by Cutter, Leah
Franklin slowly rolled out of bed, taking care as he stood up, but the room didn’t shift or sway. He opened the shades and looked out on his popping corn. Crap. Looked like something had blown down three of the stalks on the end. Had it been the creature? Gloria? Or maybe even Sweet Bess, who could be a demon when she put her mind to it?
With a sigh, Franklin left his room. He was surprised to see May still sitting there, sunk into the ancient green couch, watching TV with the sound turned down way low. She’d changed out of her funeral clothes and into an old, green T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts.
“’Bout time you got up,” May grumbled as she stood up.
“You didn’t have to stay,” Franklin protested.
“You gonna change those bandages on your back all by your lonesome?” May asked.
“Uhmmm,” Franklin said. He hadn’t thought of that, though now he remembered Julie mentioning it.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Let’s get those bandages changed, then I’m going home. Darryl’ll be by tomorrow to do them the next time. Doctor said three days, right?” May said, steering Franklin toward the guest bathroom, next to what had been Mama’s room.
It was as tiny as Franklin’s bathroom, but he’d cleaned it up from when it had been Mama’s personal grooming station and there had been lotions and creams and gels and stacks of nail polish and four different curling irons and three straighteners and every product and gizmo known to woman. It still carried the overly sweet scent of all that, only much fainter now.
“He did,” Franklin said. “How did you know?” He didn’t remember telling Darryl, and he sure as shit hadn’t told May.
“That nurse, I think her name was Julie? Caught up with me at the funeral. Now, sit, and take off your shirt,” May directed Franklin, using a matter-of-fact tone.
Why wasn’t May teasing Franklin about Julie? Surely she’d seen them sitting together. Franklin sat on the closed commode wedged between the sink and the shower, then slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt. He should have changed out of it after the funeral, but he’d been too sleepy.
May helped Franklin drag the shirt off, then gave a low whistle. “Dang, Cuz, you really hit the ground hard.” She lightly pushed his head to one side. “Shoulda landed on this instead. Would’ve done less damage.”
“Maybe so,” Franklin said, relaxing.
May worked quickly and professionally, peeling off the old bandages and taping fresh gauze down, starting with his back, then doing his arms.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” Franklin asked quietly, not wanting to disturb his cousin or the quiet mood that had descended on both of them.
“Studied to be an EMT once,” May said. “Never wanted to be a nurse, no goody two shoes. But scraping folks off the highway always sounded like fun.”
“Really?” Franklin said. He’d had no idea. “What happened?”
“Carlie, my baby,” May admitted. “Not that I would’ve graduated or anything. I was just farting around, mostly.”
“You’re good at this,” Franklin said quietly. “Maybe when the kids get older, you could go back.”
“Maybe,” May said. “But then, chances are, they’ll be having babies.”
“And you could be the cool grandma who saves people’s lives,” Franklin pointed out.
May grinned at him. “Never could stay away from danger, you know. Always rushing in—”
“When the sane folks are rush out. I remember,” Franklin said. Mama had said that about May, more than once, and also that she had more courage than brains.
Franklin didn’t know what Mama would say about his injuries. The gouges were puffy around the stitches holding the skin together. He’d have scars on both his arms, and probably his back as well.
“All set,” May said as she finished with the last bandage. “Now you,” she said, pointing at him, making him want to lean back. “Don’t be doing anything stupid. The doctors did a good job with these stitches, but that don’t mean you can’t rip them out pretty easy. You rest. You hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Franklin said meekly.
“Lord, why can’t I teach that to my kids?” May said with a laugh. “Y’all gonna have to come over some night and show ’em what manners really are.”
“I’m sure they know,” Franklin said. “But they probably won’t use ’em until they’ve left the house and the world shows ’em they have to.”
“When you’d get to be so wise?” May asked, with a grin. “You want help getting into a new shirt?”
Franklin thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, please.” He stood, still easily, and actually, his back felt better now, and went and fetched another button shirt, a green one that Mama had always liked, with short sleeves, this time.
“Naw, not that one,” May said. “You’re gonna wear that one when Nurse Julie comes to pick you up. Get me another one.”
Franklin should have known May would only hold off on her teasing for a while. “I don’t have many,” he said, coming back with an embarrassing red, white, and gold Hawaiian shirt that Darryl had gotten him as a joke for Christmas one year.
“Well, now that I know this is your style, I’ll just pick you up some,” May said as she helped him into it.
“May,” Franklin said warningly.
“What? I can’t help it. Want you to look good, Cuz,” she said. “Now, there’s pot roast in the fridge, some meatloaf, seven-layer salad, and a bucket of coleslaw.”
“What?” Franklin asked. May hadn’t cooked all that while he’d been asleep, had she?
May shrugged. “People always bring food to a funeral. Darryl went and raided Ma’s kitchen for you.”
“Thank you,” Franklin said. He blamed the pain, the medication, and everything else for the way his eyes suddenly pricked.
“I’d give you a hug, but I don’t want to hurt you none,” May said. “Now, what did I say you should do?”
“Wear the green shirt when Miss Julie comes calling,” Franklin told her with a grin.
May expertly thwacked him on an undamaged part of his arm. “Not that.”
“Rest.”
“I mean it. Or I will come over and sit on you until you do.”
“I will,” Franklin said. He wasn’t sure he’d be up for much of anything anyway.
“You gonna be okay on your own?” May asked as they neared the door.
A light caught the corner of Franklin’s eye. Mama was back, sitting at the kitchen table. She seemed to be whole again, looking like she’d never left.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Franklin told May with relief.
* * *
Though night was fast approaching, Franklin still went out into his rows of corn behind the house. He wasn’t far enough outside of town that he got a full view of the stars, but he could still see a few shining in the deep purple sky. A car swished by on the road going into town, then everything settled down. Franklin breathed in the quiet.
He didn’t ever want to leave this place. It was home to him, as comforting as that good pot roast in his fridge, as filling as that side of mashed potatoes he’d had with it. How was he gonna pay the taxes this year? The hospital stay had just taken another chunk of his savings, and he wasn’t going to be able to work for a day, maybe two.
His cousins didn’t have any cash, and he couldn’t ask Aunt Jasmine for money, either, even if Lexine might have a nice insurance payment coming. He’d just have to figure it out, and either win that Kentucky State Fair blue ribbon, or maybe take a second job.
Franklin mourned the three fallen stalks, the leaves already wilting, the corn almost, but not quite ripe yet. The stalks had just been pushed over, not twisted, so he figured it had been either Gloria or Sweet Bess, or heaven help him, yet another ghost. He reached down and picked up one of the fallen soldiers, grunting with pain. He was weak as a kitten, but he still dragged it away to the compost heap, then did the same with the other, panting and sweating by the time he’d finished that simple tas
k.
One side of the fence around the heap had been knocked down, and something had been rooting around. Since they’d been going after food scraps, Franklin figured it were something real, not ghostly. There were plenty of critters around—coons, rabbits, deer, wild dogs, and cats—could have been anything.
Franklin reached down to pick the fence up and stopped as soon as he felt the weight of it. The stalks had been light enough. With his back as it was, though, he shouldn’t lift the fence. Normally, he wouldn’t have even noticed it. May really would sit on him, or worse, if he tore his stitches.
Frustrated, Franklin let the fence lay where it was, with the stalks on top of the heap, forming a green X.
Back inside, Gloria had joined Mama at the table. Franklin poured himself a glass of sweet tea and sat down at the table with them. He kept the lights down and stayed on the edge of his seat, unable to lean back.
“You okay, Mama?” Franklin asked, getting a glare in return. He looked at her arms, but didn’t see any scars—they seemed smooth and all filled out, though the creature had gouged them but good.
“You seem better,” Franklin said. “How about you, Miss Gloria? You had a run-in yet with that creature? How is it connected to you, and to Karl?”
Gloria tapped her bright nails on the table, an almost soothing sound, except for the source.
The creature had been in Karl’s fields, Franklin was sure of it. It hadn’t attacked Karl, though, when he’d shot it, but had come here, to Franklin’s house, instead. So did that mean that Karl wasn’t special? The thing hadn’t attacked Ray, but had just focused on Adrianna.
“What’s so special about Karl’s fields, then?” Franklin asked Gloria. “What’s that thing want with them? Is that why you wanted me to steal Karl’s corn, so the creature wouldn’t get it?”
Franklin didn’t get a response. He hadn’t expected one, not really.
There was something there, though, he was sure of it.
However, Karl would never invite Franklin to come and tour his fields.
And going on his own was sure to get his backside full of rock salt.
Franklin was still gonna have to try.
* * *
Morning was hard, harder than even when Franklin’s alarm went off too damn early. He wasn’t sure he could move, and when he did, he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep going. Everything hurt. When Franklin sat up on his narrow bed, the pain took his breath away, and he had to just sit for a moment before turning and sliding his feet onto the ground.
Damn it. Maybe once he got going, it’d be okay.
Franklin gave himself a sponge bath, knowing a real bath or a shower was out of the question for a few more days. It felt good to wash off all the sweat from the day before. He looked at his face in the mirror: Though his dark skin camouflaged the black bags under his eyes, if he looked closely, he could see them. The whites were bloodshot as well. It looked like he was coming off a three-day bender.
The joke about the other guy wasn’t funny anymore.
Franklin gingerly made his way to the kitchen, where just Mama sat. “Morning, Mama,” Franklin said as he opened the fridge. Maybe breakfast today would just be leftovers. He couldn’t see cooking anything. He pulled out the coleslaw, carrying it with both hands to the counter, then reached up for a bowl without thinking. “Ouch!” Damn, he was sore.
Worry spilled out into the room.
Franklin looked around, only to see Mama staring straight at him.
“Mama, I’m fine,” Franklin assured her.
It didn’t help. Mama was worried about him, worried about her boy.
Was that why she was here, haunting him? Because of that worry?
Mama had always joked about seeing whatever future people paid her to see in her cards. She’d never do it for real, or open up a shop and put up one of those neon signs that said Psychic—your future read here!
But she’d had some kind of gift. Franklin was sure of it.
“Mama, did you see something? In your cards? About me and the future?”
Mama nodded her head slowly.
A spike of excitement rushed through Franklin. Mama was responding! Maybe she wouldn’t haunt him until he died. “Was it to do with this creature? This spirit that’s been haunting me, that broke all those dishes?”
Again, Mama nodded.
“Do you know how to stop it?” Franklin eagerly asked.
The sorrow in the room tripled as Mama shook her head No.
* * *
Franklin settled himself in the living room for the day, cranking up the old air conditioning unit sticking out of the window, blowing it on him as the heat built up. There wasn’t much to see on TV, but Franklin couldn’t pay that much attention to it anyway, still sleepy from the medicine and the pain. He propped himself up with pillows on the old green couch and flipped from one old movie to repeats of cop shows and around.
Darryl came by after dinner. He still wore the uniform of the car repair shop he worked at, but his hands had been scrubbed clean.
“Your back ain’t too gross, is it?” Darryl asked as Franklin sat down on the closed bathroom commode again.
“May didn’t seem bothered,” Franklin said.
Darryl snorted. “Not much bothers that girl.” He tugged the tape off Franklin’s back, not as gentle as May had been. “Eh. I seen worse,” was Darryl’s only comment. He didn’t move as quickly or efficiently as May, and Franklin came to appreciate the training his other cousin had had.
“Did I tell you why I think the thing came after me?” Franklin asked.
“Yeah, that Karl had filled it full of rock salt,” Darryl said as he finished Franklin’s back and started working on his arms.
The swelling had gone down around the stitches since yesterday, Franklin noticed. Maybe he was getting better.
“You said before that it was going after your lard, and that ghosts like things that were salty,” Darryl said. “And you said that whatever it grabbed you with, those whips, were infected.”
“According to the doctors, yeah,” Franklin said, not liking where the conversation was going.
“So let’s poison it,” Darryl suggested. “Put up a salt lick near Lexine’s cabin, only spike it with antibiotics.”
“Where would we get enough antibiotics to kill it?” Franklin asked.
“Well, you’ll be seeing that nurse—”
“No,” Franklin said. “Absolutely not.”
Darryl grinned at him. “Just jossing. They make antibiotic gels and things, right? We can just get some of those, douse the lick good.”
Franklin nodded. It might work. But he had his doubts. “Preacher Sinclair wants to go after the thing too.”
“That’s only because Ma tore a strip off him,” Darryl said. “He don’t believe in ghosts and spirits and things.”
Franklin held his tongue and didn’t point out that Darryl had only recently admitted to believing in them as well. “That don’t make sense. He’s a reverend,” Franklin protested as Darryl helped him back on with his shirt. “Doesn’t he believe in things he can’t see? I mean, isn’t that part of his job description?”
Darryl laughed. “You’d think. But the preacher ain’t a bad man.”
“So should we take him with us? The next time we go out?” Franklin asked.
“Sounds like a plan,” Darryl said with a grin. “I’ll arrange it with the reverend. How about tomorrow night? Friday?”
“Well, I ain’t going dancing,” Franklin pointed out. “And I’m not up for too much. But yeah, let’s go put a salt lick out by Lexine’s cabin. Sit in your truck and see what we catch.”
* * *
Franklin wasn’t expecting any more visitors, so he’d taken off his shirt and just let the cool breeze from the AC in the living room window blow on his bare skin. He hadn’t turned on any lights, either, just let the glow from the TV light the room. Mama was back in the kitchen, this time with Gloria, who were both acting mad again. Franklin didn�
�t know at what.
When someone knocked loudly at the front door, Franklin debated not getting up to see who it was. But ghosts and spirits didn’t knock. He didn’t do more than kind of drape his shirt over his chest, though.
The red and blue lights flashing in his driveway made Franklin’s gut drop through to the bottoms of his bare feet.
“There’s been another attack,” the sheriff said abruptly, without even saying hello.
“Who?” Franklin asked, slipping one of his sleeves on.
“Darryl.”
* * *
The creature had found Darryl and attacked him while he was driving his truck up the highway. Fortunately, Darryl had steered onto the shoulder before he slammed into anyone, then had gotten himself out of the truck cabin before the thing could do too much damage.
Franklin didn’t know why the creature didn’t just follow him—seemed his cousin was just lucky that way.
Darryl was still all torn to hell. The creature had wrapped its thorn whips around his forearms and sliced them up, where they’d been clutching the steering wheel.
Sheriff Thompson brought Franklin to the hospital. Darryl was still in admitting—they weren’t going to have to do much but give him some stitches. Since they’d recognized the wounds from when Franklin came in, they’d set Darryl up on antibiotics right away. He sat on what looked like a dentist’s chair, with a doctor in a white coat sitting beside him.
“Don’t know what you boys been hunting,” the doctor said as he stitched away at Darryl’s arm. “But it sure got some claws.”
Neither Franklin, Darryl, nor the sheriff said anything.
“Why didn’t it come after you after you’d thrown yourself from the truck?” Franklin asked when the doctor had gone.
“’Cause I’d grabbed my shotgun and winged it,” Daryl said with a grin. “But that rock salt didn’t really stop it.”
Franklin nodded, glad that the thing hadn’t come after him again in retaliation. Hopefully it hadn’t gone after anyone else, either.
