Prairie Gothic

by J. M. Hayes

  Floyd! That was it. That was where she’d learned the term. It was when he’d brought that awful thing home after one of his sales trips. Floyd always brought her something. Usually, it was lingerie. The kind she couldn’t hang on the line in a community like Buffalo Springs unless she wanted to be taken for a scarlet woman. In fact, she recalled fondly, most of the presents Floyd brought her were blatantly sexual. In a twisted way, so was the thing with the swavastikas on it.

  He’d brought it home as a joke, he’d said, after she got so upset by it. He’d run into a man down in Oklahoma who traded in exotic collectibles. The man offered to sell it for some scandalous price, then made the mistake of playing poker with Floyd Kraus. Because it tickled Floyd’s funny bone, he’d held the thing as a guarantee against the man’s debt.

  It was a battered old wooden container, a hand-carved box not much bigger than your fist. The swavastikas had been prominent among the faded symbols decorating it. She remembered now. That’s when Floyd told her, when she first saw the thing and asked why he’d brought her some Nazi trinket. Not Nazi, he’d said. Older. The symbols went way back and were associated with lots of religions. These swavastikas were early Christian, as was the cross on top of the box, and the line of Latin script that had nearly worn away.

  It wasn’t a handsome thing, but the box wasn’t the prize. It was what was within, Floyd told her. At his prompting, she’d opened it. Carefully affixed to a bed of silk had been something small and brown and leathery.

  And what was that, she’d asked, not all that sure she wanted to know. The holiest of relics, he explained. Something that belonged to Jesus himself.

  That was intriguing, even though what it looked like was the desiccated remains of some tiny rodent after an owl made a meal of the rest.

  He’d toyed with her for a while before he finally told her what it was. And even then she hadn’t known. The Holy Prepuce, he said. The one and only, or at least one of several claimed to be authentic. Most were held in a variety of church sanctuaries throughout the world.

  She’d heard of pieces of the true cross. Seen the movie The Robe. The idea of holy relics was familiar, but she hadn’t known what a prepuce was, not until she dragged out her dictionary and discovered that this was, supposedly, what remained after the Son of God was circumcised.

  Floyd hadn’t just laughed at her reaction. He’d howled. He’d fallen down on the floor and held his sides and roared until he cried. And she’d hurled the damn thing out the door in the direction of the trashcan. And not forgiven him until he stopped giggling long enough to show her that silk chemise she’d tried on for him for a few minutes late that same evening.

  Later, when she’d gone looking for the box to be sure it was truly disposed of, it was gone. And not long after that, Floyd came into some real money and they’d taken that vacation to Havana. The Prepuce had been paid off, he said. Gone home to Oklahoma. Gone back to a fellow whose name suddenly rang a rusty bell. Hornbaker! His name had been Abel Hornbaker.

  ***

  “Stop!”

  Supervisor Wynn stomped the brake pedal. But for the Cadillac’s sophisticated anti-lock brakes, they would have begun spinning, maybe ended up in a ditch like the county’s black and white.

  “There’s a flower in the cemetery,” Judy said. It sounded almost as odd to her as it must to them.

  “Cemetery?” the chairman inquired gently, as if he understood how the stress of searching for their missing children during the worst weather the county had known in decades might have caused her mind to snap.

  “Back there,” Judy gestured. “Maybe a hundred yards this side of where they left the cruiser in the ditch. You remember it, Englishman. There’s that little family cemetery along the edge of the road. Two or three trees, lots of weeds, maybe a dozen headstones.”

  “Mostly kids claimed by a cholera epidemic in the early twentieth century,” Englishman recalled. “The family died out or left years ago. I can’t remember anybody tending the graves. You sure, Judy? Who would leave a flower there?”

  “Look,” Judy urged. Occasionally, the wind ebbed enough so that she could still see the outline of the trees and maybe one of the bigger stones. A tiny patch of color, too, or so she tried to convince herself.

  “Can’t hardly see the trees,” the chairman said, humoring her.

  “Back up,” Judy commanded. “I’ve got to check.”

  The chairman carefully reversed, back toward the carnage at Mad Dog’s, the buried black and white, and the abandoned cemetery in which she was sure she’d seen a rose.

  Judy threw open her door as they pulled up beside the little plot. “Ask Mrs. Kraus,” Judy called over her shoulder. She was sure of it now. There was a single rose standing in a weighted can beside one of the stones. Artificial, she was sure, but a recent decoration. “If she doesn’t know, I’ll explain when I get back.”

  Judy couldn’t remember what the name on the grave was supposed to be. She remembered the rest, though. It was the only stone on which an angel was engraved, the infant in its arms on the verge of being carried to paradise.

  HARRIET MAE KENNEDY, DECEMBER 3, 1907, MAY 12, 1909. Judy remembered, now. The tombstone was for the youngest of six Kennedy children, the first carried off over the course of the spring and summer of a catastrophic year. Each stone that followed was a little smaller, a bit less elegant— a testament to the failing resources, economic and emotional, of a decimated family.

  The can was so badly weathered it was impossible to tell what it might once have contained. There were nails through its base, spikes really, she recalled, to hold it in place in spite of the Kansas wind. Rocks inside anchored the cheap plastic imitation of a single long-stemmed rose. Under the first of the rocks was a message, and a thick black hood. The note was short and to the point, a computer print out that would lend no clue to who wrote it. It spelled out today’s date and a time. Beyond that, there were only brief instructions: “Remove flower. Sit out of sight of road. Cover and wait. If not contacted in thirty minutes, return same time tomorrow.”

  ***

  Mad Dog hardly recognized Main Street. It looked like something plucked out of a Currier and Ives print as interpreted by Hieronymus Bosch. Most of the curbs along the north side of the street were buried under drifts, some extending all the way across the street. An abandoned city was being swallowed by frozen white dunes. Though he picked his way carefully, avoiding deep snow, the Blazer slipped and skidded. In a couple of spots, he had to stop and rock it back out, then try again before plowing through. If it was this bad in town, Mad Dog didn’t think he could make it down some of those country roads. He needed chains, so he headed for the Texaco.

  Mad Dog hadn’t known whether Hailey would come. Mary begged him to let her stay. He’d had to explain it didn’t work that way with wolves, or at least not with this one. She went where she wanted. Hailey was obviously fond of the girl, though, and had made it clear she wasn’t crazy about the storm. Just the same, when Mad Dog left, Hailey pranced out beside him.

  Mary wasn’t shedding tears when he looked back to where she and Doc stood in the door, but the expression on her face was nearly enough to make him do it for her. Clearly, she’d been abandoned and abused by people she trusted. She wasn’t surprised that it was happening again, but it still hurt.

  “I left some good luck behind for you and Hailey,” she’d called. He had waved, and promised they’d see her again soon. He hoped it would really happen.

  Hailey whined and fussed at Mad Dog when a white pickup pulled out from a side street and followed them. The wolf might have gotten his attention but the truck was in such a hurry that it slid into a monster drift that had already claimed an Oldsmobile. It was spinning all four wheels when the storm hid it from view.

  Mad Dog expected the Texaco would be closed. Everything else appeared to be. No lights, no signs of life anywhere. Not that there weren’t moments when Main Street in Buffalo Springs was equally empty any day, but not like t
his.

  Mad Dog couldn’t remember a storm this bad since the fifties. He’d been a kid and the thing had proved a pure joy for him. The school bus never got there to pick him up. It was an unexpected holiday. Englishman was just a toddler, too young to be a source of entertainment or distraction. His baby brother stayed close to their mother while she baked them cookies and made a pot of hot chocolate. Mad Dog spent the day of the storm at the windows, caught in the delight of watching the world reshape itself into something alien, or in an easy chair near the fire, deep in a good book—The Swiss Family Robinson—so he could transport himself to a warmer climate whenever he wanted.

  He enjoyed the days after the storm most. He was old enough that their mother let him go exploring those strange new hills on the south side of every building and windbreak. He’d made himself a sled out of an old inner tube. His favorite slope included part of the barn’s roof. He crawled through snow caves deep under the lilac bushes that filled the yard. If she’d known even half his adventures, she wouldn’t have allowed them. His solution had been simple. He didn’t tell her.

  It took three days for the snowplow to reconnect them to the rest of the county. Every minute was magical. Now, fighting drifts just to get to the Texaco, it was hard to imagine he’d ever been so innocent.

  There were lights in the Texaco. Mad Dog pulled as close to the front door as he could without blocking it or getting into the drift that was forming near the repair bays. Hailey followed him in. The woman behind the counter was the same one he’d seen before dawn that morning.

  “Isn’t your shift over yet?” he greeted her.

  “Nobody came to replace me.” She put down the book she was reading, a new one, Elizabeth Gunn this time. “And I can’t get out of here to go home.”

  “Your power hasn’t gone off?” Mad Dog gestured to indicate the flickering TV across the room and the bright neons overhead.

  “Oh yeah. It’s off, only we’ve got a generator on account of our food products have to be refrigerated. Not a problem today, of course. But since I’m the only one here to make management decisions, and they’re not gonna pay me overtime anyway, I decided to fire it up and keep myself comfortable while I wait this thing out. You and Hailey are welcome to join me. All the comforts of home. More, if you like junk food.”

  “Actually, I was just looking for tire chains. Any left?”

  “Yeah, couple of sets, I think. Over by the window, the other side of the jumper cables.”

  Mad Dog found what he wanted, though he would have preferred something heavy-duty to the one-size-fits-all (before they fall off because they didn’t fit right to begin with) convenience-store specials.

  “You really want to go back out there?” she asked, ringing him up at the register. “I haven’t seen anything go by in the last hour, not even an eighteen-wheeler.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad.” Mad Dog was trying to convince himself more than her.

  “Not according to those TV weather folks. This thing’s really localized, but it’s powerful. You sure you and Hailey don’t want to grab a couple of hot dogs and a good paperback and waste the afternoon?” She sounded a little lonely. Probably worried about the family she couldn’t get to, or even phone, until this thing was over.

  What would it have been like for Sadie Maddox, alone out there with a baby and a kid and no phone or electricity? How much butane had they had in the tank? How much firewood, in case that gave out? How much food in the pantry? His adventure must have been his mother’s nightmare, though she never let on.

  “What are the forecasters saying? How long’s this thing supposed to last?” On the TV, a buxom blond was gesturing at a weather map on which a bright white swatch was centered over Benteen County.

  “Should ease up by dark, start to clear around midnight, and then get really cold. Lows around zero. Mad Dog, I wouldn’t go out there if I were you. You get in trouble, even right on the highway, it could be a long time before anybody comes along to help.”

  Her argument made uncommonly good sense and Mad Dog knew he better not think about it or he’d talk himself out of the demands of the “vision” he’d had at the mortuary. Those hot dogs smelled awfully good.

  “I expect you’re right, but there’s something I’ve got to do. You mind if I leave Hailey in here while I put the chains on? She eats anything, I’ll pay for it when I come back in.”

  “Glad for the company,” the woman said.

  Mad Dog ducked through the door and found himself face to face with a tiny woman bundled in sweatshirts and jackets and scarves, and the brightest red tennis shoes Mad Dog had ever seen.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Dorothy, what are you doing out in this?”

  “Looking for you, of course. Took me awhile to work out who you really are.”

  “I’m Mad Dog, remember?”

  “’Course. That’s not what I mean.”

  He was honestly puzzled. “What then?”

  “The Wizard,” she said. “You know.” She must have seen the confusion in his face. “That’s who you really are, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. In a peculiar way, he supposed, she was right.

  ***

  “The Kennedy Cemetery?” Mrs. Kraus asked. “Just east of Mad Dog’s place?”

  “That’s right,” Englishman said. “There’s a flower by one of the graves. Judy said to ask you. What’s this all about, Mrs. Kraus?”

  Mrs. Kraus sank into her chair in the dusky office and forgot all about swavastikas and prepuces. She hadn’t thought about Harriet Kennedy’s grave in years. Hadn’t thought it still served that same purpose. And, even so, didn’t want to talk about it with Englishman.

  “You there, Mrs. Kraus?”

  “Wish I wasn’t,” she muttered.

  “Talk to me, Mrs. Kraus. What’s a flower in an abandoned cemetery have to do with any of the shit going on today?”

  Englishman didn’t use words like that often.

  “I thought that was over a long time ago.”

  “What was over?”

  “You know how all those pro-life signs line the blacktops just outside Buffalo Springs? Well, abortion’s never been an acceptable alternative in this part of the state. Not even since it got legal.”

  “What’re you telling me, Mrs. Kraus?”

  “Hold on, Englishman. I’ll get there.” Mrs. Kraus never talked back to her boss, either. Well, hardly ever. Stress, it seemed, was a two-way street.

  “Long as I can remember, Sheriff, birth control has been a woman’s responsibility. She didn’t want a child, she better be prepared to say no or be on the pill or otherwise provide her own protection. Main reason is, she’s the one gets stuck if there’s a mistake. Women who live here, they know that. They talk to each other and remind themselves. But mistakes happen, and when they do there’s always been a backup.”

  “You telling me someone’s doing clandestine abortions in Benteen County?”

  “Won’t none of the doctors here do the other kind. Even Doc Jones is afraid he’ll end up in the sights of some born-again sniper convinced he’s doing the Lord’s work and killing a killer. ”

  “Back in my day, hell, some of yours too, abortions weren’t legal. I never made use of this back-up system, you understand, but when I was a girl it was common knowledge you could get your pregnancy taken care of if you needed. Price was what you could afford. Way I heard it, nobody got turned down, even when they only had a few dollars to spare.

  “What you did was you drove out to the Kennedy graveyard. You needed help, you left your money and a note with a couple of days and times that were acceptable to you in the can beside Harriet Mae’s grave. You left a purple flower in there too, so’s whoever picked up your money and arranged things would know they had a customer. Your answer came back to the same spot, along with a red flower. That was how you knew to find out when and where to go.”

  “Who?” There was an edge to Englishman’s voice that even the radio could
n’t disguise.

  “I don’t know. Girls I knew who took advantage of the service said they never knew either. A hood got left in the can along with your instructions. You didn’t wear it, you didn’t get your abortion. Once you put it on you couldn’t see a thing. Then somebody came and picked you up. Your only communication was in whispers. They drove you somewhere. Sometimes it seemed far, sometimes it didn’t, but there were always lots of turns and twists and none of the ones I talked to ever had a clue where they ended up. It was a slick process, Englishman. The job got handled by someone who knew what they were doing, too. I never heard of any complications. No one ever got an infection or hemorrhaged badly. But, swear to God, Englishman, I had no idea it was still happening.”

  “Who, Mrs. Kraus? You may not know, but you have some idea.”

  “For a long time, I thought it was one of the doctors. Then I thought maybe it was Mrs. Irons, Tommie and Becky’s ma. She had a reputation for practicing folk medicine. Hell, Englishman. I really don’t know.”

  “You’re holding back on me.”

  Mrs. Kraus was almost as angry as the sheriff. “You really want to know who I thought it was?” she demanded of the radio.

  “That’s why I’m asking.”

  “OK then. Them others, I suspected. But this was always too well organized and too attentive to what the desperate women of this county needed. Hell, Englishman. I was sure it was Sadie, your mother, yours and Mad Dog’s, who was doing it.”

  ***

  Two deserted chicken coops and a tool shed yielded the Heathers nothing more valuable than a rusty scythe and a hoe with spear-like potential. They’d also found more curiously labeled boxes. In one chicken coop were six original shrouds of Turin. The shed held fourteen hat-size boxes, each containing a skull of St. John the Baptist. And there was a stack of five cases of TNT.

  “I am getting seriously weirded out,” One of Two told her sister. “And so cold I can hardly think.”

  Two nodded agreement.

  “We’ve got to find some place to warm up,” One said through chattering teeth. “I think that’s the barn. There should be hay up in the loft. We ought to be able to burrow in there and warm up, only…”