“Oh, yeah?” Maybe they thought that about Tony. Maybe they’d talked about her like that after the Exxon robbery. She was the toughest of the Hot Heads, after all.
“Yeah,” said Leroy. “That’s why, since we didn’t hear nothin’ from you in three days, we thought you was in the jail, getting tortured or something so you’d confess on us.”
“I’m not caught.”
“Good. Where are you?”
“Told you, I can’t tell. But what’s the news? Did we make the TV.? Radio? We made the newspaper, didn’t we?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Leroy. “Mrs. Martin was on the TV. news two nights in a row now.”
Tony felt the chill of excitement run her veins. “Yeah? What did she say? What did she look like?”
“She looked like shit, what do you think? She was in shock or something, standin’ in the middle of the wrecked up store with the crap we knocked down all over the place. The reporters had a couple mics in her face and she said, ‘They killed him, right in front of me, shot him dead!’ They said, ‘Who shot him?’ and she said ‘some kid with lipstick on his face!’”
“What’d she say about us, about the rest of us?”
“Nothin’ much. Just that we knocked stuff over, tore stuff up, stole some stuff. She mostly talked about Whitey and his gun.”
“I had a gun! I put it in her face, up close! That was me up there with her!”
“Yeah, I know….”
“I was the one threatened her, why didn’t she tell the news about me threatening her? She only told on Whitey?”
“She didn’t exactly tell on him, she told about him, she didn’t really know who it was, said it could have been any of a bunch of teenagers who come into the store. Police have been investigatin’, going house to house….”
“I was the one with bullets in my gun!”
“Whitey had a bullet. He shot that guy.”
“But he wasn’t supposed to have a bullet. I didn’t think there were any bullets in there, they all rolled behind the stove.”
A loud sound of exasperation, then, “What? You gave Whitey a gun with no bullets?”
“Just shut up, I didn’t think it would matter. I wanted the one with the bullets, I wanted to shoot up the place after scaring Mrs. Martin, but then Whitey shot first.”
“Stupid asshole little girl!”
“You wouldn’t say that to my face if I was there.”
“Yes I would. You bring a gun with no bullets?”
“Yeah, and it’s done, okay? They know anything yet? Who’d the police talk to so far? Are they showing sketches on T.V.? Drawings of what we looked like?”
“Just one of Whitey, but it don’t look like him. Some farmer in a tractor who drove by the Exxon when we were there said he saw a car go out of the lot like a bat out of hell, but didn’t know what kind it was, just that it was big. Said the sleet was in his eyes. Thought it was green or light blue.”
“They didn’t have a sketch of me?”
“No. Get over it. There’s a reward for information about us, though. $100,000 dollars if we get caught and convicted. Mrs. Martin quit the store. It’s closed until further notice, sign says.”
Tony took a deep breath, blew on it out on the glass of the phone booth, and drew a frowny face in the steam.
“When you comin’ back, Tony?”
“Probably never. I got places to be. People to be with. Wish I could be there to see everything happenin’, but I can’t. I’ll call you, though, check it out. Check on the progress.”
“If they catch Whitey, they’ll catch us. He’ll talk like a fucking parrot on a stick.”
“Maybe. Nobody was supposed to get killed, though. Tough shit, huh? And I ain’t telling where I am.”
“I’ll get the phone bill end of the month. I’ll know exactly where you’re callin’ from. Police get the phone record then they can follow where you’re at….”
Tony hadn’t thought of that. She slammed the receiver down into the cradle and left the booth.
Half a block past the “Catfish Delite” was another motel, “Gulf Towers Motel,” and several small houses on both sides of the road, an alley, a poorly-lit intersection. She crossed over and continued on the same street.
Maybe they’d see Alabama on the phone bill, but they would know Texas. It would be okay.
There was a trailer park on the right, then a small shop selling fishing tackle and boat equipment, a long grassy ball field surrounded by a chain link fence, and then the end of the road. A solid privacy fence of wooden slats blocking Tony’s view from whatever lay on the other side.
A sign, painted in red on the wood, said, “Martin’s Mobile Bay Marina. 3429 Perry Road, Mobile.” Tony followed the fence to the barred gate, and stared inside. There were boats bobbing on water, tied up in what seemed like little stalls. Rows of boats, painted with names that were hard to read in the faint beams of the tall pole lights. Some of the boats had fishing nets stretched to dry across their backs. Others had large seats with harnesses and large poles. These, Tony knew for sure, was for catching and holding on to big fish. No little catfish hooks here. She wondered what they’d use for bait. Eels? Snakes?
Another thumping off road behind her, and she turned about to see nothing but shadows, ragged, roadside trees and the dark.
“Get the fuck out of here, whatever you are,” she said.
Nothing answered. Nothing moved. It’s just Alabama, she thought.
Tony wondered if Lamesa was anywhere near the Gulf of Mexico, and if Burton ever got to go fishing. He would own a big boat, of course, bigger than any here at Martin’s Marina. Tony and Burton could take a day off from managing the farm hands and go out on the water and toss back some brews and smoke a few cigars.
The end of the privacy fence was a half-block down. Tony hurried to the corner. She wanted to put her feet in the Gulf and know what it felt like. At the end of the marina was another row of small houses. The first, surrounded by a weedy yard and scrub trees, had a seagull-decorated mailbox that read, “Martin, 3427 Perry Road.” This had to be the owner of Martin’s Marina. Crappy little house for someone who had such a big business.
Behind the house was the huge stretch of black water, small waves pulsing up and back and reflecting lights from the Marina and the back porches of the little houses down the lane. Other lights, farther out, dipped and swayed on boats and ships. Moonlight, dull and blue, streaked the water’s surface.
Tony sneaked around the Martins’ house, between a boxwood hedge, past a plastic child’s slide and swing set and down to the water in the rear. The Martins had their own dock, stretching out twenty-some feet over the water, but no boats were tied there. They must keep their boats in the marina. Afraid somebody from Virginia will come along and sink it just for fun. Ha! Tony walked onto the dock, glancing once over her shoulder to see that no one in the family was looking out through their back windows. No one was.
The dock was warped but solid. At the end was an Igloo cooler, upended, and some fishing nets hanging on the posts on either side. Lying on the planks were three oars, one cracked down the middle.
The air was cooler over the water, and Tony pulled her sleeves down. She stretched her arms out and took in the space and the salt water and the situation. She was the master, she was in control. She was going where she wanted to go, seeing what she wanted to see, making people sing her tune and dance her steps. Fuck them all. She’d set in motion some real trouble back home, and now she could sit back and enjoy it. She was Tony Petinske. Her father was Burton Petinske of Lamesa, Texas. Like the prodigal son in the Bible, which she’d heard about when she was in third grade and went to Bible Class as part of Weekday Religious Education during one school year, Burton would probably kill a fatted calf for her and they’d have a whoop-ass Texas barbecue.
She took the pistol from her jeans pocket and thought of firing one into the water to celebrate. Maybe with luck she’d hit a fish or a crab, if there were crabs in the Gulf. But
that would awaken the natives. She didn’t want to push her luck, as lucky as she was.
She put the pistol on the deck, then lowered her jeans and held onto one of the posts. She swung back over the water and let go a stream of hot pee. She then lowered herself and splashed the pee off her privates by cupping water with one hand. It was bitingly cold and felt great. Her jeans were hoisted up, and she turned back toward the yard.
On the end of the deck were two boys. One was tall, the other Tony’s height. Both were smiling, though their eyes were not visible beneath the brims of their ball caps.
“Got a cigarette?” asked the shorter boy.
Tony’s eyes narrowed. Fuck this shit. She said nothing.
“I asked you a question. Ain’t polite, not answering.”
Tony put her hands on her hips.
“We seen that little pussy of yours, hanging out over the water,” said the tall boy. “Oooh, baby, shake that little beaver.”
Tony’s heart picked up, and kicked the inside of her chest. She looked at the pistol on the deck.
“Thought you was a boy, with that short hair on your head,” said the shorter boy. “But then we seen that pussy. Mmm hmmm. Nice golden shower, shoulda saved it for us.”
“Get out of her, mother-fuckers,” said Tony.
“Ooh, baby, I love it when you talk dirty,” said the tall boy. He chuckled darkly.
“Me, too,” echoed the other.
Then the tall one was striding forward, a near jog, with long, quick steps, and Tony dropped to her knees to grab the pistol but her fingers missed and it spun away, across the deck, where it stopped at the edge. She reached for it again with a war-whoop of fury, but a foot came down on the back of her hand and another foot kicked the pistol into the dark water. It struck the surface with a plop and vanished.
“Fuckers!” screamed Tony. She dove forward, her free arm plunging into the water and snatching but finding nothing but cold wet. “Goddamn mother-fucking fuckers!” She rolled over and away from the foot, jerking out from under, then sprang to her feet. Her knife was in her sock. Get it, she’d slice the grins and then the balls off these Alabama bastards.
The shorter boy was beside the taller one now, just feet from where Tony stood. Tony felt the sweat that had erupted on her forehead and her back, tickling, teasing. These’re assholes, she thought, these are Buddies and Leroys and Little Joes and Whiteys. These are goddmaned Dee Wees! “Get out of my way,” she snarled.
“Ooh, a little fightin’ girl,” said the shorter boy.
“Ain’t from around here,” said the other. “Talks funny. Where you from, sugar britches?”
Tony backed to the dock’s end, one hand out in a fist, and lowered herself slowly to reach the knife.
“Wants to give us a blow job, Ricky,” said the tall boy. “Kneeling down, just look at that.”
“Yeah,” said Ricky.
Tony reached for the cuff of her jeans, slid her fingers underneath and up to the top of the hiking boot. The handles was there, snug, between the sock and the skin.
The tall boy leaped suddenly at Tony and caught a scruff of her short hair in his fingers. “Kiss me, little girl!” He tried to jerk her head back, but she twisted from beneath him and drew the blade out from her sock then drove it against the post to snap it open.
“Joe, she’s got a blade!” cried Ricky.
Joe grabbed at Tony’s hair again, but she leaned forward and slashed it across his knee. It cut through cloth, into flesh, back out again. Joe whelped, let go of Tony’s hair and snatched at her knife-bearing hand and came up short. “Ricky!”
Ricky, his teeth bared, snatched at Tony’s wrist and missed. Tony was on her feet then, leaning forward, carving the air and growling. “Get out of here! Get away from me!”
“She’s got the rabies way she’s actin’!” said Ricky. “Damn, she’s a mad dog!”
“Back away now!” said Tony. “I’ll cut you to bits, you know I will!”
Ricky picked up one of the oars. “Yeah?” he said. “Your’s may be sharper but mine’s longer.” He laughed at himself, pleased with his little joke. “Get it, Joe? Your’s may be sharper, but mine’s longer. Gotta remember that!”
Joe tossed up an oar with his foot as if he was flipping a skateboard, and caught it with both hands. He was breathing heavily. “Don’t no bitch hurt me. Don’t no bitch never do that to me. Never!”
“Don’t no stupid rednecks do nothing to me,” said Tony. “You get out of my way, you know what’s good for you.” She waved the knife, thinking, My gun’s gone, what am I supposed to do without my gun? “Back off!”
Ricky laughed; Joe didn’t. Then Ricky swung his oar at Tony and it caught her on the shoulder with a crack. Pain exploded, but Tony kept her balance and her knife. Joe swung his oar the other direction, and Tony jumped back from it, nearly tipping over the edge of the dock. She grasped a post and pushed herself upright. Then both Joe and Ricky swung their oars at the same time, and they collided with Tony on opposite sides, knocking the breath out of her and driving her forward onto her face. It felt as if her ribs were broken. She groaned and scrabbled at the splintery wood to push herself up enough to see. The knife was no longer in her hand.
“Fuck you!” she cried. She hunched herself onto her knees so she could stand. But a foot in her back knocked her down again.
Joe said, “Fuck us? How ‘bout fuck you?”
“Yeah! Good idea!” said Ricky.
Joe rolled Tony over onto her back. She kicked out with her feet and clawed at his face but Ricky kicked her in the head and her vision was shattered for a few moments. It flew away like pieces of a broken window blowing apart in a tornado. She blinked, squinted, tried to see, but all she could do was feel.
Feel one of the boys unzipping her jeans and tugging them down around her ankles. Feel the other snatching her hands and holding them up over her head, pressing them roughly to the pier and sitting on them with all his weight.
She bucked, but the boy on top of her jammed his knee into her gut and drove her breath out again. She tried to order him off but the words would not come.
“Show you who’s boss!” cried the boy over her, it sounded like Joe. “Cut my leg? I’ll show you. I got a big ole poker to stab you with! What’d you say, Ricky, yours may be sharper but mine’s longer! That was a good one.”
Tony bucked. Another blow to her stomach and vomit raced up into her mouth. She gagged and spit. Her legs were thrust apart then, and someone climbed between them. There was laughing and panting, and fingers strumming her cunt, her clitoris, and then jabbing up into her core.
She screamed and drew her legs together but another fist went into her gut yet again, and again remnants of her last meal rocketed into her mouth, vile and sour.
“Here you go!” Something hard, hard, and fleshy now, wider than fingers, poking at her opening, and then jabbing inside, tearing, hot and persistent. Again and again.
“Me, next!” came the voice from above.
“No!” she cried. “Fuckers!” A sob, a scream.
But it went on. And on.
38
Sponge Bob was over. Angry Beavers was on, the critters chattering and arguing over what they would have for dinner, wood-chip beef on toast or cellulose casserole, whatever cellulose was. Mistie had turned onto her other side when the new show came on. At home in the trailer, Daddy would come and change the channel when Angry Beavers started, so this was the first time Mistie got to see the whole thing. If this was a Saturday, Princess Silverlace would have been on but it wasn’t a Saturday Mistie didn’t think.
The teacher had gone in the bathroom with the girl a long time ago. The girl had come out and had left but the teacher was still in the bathroom. There was water running in the bathroom. Mistie knew not to go into the bathroom with a grownup had the water running even if the door was open. One time Mistie had gone in the bathroom when the water was running and Daddy and Mama were in there and although Mistie didn’t know wha
t they were doing, they were really mad and chased her out. She got a spanking later that night from Daddy. Her bottom had burned like fire until after Mama went out and then Daddy kissed it to make it better.
Mistie had to go to the bathroom, but not too bad, she could wait a little longer. Maybe the teacher was almost through with her shower.
A commercial came on the television. Pizza Hut, the Edge. Mistie remembered eating at Pizza Hut in Kentucky when Valerie was still alive. There wasn’t a Pizza Hut in Pippins, though. She liked Pizza Hut because the waitress was nice and the cups the root beer came in were plastic with children’s faces on it, and Valerie and Mistie had gotten to take them home. They cracked later and had to throw them away.
The commercial ended, and another came on about some car that could drive really fast in the desert. It ended, too, and the Beavers were back. Mistie scratched her nose with her bound hands, and then rubbed herself. Daddy rubbed her when Mama wasn’t home. It was the only time he didn’t yell at her, when he was rubbing her.
The water in the shower kept on running.
39
She remembered.
A cold Christmas. Their first Christmas in Pippins.
Kate, Donald, and Donnie had moved to the brick manor house in September, two weeks after Kate had finished her final master’s of education course at Georgetown University and had presented her thesis, “A Study on an Apparent Relationship Between Certain Religious Persuasions and Developmental Delay.” The title had scared the shit out of some of the university administration and had brought a chuckle from Donald. The paper explored a connection between off-shoot fundamentalist denominations and the higher rate of children in the public school programs who showed symptoms of developmental delay and the emotionally disturbance. Kate had been discrete and careful; her intent was to get her degree and be done with it, not stir up any major academic dust. She concluded that it was more the home life and the economic status of the children in these single-church denominations as opposed to the religious teachings. Kate didn’t believe that was the total truth but a politically correct paper was more in line with what she needed to have to get her degree, and she did win the degree. Signed, sealed, delivered. Put into a nice, oak frame. Now, Donald would look at her and see two degrees instead of one. Something she could look at and feel a little pride.
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