Stand By Your Man mr-2

by Nancy Bartholomew

  "Baby," I said, reaching over to turn down the screaming radio, "if your daddy could've called you, he would've. If he's in trouble it's on account of not seeing what was coming, being blindsided." I patted her knee. "Sweetie, Daddy's a survivor. He'll be all right."

  "Mama, my psychology teacher says what you're doing is called denial."

  "And what your psychology teacher knows about the real world could be…" I bit my tongue. This would get us nowhere.

  Sheila humphed and looked away. I tried again. "Baby, I know you're worried sick about him, but he'll turn up."

  Sheila whipped back around. "Yeah," she said, "but will he be dead or alive?"

  I was saved from answering her by our arrival at Darlene's trailer. We turned off the two-lane into a narrow dirt drive that was rutted with potholes. Darlene's husband, Earl, says he doesn't level it out more often on account of how it keeps trespassers away. What Earl isn't taking into account is the way it tears up a welcome visitor's car and shortens the life of Earl's own vehicles.

  We bounced down the little lane, huge trees on either side reaching down with heavy limbs to almost touch the roof of my car. Sheila was gripping the door handle with feverish intensity and moaning about the water that ran from side to side on the floorboards. I was just trying to keep the car headed in the general direction of the bright yellow light that shone down on Darlene's doublewide.

  By the time we stopped, Earl's vicious-looking yard dogs had run around to snarl at the intruders and Earl was standing on the back stoop with his shotgun in hand and Darlene right behind him.

  "Mama," Sheila said, "you can't really be thinking we're going to stay here."

  "Who's 'we,' kemosabe?" I said, under my breath.

  When she recognized the car, Darlene whacked Earl's arm. "Fool, I told you that was them!"

  Earl, a tall skinny man in a white undershirt and blue jeans, slowly lowered the gun and started to grin. He was a right handsome, dark-haired man, who'd been totally devoted to Darlene since high school, when he was a football player and she was a tiny cheerleader.

  "I know it's them," he said. "But I didn't know until she drove up. According to her, we can't be too cautious."

  Darlene stepped out from behind the shelter of Earl. "Baby!" she cried, running down the steps for Sheila.

  Sheila dwarfed Darlene by a good six inches. Darlene could be five foot two on a good day, and couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds. She's two years older than me, two sizes smaller than me, and still looks like a freshman cheerleader. When we were born, I got the voice, but she got all the coordination.

  Earl had passed us, walking over to my car to pull out Sheila's suitcase and CD player.

  "What choo do?" he grunted, "bring all of Greensboro up with you? Thought Sheila was the only one staying?"

  "What?" Sheila's voice squeaked out into the darkness. She broke away from Darlene, walked over to the trunk and looked inside.

  "Mama, where's your stuff?"

  I ran my hand through my hair and prepared for the holy war. "I'm not staying, baby."

  "Mama!" Sheila's tone said it all, and Earl and Darlene missed none of it.

  "Sheila," Earl said, "come on out to the barn with me. I gotta show you someone."

  Sheila didn't want to go-that much was obvious in the way her shoulders stiffened and the slow way she turned to face him. But I did not raise a disrespectful daughter. She followed him slowly, looking back over her shoulder at me, her expression saying that she wasn't through with the discussion.

  "Hell," Darlene said, as she watched. "If I were you, I'd hop in that little bug and haul on outta here before that young'un gets back. Jeez," she sighed, "Where'd our little Sheila go, and who's this creature?"

  "Teenagers," I said. "That's what it is, a social disease. I reckon she'll be a complete and total idiot for another couple of years and then she'll return back to normal, if there ever was a normal."

  Darlene watched Sheila's retreating back. "Well," she said, turning back to me, "it ain't gonna matter much in another minute. You just wait. Here, listen."

  We stood in the darkened yard, listening as the barn door swung open and Earl fumbled around for the light. There was total silence and then: "Oh Uncle Earl!" This was then followed by: "Really? He's mine?"

  "Darlene," I said, turning back to her, "you didn't. You know that young'un can't keep track of a dog!"

  Darlene stuck her hands on her hips and gave me one of her looks. "Well, maybe you'd better think about something. If that young'un's keeping up with a puppy, and tending to its every need, she might be less tempted to produce a litter of her own just yet." The rest of her sentence hung between us, unspoken… "like you did." Maybe it's just my sensitivity, because Darlene's never said one disapproving word to me, but still I thought it. Vernell and I were so young when we had Sheila.

  "Hey," Darlene said, "why aren't you staying?"

  I shrugged my shoulders. "All right, I'll give it a shot, but I truly don't expect you to get this because I don't fully understand it myself." Darlene and I walked up the steps to her trailer. She waited until we were inside, sitting at stools pulled up to the breakfast bar, before she urged me to go on.

  "You know Vernell about as well as I do," I said. "He's lying pond scum on a good day and an alcoholic on a bad one. But all of his sorry little life, I've been looking for the good in that man. And you know it's there." Darlene nodded, but she didn't seem as convinced as I was.

  "He loves me and Sheila. I don't doubt that. But something inside that man won't let him be the husband and father he wants to be. Now, he's a right good daddy."

  Darlene interrupted. "Yeah, if you don't count him running off and leaving you and Sheila for a bimbo, he's a peach of a father."

  She kind of had me there. "But he supports her. He took her in when I was having trouble with her. He loves her, Darlene, even you know that."

  Darlene shrugged her shoulders in a grudging admission.

  "And when Jolene ran off, hell, even before that, when his brother, Jimmy, died, who'd he come to first? Me."

  Darlene raised up and glared at me. "You're not thinking of taking him back, are you?"

  I smiled. "Darlene, pity is one thing, foolishness is another. I care for him. Somehow I see him as, well, like a kid that can't grow up. And he's Sheila's daddy. I've gotta help him whenever I can."

  Darlene was still frowning. "I saw an Oprah show on that," she said. "What you got is a bad case of codependency."

  "Well, what else I've got is a bad case of that man ran off with all the money in his business accounts and payroll's due and I'm half-owner and I can't cover it!"

  "That," Darlene pronounced with satisfaction, "is a reason I can get behind."

  "Just hang on to Sheila," I said. "She's right shook up about this, but of course it comes out as obnoxious behavior."

  Darlene laughed. "She won't be obnoxious with me. I'm gonna put her to work. She'll be mucking out stalls and training that puppy. When she's done with that I'm gonna make her come teach the little ones with me down at the dance studio."

  "So you figure she'll be too tired to be obnoxious? I wouldn't bet on it."

  Darlene laughed. "Quit worrying!" Then she looked serious for a moment. "You are going to have protection, right? You're not just going to go bumbling around without someone or something to deal with trouble, are you?"

  "Sure," I lied. "I'm covered over in protection. I've got a private eye and a police detective to watch out for me. I'm just going to lay low and help them out with information when I can."

  Darlene didn't look like she believed me. When I walked down to the barn to kiss Sheila good-bye, she didn't believe me either.

  "I know whose shirt that is," she said.

  What could I say? I hadn't had time to change. I'd been in a hurry and hadn't given it a thought. So I went right on with my farewell instructions as if she hadn't said a word.

  "And I'll run by the school and get your work, so don't worry
about it." As if Sheila would give it a second thought.

  "Mama," Sheila said, "if you're finally dating that detective, you don't have to hide it from me. After all," she said, tossing her long red hair back, "we are women. We can share these things. My psychology teacher says it is the hallmark of a self-actualized relationship."

  I couldn't hold my tongue any longer. "And your grandma used to say that even a blind hog finds an acorn now and again. It just don't make him brilliant."

  I hugged her neck and turned to go.

  "Mama," she said, "don't let anything happen to you. Tell him I said to take care of you."

  "He will, baby," I said, and turned away. I didn't want her to see my face. I didn't want her to know that I wasn't sure Marshall Weathers would look out for anything other than his own tough hide.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Greensboro was sleeping peacefully when I arrived back in town. I drove up Friendly Avenue, pacing myself to ride right through a string of green lights, winding around and turning onto Mendenhall, then slipping down the alley to my bungalow. There was no way I could stay there, but I needed enough clothes to last through the next few days. I could've kicked myself for not packing when I'd had the opportunity, but I'd been in too much of a hurry to get Sheila out of town and myself away from Carlucci.

  I found myself flashing to the image of Carlucci, standing in my doorway, gun in hand, ready to take on the unseen threat to Vernell's family. I thought of the way he'd handled Sheila, easing her out of town, making her part of the solution, not another teenaged problem. And then I thought of him in a completely different manner. He was strong and attractive in a very different way from Marshall. Tony was there, in your face and ready. Marshall was more cautious, more reserved. I shook myself.

  "Stop it," I whispered. "This ain't no time for thinking about men." After all, it was better to be called foolish than to be called unprepared. I had to be ready. By the time I reached my street, I was all business.

  The lights were all out, and there was no sign of Tony Carlucci. "Probably found a hole to crawl into somewhere," I muttered. But to be on the safe side, I parked at the far end of the alley and crept back. I walked around the back of the house, peering in the windows before I remembered we'd closed all the curtains and shades. There was nothing for it but to go inside.

  I slipped the key into the back door lock, turned it, and entered into my bedroom, pausing for a moment as the light from the alleyway shone in across my bed. Nothing. No Carlucci. I breathed a sigh of relief, closed the door, and crossed the room headed for the tiny blinking red light of the answering machine. "The key is not to turn on any lights," I whispered.

  I hit the play button and settled in to listen to the messages. There were at least four hang-ups, followed by Terrance Griswald, the manager at the Mobile Home Kingdom.

  "Hey, Ms. Reid, listen, this here's Terry. Some of the guys are getting a little restless about their paychecks. I done like you said and had Becca make checks out for the ones that needed 'em, but the others are mouthin' off about it now." Great, I thought, what else? "Maybe you could get the bank to swing us a loan or something. Hey, the owner of VanScoy's Mobile Homes, Archer VanScoy, called again, too. Says Vernell was talking to him about selling, so now he wants to talk to you on account of he wants to buy us out. Is that true? Give me a call." The line went dead and I waited for the next message.

  "Ms. Reid," a tired, female voice said, "it's Bess King. You're right, we gotta talk. The, um, funeral's tomorrow at eleven. The Holy Vine United Methodist Church, out on High Point Road. The family's gonna gather after that at my place. I'll just try to find a time. I don't know how, with everyone up under me, but we've got to talk." She hung up then and I sat on the edge of the bed, listening.

  Three more hang-ups and then a hushed voice began to speak.

  "Baby, izzat you? Come on now, honey, pick up. Maggie, pick up the damn phone, it's almost midnight. I know you're there!"

  Vernell Spivey, alive and knee-walking drunk from the sounds of it. I looked at the red numbers on the digital clock. He'd called less than two hours ago.

  "Oh hell, honey," he said, "I'm in deep dirt now. Maggie, come on, baby, talk to me." There was silence and then a loud clatter as Vernell tried to put the receiver back on the stand. In the background I could hear the whine of country music but nothing else. Where the hell was he?

  "There are no more messages," my machine said.

  "Figures," I said back.

  I stood up and made my way over to the walk-in closet that stood in the tiny space between my bedroom and the kitchen. I stepped inside, pulled the door shut after me, and reached for the light switch.

  "This is stupid. Vernell Spivey, you three-legged dog, why are you such a total idiot? After all this time, here I am, still at the mercy of your stupidity. I thought I'd come further, but a woman forced to pack up her belongings in the dead of night, with the closet door shut, can't have come too far."

  I pulled a black sequined shirt off its hanger and stuffed it in a brown paper sack. The trouble with my closet was it took the spillover from all the junk that didn't fit in the kitchen. So there were shopping bags and cookie cutters jammed in next to cowgirl boots and fancy belts.

  I grabbed a black broomstick skirt, and was just fingering a belt with a huge silver buckle when the lights went out.

  "Carlucci," I yelled, "that's enough!"

  I whipped around. The huge shape filled the doorway. I stepped right up to him and shoved as hard as I could, and that's when I realized it wasn't Carlucci. The man shoved me hard against the back wall of the closet, up against the shoe rack, then stepped up to me, grabbing my shoulders and slamming me into the wall again.

  I screamed and tried to kick, but I couldn't get enough leverage to push off and lash out. His breath smelled of garlic and stale alcohol.

  "Shut up," he said, his voice cold and even. In the dark I heard a tiny click, and then felt the needle-sharp point of a knife touch my neck.

  "Where is he?" the voice asked. He had me pinned with one beefy arm, his hand pressed to my chest, the fingers curving in a claw at my neck. The knifepoint jabbed a little harder, and I knew he'd cut me.

  "I don't know!"

  He wasn't satisfied. The knife moved a little down my neck, biting into my skin, scratching a thin line as it cut.

  "Then I guess I'll have to leave him a message," he said. "This'll hurt you a lot more than it'll hurt me." He laughed softly.

  His fingers curled around the neck of my shirt, ripping the buttons as he tore it open. My hand tightened around the big belt buckle in my hand, and I brought it up, smashing it into his face with every ounce of strength I could find. He howled, pulled back briefly, and I tried to duck under him. He grabbed for me, then seemed to fall backward.

  "Get off her!"

  My attacker, surprised from behind, turned away from me, lunging out of the closet, his attention turned toward the new arrival.

  "He's got a knife," I screamed.

  "Get out of the way, Maggie!" Carlucci's voice thundered through the darkness. My attacker roared and jumped forward. All I could see was a tangled blur of black forms, wrestling. Then there was the sharp retort of a gun, echoing in the tiny space, muffled somewhat by the body in front of it.

  There was complete silence. When the lights came on in the kitchen, Tony Carlucci stood over the still form of a man I'd never seen before. Tall, thickset, and balding, with short black hair, and a gunshot wound that was quickly turning his chest red and his face a pasty gray color.

  "Call nine-one-one," Tony said, his voice dull and removed.

  Within five minutes my house was a sea of black uniforms and guns, all standing over the body of one very dead man. Tony still leaned against the wall of the kitchen, but his gun was in a clean, plastic evidence bag.

  In the minutes between my call to the police and their arrival, after we knew for sure that Tony had killed my attacker, he'd only said one thing to me:


  "See what happens when you think you know better than everybody else?"

  I wanted to think he meant the words for the intruder, but he didn't. I was wrong. I should've stayed away.

  Marshall Weathers arrived about thirty minutes into the process. He stepped across the threshold of the back door, his eyes searching for me, then turning to the scene. He moved across the room, nodding to the other officers, listening to the squawk of the walkie-talkie he held close to his ear. He'd changed from camouflage to jeans, his shield clipped to his waistband, along with his gun.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. There was no hint of how he felt about me in those words, and at that point, I really wasn't looking for one. His hand reached out, involuntarily, to touch the thin line of blood that ran along my neck. "He do that?" he asked, his jaw muscle twitching.

  "Yes."

  "Okay." He turned away, studied Carlucci for a moment, and then looked back at me. "I'm gonna have to catch this call, it's mine and it'll take half the night doing the paperwork. Where are you staying?" It was obvious to both of us that I wouldn't be staying at my place.

  "I guess with Jack." The jaw muscle twitched again, but I didn't hear him offer to take me back to the sanctuary of the Blessed Saint Wanda. I was out of options, and Jack was the only person I could think to turn to.

  "All right, I'll get up with you in the morning then." He looked at the officer in charge. "We have your preliminary statement. I'll probably have a few questions."

  Carlucci watched us now, his face still a neutral mask of resignation and indifference. As if he felt Carlucci, Weathers turned and walked toward him, his hand extended.

  "Detective Weathers," he said. "Let's go on downtown and sort this out."

  Carlucci pushed off the wall and stood looking at Weathers, his legs slightly apart, like a boxer, on his toes, waiting for a thrown punch. He was a good three or four inches taller than Marshall, and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds, but Marshall was all coiled strength and readiness. Neither man looked away. Carlucci's eyes were hooded, black pools that studied Weathers as if he were considering the invitation.