you want me to tell the story or not?"

  "Sorry."

  "Well, the old man died at the end of the first year. It was just about more than the woman could take. She suffered a stroke shortly thereafter and was bedridden. Mom and Dad sold their little house and moved in with the widow. Mom quit her job so she could look after the old lady."

  "May I ask a question?"

  Dale sighed and waited.

  "Didn't this elderly couple have children of their own or at least family?"

  Dale shook her head. “There was one son who died in an automobile accident when he was a teenager."

  "Ouch."

  Dale nodded.

  "I came along two years later. Poor Dad. He worked his butt off at the office and came home and worked his butt off in the orchard, but they were happy."

  "Your mother no longer helped with the nuts?"

  "When she could, but she was afraid to leave Mrs. Petree alone for any length of time. I was five when Mrs. Petree passed away in Mom's arms. I well remember the funeral."

  "Your parents inherited the orchard?"

  "You guessed it—the orchard and a ton of money. Dad quit his job. They remodeled the house. Dad built me a wonderful tree house in the backyard and they let me help with the pecans. There's a whole lot more involved than just raking up fallen nuts from the ground. They thought we'd all live happily ever after and we did, until ... until that night."

  Dale put down her fork, blotted her lips with a paper napkin, and said, “Thank you, Stan."

  "I didn't mean to dredge up unhappy memories."

  "What you dredged up were almost forgotten happy times. My mother and father were wonderful people. I do them an injustice when I only remember that night of terror."

  She reached for the pie, divided it and placed half on her empty plate. “I'm glad our paths crossed. You're good for me, Stan.” Her eyes twinkled.

  "What?"

  "I just realized that I tried to get you to have sex with me this morning and I don't even know your last name."

  "Steamer."

  She burst out laughing. “You're kidding."

  He reached for his half of the pie. “Nope. I'm Stanley Steamer. My parents had a weird sense of humor."

  "When I was a little girl, I wore my hair in a pony tail. Guess what my friends called me."

  "Pony Ryder."

  They giggled like teenagers through the remainder of the meal.

  After paying their tab, Stan turned, took Dale by the arm and headed for the door, but then he spotted Chris Norway, sitting with a couple he did not know. He steered Dale towards the table and whispered, “I met a woman at the Discount House today you may know. She's the assistant pastor at the local Baptist Church."

  He smiled at the tiny blond. “Good evening, Reverend Norway."

  The petite woman flushed, blotted her lips and said, “Hello, Mr. Steamer. This is my boss, Mack McGee and the world's finest physician, Mary Lou McGee."

  "Please, don't get up,” Stan said as he shook Mack's hand. “I met Reverend Norway earlier today and wanted to introduce my friend, Dale Ryder."

  Chris looked as if her heart stopped beating when she shook Dale's hand. “Your, uh, name sounded familiar when Stan mentioned you earlier but now that I've seen you, I'm certain we've never met."

  "Well, we've met now,” Dale said politely. “It looks like we'll be here through the weekend. We might drop by Sunday morning and listen to your sermon."

  Stan laughed. “Fellow at the Discount House said Reverend McGee won't let her preach."

  Mack sputtered. “Now that's not true."

  Mary Lou playfully rammed her elbow into her husband's side. “It is true, Mack. Chris hasn't preached a single sermon and she's been with us nearly two years now."

  "Uh, hmm, I suppose I need to do something about that.” His face brightened. “Come early for Sunday school. Chris teaches the adult Bible class."

  "She's good, too,” Mary Lou added.

  "Dr. McGee,” Dale said, “I know it's not polite to talk business during your supper time, but, well, is your practice in Dot?"

  "Yes, dear. I run the Dot Clinic located in the Dollar Building. If you're having problems, we're open twenty-four hours a day."

  "Oh, it's not an emergency. Do you suppose I could see you tomorrow?"

  Mary Lou pulled a pen and small notepad from her purse. “Your last name is..."

  "Ryder."

  "Just come to the desk and tell the receptionist I agreed to work you in. Afternoons are usually best."

  "Thanks. I'll drop by tomorrow."

  "You sick?” Stan asked as they strapped on their seat belts.

  "Nothing serious. It's a ... a ... a female thing."

  "Oh,” he said as if he understood.

  The size of the Dollars’ Playground surprised them. Bright lights, milling people and crowded parking lots greeted them. “Would you look at that,” Stan said as he slowed to enter the swimming pool parking area. “They have a lighted golf course."

  "You play golf?"

  He smiled as he wedged the big Ford into a small space. “You think it's silly to chase a little ball around a cow pasture, don't you?"

  "Actually, I think it might be fun, but someone will have to teach me. I don't even know how to hold a golf bat."

  "Club,” he corrected. He reached into the back seat and grabbed his new trunks. “Where's yours?"

  She held up her clutch bag.

  "You have a bathing suit in that thing?"

  Dale grinned and opened the door. “Sometimes I travel light also."

  Stan stripped and put his clothes into the locker provided. Four years in the Navy and I'm still self-conscious about taking my clothes off in front of people, he thought. Some pervert always gawks. “What are you looking at, Creep?” he said to the man beside him.

  "Sorry, man. Believe me, I wasn't coming on to you."

  "So I have a big dick. You seen enough?"

  "Damn, you do have a big stick down there. Sandra would love that thing. Actually, I was admiring your muscles. I'm not as young as you, and I never sported such a physique. What's your secret?"

  Stan ignored the man, stepped into his new trunks and adjusted his testicles in the
built-in jock strap that was a little too small.

  "Look, man, I'm sorry I offended you. It's just that, well, my wife still looks like a teenager—not an ounce of fat on her—and I've been thinking of trying some sort or exercise program. I don't want her to completely lose interest in me, if you know what I mean."

  "Try romance,” Stan offered. “It usually works much better than a hard body."

  "You're probably right,” the man said, extending his hand. “Tim Dollar."

  "My God,” Stan said, grasping Tim's hand. “You're the rich dude who owns the town."

  "My reputation proceeds me but, believe me, I'm not as evil as most people think."

  The two men walked towards the door and, following Tim's lead, Stan grabbed a white towel from a stack beside the exit.

  "See you around,” Tim said. He winked. “I don't think I'm going to introduce you to my wife."

  Stan glanced around the crowded pool but did not see Dale. He sat on a bench, draped the towel around his neck and waited. He glanced at the scantily clad females at poolside, but none compared to his dream vision of Dale Ryder. His head jerked back towards the door to the women's dressing room when he heard a wolf whistle.

  Dale genuflected, facing her male admirer. The narrow strip of cloth tightly wrapped across her breasts allowed him to see her navel through her cleavage. This was not the small chested woman of his dream. Her nipples seemed to be trying to punch holes into the thin blue band and he had to look twice to be sure she was wearing anything at all over her crotch.

  "What do you think?” she cooed as she approached.

  His mouth fell open but he could not speak.

  "Right answer.” She tossed her towel at him. “Come on, Stud. I see a couple of empty chaise lounges."

  He followed obediently, his eyes virtually glued to her grinding buttocks. When they reached the chaise lounges, she smiled seductively. “Regretting the negative decision you made this morning?"

  With the grace of a swan, she dived into the water. He tossed the towels onto the chairs and sat on the edge of the pool, watching her swim lap after lap across the narrow part of the pool. Finally she rested, placing her hands on his knees. Her breasts bobbed with the rippling water.

  "Got your tongue back yet?” she teased.

  He locked his legs around her waist. “Dale, you're ... you're..."

  "I have a great body."

  He nodded vigorously.

  "So do you, Stud. Can you swim?"

  Again, he nodded.

  "Show me."

  He slipped into the water, pushed off with his feet and swam one lap.

  "You're good,” she laughed as he wiped water from his eyes.

  "Not as good as you."

  "Can you do the backstroke?"

  "It's been a while, but, yeah, I can do it."

  "You asked me earlier about my interests. At Wake Forest, I joined a synchronized swimming team. Some of the girls dreamed of going to the Olympics, but I just participated because it was fun. Want to try it?"

  "You'll have to teach me."

  "It's more difficult than you may think. Assume the position.” She faced the side of the pool and grabbed the edge.

  Stan copied her.

  "On the count of three, shove off with your feet and try to match me, stroke for stroke. One ... two ... three."

  On a scale of one to ten, judges might have awarded them a two for their first effort. When he reached the opposite side of the pool, Stan grabbed the edge, but Dale did a perfect tuck and roll, pushed off with her feet and, when she realized he was no longer with her, righted herself, laughing. “Oops,” she shouted, treading water. “I forgot to tell you something."

  For the next hour, they practiced using backstrokes, sidestrokes and breaststrokes. When Stan got the hang of it, they changed to swimming the length of the pool. Other swimmers watched and made way for them.

  Following Dale's instructions, Stan dove beneath Dale, cupped her foot in his hands and heaved upward. She shot out of the water, arched like a Dolphin and made a perfect reentry. That brought applause and shouts of approval from all areas of the pool.

  Dale squealed with delight. “Let's do it again. Try to propel me higher this time. Put those bulging muscles to use."

  "I've had enough,” he said.

  "Killjoy,” she pouted, but he was already swimming towards the side of the pool.

  She joined him in the chaise lounge. “I'll give you ten minutes of rest,” she joked, “and then we're going to see just how high you can toss me."

  "No."

  The smile froze on her face. “Is something wrong?"

  "You nearly bounced your boobs out of their precarious holster. We'll come back tomorrow if you own a bathing suit that covers everything."

  "You're jealous!"

  He didn't answer.

  "You ever been to a strip joint or a topless bar?"

  "It's not the same thing."

  "You bought me three pairs of thong panties."

  "Not to wear in public."

  "Hypocrite! Oh, shit. Here comes Sandy Dollar. Stud, look. The woman's pregnant."

  "Maybe, or she could just be gaining a little weight in her midsection."

  "Bravo! Bravo!” Sandra shouted, clapping her hands as she approached. “That was fantastic."

  "We were just horsing around,” Dale said.

  Sandra's smile instantly turned into a scowl. “That voice. You're the bitch who scared the crap out of me last night at the Korner Kafe."

  Dale glanced at Stan. “Mrs. Dollar, please sit down.” She moved her feet to one side to make room on the chaise lounge.

  "Tim. Tim!” Sandra shouted. “Get over here!"

  Tim hurriedly joined his wife. “This is my husband."

  "We've met,” Tim said, nodding at Stan.

  "This is the woman I told you about last night—the one who threatened me."

  "Mrs. Dollar. I didn't threaten you. I tried to warn you."

  "You little runt. I ought to pull the hair out of your fucking scalp."

  Tim wrapped his arms around his wife's expanding tummy. “Calm down, Dudette. Give the lady a chance to explain."

  "It better be good,” Sandra said as she sat on the edge of Stan's chair.

  Chapter Four

  Stan rapped on the door to room seven.

  "It's open."

  Dale continued to concentrate on the screen of her laptop as he entered the room. “You missed your golden opportunity,” he said.

  "How's that?"

  "If you showed up in my bathroom this morning while I was showering, I planned to pull you in with me."

  "Dressed or naked?"

  "I didn't get that far with my fantasy. Anything?"

  "Hundreds of messages, all signed, ‘Sucker.’”

  "But none from the real Sucker?"

  "Nope."

  "Hungry?"

  "Starved, but you go ahead without me. Bring me an egg sandwich or something."

  "How long have you been at this?"

  "I woke up shortly after four."

  "Take a break. That's an order."

  She jerked her head towards him, eyes blazing and then broke into laughter. He stood behind her, bent from the waist with both hands protecting his crotch. She stood and leveled her eyes at him. “This is the second time you've gotten away with giving me a command. I don't advise you to stretch your luck any further."

  "Pardon me for saying this, but you look terrible. What happened to your hair?"

  "I think the chlorine in the pool and the hair color I use don't mix."

  "Isn't there anything you can do?"

  "I tried shampoo this morning. It obviously didn't help. I'll have to buy some more dye and cover the mess up."

  "Why did you change your hair color in the first place?"

  "When I was a child, I had nightmares of the monster keeping his promise."

  "What promise?"

  "He told me he was saving me for later. I thought a ch
ange of color would keep him from recognizing me."

  "You look great as a brunette but I think you'd look super as a redhead too."

  "What are you suggesting?” she asked as she tied her sneaker laces. “You want me to shave my head bald and let it grow back natural?"

  He cocked his head to one side. “I dare you."

  "Fuck you."

  Stan chuckled. “Actually, I thought you might buy red hair coloring. Then nobody will notice as your hair grows out."

  She stood and looked at him expressionless. “Kiss me."

  "What."

  Instead of responding verbally, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his, found his lips and wiggled her tongue between them. She pushed away and, as she headed for the door, said, “Just checking to see if you brushed your teeth this morning."

  "Tomorrow,” he grumbled as they lingered over their meal, “we're going to the Korner Kafe for breakfast. “What kind of restaurant has only eggs on their breakfast menu?"

  "Dad's Place,” she snickered. “You could have ordered a barbecue sandwich."

  "I think not."

  "Stud, I want to check the remainder of my email messages and then I want you to take me to Charlotte."

  "Okay, but why?"

  "I'm going to buy a car."

  "Something wrong with my Ford?"

  She shook her head. “I just want my own wheels."

  "May I make a suggestion?"

  "I'm not in the mood for an argument."

  "I was just going to suggest that you buy a new car, not someone else's problem vehicle."

  She grinned. “I admit that buying that clunker was a mistake."

  "Why did you?"

  "I told you once, I'm a rich bitch. I don't call attention to that fact with fancy clothes and jewelry and I thought that driving an older model car would serve the same purpose. I didn't count on it breaking down in the middle on nowhere."

  "The Ford Taurus is a good vehicle and requires little maintenance."

  "I'm going to buy a Cavalier—a teal Cavalier."

  "You don't want that, Dale. Those are little four cylinder vehicles."

  "I like the design, they get good gas mileage and they're not small. They have plenty of power for my needs."