by Brandon Witt
Fear shot through him. He’d been called a faggot many times in his life, but never with the intonation he heard now. The usual disgust and hate were there, along with something more this time—a desire of some sort Wesley wasn’t familiar with. Typically that particular label brought anger, but Wesley felt no anger, just fear, which only made the sensation increase. Gooseflesh rose over his skin. He tried to think, form a thought. Nothing came, just flashes of white behind his eyes. The crashes of his heart beat away any image that started to form in his mind.
His hand still clamped on Wesley’s shoulder, John reached down with his other hand and clasped the base of his own dick. He shook the appendage, stepping a bit closer so its head thumped against Wesley’s leg, just below the hem of his briefs. “I’ve met other fags like you. You’re gonna blow me, and then you’re gonna let me fuck your ass, like the pussy you are. You’re gonna beg for it.”
For a moment the pressure on Wesley’s shoulder lifted, releasing him. Then it returned, clamping over the muscles between his shoulder and neck, trying to force him to his knees.
He didn’t want this. Not like this. Never like this. Not this man. Never with this man.
He didn’t want this.
“Come on. Get down and get my cock in your mouth. I won’t hurt you unless you want me to.”
Wesley glanced down, observing the man stroking his dick as if watching some fucked-up horror movie.
“Get down, Doc. You’ll like it, my cock’s big. I bet you like it big. Just keep your fucking mouth shut about it. When we’re done, keep it to yourself or you’ll bleed. I promise you that. Keep your mouth shut, and I’ll give it to you again. If you’re any good at any rate.”
Suddenly the world came back into focus, then narrowed to a pinprick, so all that existed was this filthy room, this vile man with a purple cock banging against Wesley’s bare leg, and the hand clamped over his shoulder.
Then John Wallace was slammed against the wall of his kitchen, Wesley’s large hand tight around his throat.
“If you ever touch me again, it won’t be me who’s bleeding.”
He’d never heard his voice sound like it did. A stranger spoke through him. A stranger who scared him a bit, but one he was glad had arrived. He’d always known his strength, but he’d never felt as strong as this.
Never like this.
Wesley’s gaze traveled from John Wallace’s bulging eyes and watched his fingers tighten and press into the stubble-covered neck. He could crush this man. It would do the world a favor. If nothing else, it would help the cattle just beyond the walls, help the man’s used-up wife, probably even the kid.
A stranger’s voice. A stranger’s thoughts.
He forced himself to look once more into Wallace’s newly terrified blue eyes. The smell of ammonia rose to meet Wesley’s nose, and he was aware of a warm spray against his leg.
“I’m going to leave. If you follow me, it will be the last thing you do.”
With a final squeeze and another shove against the wall, Wesley released the man’s neck and took a step back.
John Wallace slid against the wall, descending into the puddle on the kitchen floor.
Only then did Wesley realize what he’d felt against his leg. Another shot of power flooded through him. Promptly followed by shame. He shoved it aside. He noticed the block of knives by the sink and reached out, pulling out the largest one.
The man on the ground began to whimper.
With his other hand, Wesley retrieved his jeans and keys. Keeping the knife pointed at the man on the ground, he backed toward the door. Once there, he nudged it open with his heel.
He turned and ran toward his car, ignoring his shoes by the porch and the gravel digging into his bare feet, ignoring the rain that still fell in sheets over the dark night. The screen door slammed, and Wesley wheeled around, knife outstretched once more. Nothing. No John Wallace. Just a closed screen door, the dim light of the bathroom visible within.
Wesley threw the knife over to the side. He heard it bang against something metallic, but didn’t bother to inspect what it had been. Turning back toward the car, he ran.
The keyless entry worked.
Flinging open the door, Wesley dove inside, slipping the key into the ignition before his legs were fully inside the car.
Gravel sprayed against the walls of the house as the yellow Miata did a U-turn, spinning out before tearing over the dirt road and disappearing into the darkness.
Chapter Five
THE GROUND was still damp from the previous evening’s thunderstorm. The knees of Travis’s jeans soaked up the moisture as he knelt on the wet grass. He’d remained in the position so long his legs were numb, and the chill was starting to creep into his bones. The sun beat down, warming his hunched back.
He barely felt the soggy earth or the unclouded sun. Only the rough edge of the marble headstone registered as he rested his weight on his left hand. That, and the smoothness of the etched letters his right index finger traced.
Shannon Avery Pope Bennett
Beloved Wife and Mother
Only four years had passed and already the edges of the carved letters of her first name were smoothed out slightly. The tip of Travis’s finger had developed a new callus within weeks of her death. Even when he was not in the graveyard, his callused finger shaped the letters of her name on the pad of his thumb.
Travis had never been the kind to enjoy cemeteries. They were lonesome, desolate places. Void of hope, destroyers of life. Even on days like this. Even with the towering trees spreading their vivid-colored boughs over those eternally at rest, the birds yet to leave their summer homes singing overhead, the still-green grass seeming to sparkle over the gentle swells of the hills lined with markers. Travis had never found the beauty or peace some claimed cemeteries offered.
He still hated the place. Raged at it. Wanted to destroy it. Even so, outside of his home and the feedstore, regardless of his feelings about the graveyard, Travis spent more time here than any other place.
Four years had passed to the day. Four years since her blue eyes had closed. Four years since he’d run his fingers through her thick red hair—more than that, actually. She’d lost her hair long before she’d passed. Four years since he’d heard her low laugh. Yes, Shannon Bennett had laughed to the end. She’d always been quick to laugh, quick to explode as well, but it had been her laughter, not her temper, that had sounded during her last few days. Tears as well, of course—fast and furious as she’d said her good-byes to her parents, torrents as she had embraced their three children, slow and heavy as she’d kissed Travis that last day. But it had been laughter that had been her last sound. After the tears were gone. After the promises she’d elicited from Travis. After the endless I love yous. Her last utterance, her laughter, still resounded in Travis’s brain, always loudest when he was here in front of her marbled name. Maybe if she’d transitioned with crying, or yelling, or regrets, Travis wouldn’t seek her grave, wouldn’t need to hear her voice so often. But none of those were ways Shannon had chosen to leave. She’d laughed. For the life of him, Travis couldn’t remember what he’d said through his tears that had made her laugh so hard. So fully. He could almost believe he’d imagined it. Almost. If only he couldn’t still hear it. She’d laughed. The sound he’d loved the most from her was her final gift to him—a laugh gone from this world for four years, yet as clear to him at her graveside as it had been at her deathbed.
“I thought he was dying. I thought he had cancer.” Travis’s voice was low, barely audible to his own ears. Definitely not loud enough to disturb the birds’ songs above him. “I thought it was cancer. Shannon, cancer. I can’t go through it again. The kids couldn’t do it again.” His index finger traced the S three times. “I know I promised to be strong for them, my love, but I can’t be strong if he has cancer.”
How angry Travis had been the day Shannon had brought Diamond Duncan home from a shopping trip with Wendy. She hadn’t even called to ask if h
e was okay with her getting a dog, let alone some long-haired corgi. It might have been okay if she’d gotten a golden or mastiff. Even a full-sized poodle, for crying out loud. But a corgi? Named Diamond? Like hell.
She and Wendy had stopped on their way home from Springfield at some no-name spot on the map. There’d been a painted cardboard sign stuck next to the highway beside a gravel road. Shannon had said it was Wendy who wanted to see the puppies. They weren’t going to get one, just wanted to see them.
It wasn’t the puppies that caught Shannon’s eye. It was the two-year-old dog covered in matted dirt, locked in a crate several yards away from where Wendy had sat, laughing as she was covered in puppy kisses.
The breeders had told Shannon that corgis have a recessive gene that could pop up every few generations and cause their typically short, coarse hair to be long and fluffy. The dog wasn’t show quality. They hadn’t even bothered to pin his ears as they would have any of their other corgis born without the typical fox-eared perkiness.
Shannon had offered a hundred dollars on the spot for the dog. They’d accepted, and less than two hours later, the newly named Dunkyn Diamond had entered the Bennett family. Shannon said she’d thought six-year-old Caleb needed a dog, a companion. He was so quiet and shy. A boy needed a dog, she’d said.
It hadn’t been the child the dog bonded to. Not even to Shannon. Despite Travis’s feelings about small dogs, the corgi had padded up to him, let out a series of Chewbacca-like vocalizations, and shoved his head against Travis’s shin.
Grumbling about the new “dog,” Travis bathed Dunkyn and introduced him to his young son. Dunkyn and Caleb got along, but as soon as Travis walked out of the room to get a beer, the dog followed him. It wasn’t until two days later, when the corgi accompanied Travis to Emmitt Walker’s farm and started herding the buffalo, that Travis fell as in love with the dog as Dunkyn had with him.
“I won’t be able to handle it, Shannon. I can’t lose you both to cancer. I know he’s not you, and I know he’s just a dog. But I can’t do it. Not if it’s cancer. I need you to fix it, Shannon. Anything but cancer. Please.” Again his fingers traced the S. Travis had never prayed, never been the praying type, until Shannon had gotten her diagnosis. Suddenly Travis was a convert. He was certain he’d prayed more than any man before him. Ceaselessly he’d prayed.
Shannon died.
Travis never stopped praying—the prayers just changed directions. They were no longer addressed to the unhearing God who had taken his wife, but now to the mother of his children. A silent prayer to her was always on his lips. Only at her gravestone were his prayers audible.
He’d already been at her grave a couple of hours. Wendy and the kids had come with him. Caleb had cried. Avery and Mason had as well, but mainly because their big brother was crying. They’d been too young when Shannon had left. They knew her from pictures and stories, nothing more.
After they left, Travis did his normal routine, filling Shannon in on all she was missing, not that much had happened since he’d visited her the day before. Still he told her everything that had transpired. Things he’d already told her. Jason Baker’s return from his hunting trip. Dolan busting through the screen door again. Wendy considering starting an online business for homemade bunny clothes—he swore he could hear Shannon laughing at her sister-in-law. He told her everything—that he missed her, that he loved her, that he ached to hold her. He told her things he’d told her a thousand times before.
He didn’t mention the new vet in town, not him or his yellow car. He didn’t mention one of the many promises he’d made to her four years ago.
He told her about Dunkyn and about his own fear. He made requests of her, as he had every day since Dunkyn’s face had swelled.
No tears fell. They were gone. He told her about that as well. Again.
“We thought we’d find you here, son.”
Travis looked up, though he’d know the tired voice anywhere. “Hi, Glen.” He stood, having to use Shannon’s gravestone to help get his tingling knees to straighten. He shook the man’s hand and leaned beside him, giving the frail, sickly woman a hug. “How are you, Patsy?”
The old woman pulled back to look in his eyes, one wrinkled, spotted hand cupping his cheek. “How are you, my boy?”
Travis shrugged but didn’t look away. Much like Shannon’s mother, he ignored the question. “The kids and Wendy were here earlier. They left a bit ago. I’m sure Wendy’s getting lunch prepared for the kids. I’ve gotta go back to the feed shop, but I know they’d love it if you dropped by.”
Patsy glanced over toward her husband. He nodded and smiled gently at her.
She turned back to Travis. “You sure you can’t leave the store a bit longer?”
“No. I need to get back to work.” He tried to smile but failed. “Idle hands, you know.”
Glen gave a knowing nod. “We’ll see you soon, then, son. You’re coming to the retirement party they’re throwing for me out at the factory, yeah? You and the kids?”
“Fifty-five years you’ve given to that place. They’d better throw you a party. We wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good thing.” Glen patted Travis’s shoulder, then turned toward his daughter’s grave. He bent—a struggle over his sizable belly—and laid a large arrangement of white flowers in front of Shannon’s headstone.
Without any more exchange, Travis left them. He walked quietly through the graveyard toward his truck, parked outside the iron gates. As always, he paused by another gravestone, glancing at the inscribed name, Dionysus Durke, and patting its bumpy edge. “Miss you too, Donnie.” Though a few years younger than Travis, Donnie had often helped him around Cedar County Feed when he’d first taken it over years ago, helping update and get the place into shape. He had died in some sort of car wreck right after Shannon had been diagnosed. They’d not been able to attend his funeral—Shannon had already been in the hospital, her first of countless times, and Travis wouldn’t leave her.
Even at the time, Travis had feared Shannon was going to leave him. When he’d heard about Donnie’s death, he hadn’t been able to keep from feeling jealous. What an easy death. A car crash. Instant. Maybe even painless. Nothing like what Shannon was going through. Nothing like he was going through watching her slipping away.
What he would have given for a car crash.
Or anything.
Anything but cancer.
“DADDY, YOU left some of those strings in here. It’s gross.” Irritation laced Avery’s accusation.
Travis retrieved the small pumpkin from her outstretched arms. “Sorry, princess.” He took the pumpkin to the edge of the driveway and scooped out the offending innards he’d left behind.
Taking the pumpkin back to the six-year-old ruler of his heart, Travis sucked in a breath as she looked up at him. Her blue eyes flashed with irritation. “Did you get it all this time?”
He couldn’t answer for a moment. The little girl had inherited her grandmother’s and mother’s eyes. Her temper she’d inherited fully from her mother. She was the spitting image of Shannon, except that his daughter’s long straight hair was strawberry blonde, not her mother’s fiery red. Maybe it was just his extended time beside her grave that morning, but Shannon seemed to shine out of her daughter even more than usual.
“Well? Did you?” She stamped her sparkling silver shoe on the concrete, bringing his attention back to the present.
“Avery Bennett! Stop that attitude, young lady. You might be as spoiled as an actual princess, but there’s no reason to act like it.” Wendy swept over and took the pumpkin. “You can have this back when you can speak nicely.”
Avery’s bottom lip stuck out and began to quiver. Travis looked away, knowing he’d cave, even if he knew she was doing that face for his benefit alone. He could never tell her no; she looked too much like her mother. Thank God for Wendy, or he’d have a complete terror on his hands when she became a teenager.
A cool breeze blew a few fallen leaves across
the driveway. Travis walked over and knelt beside his two sons. Avery’s twin, Mason, sat in his older brother’s lap.
“Caleb, why don’t you let me help Mason. You go start your own pumpkin. As cold as it’s starting to get, we’ll need to wrap up soon. You’ll run out of time.”
Caleb didn’t even look up at his father, and his quiet voice was nearly lost before it got to Travis’s ears. “It’s okay, Dad. Mason’s wanting his pumpkin to look like Dolan.”
Hearing his name, the dog bounded from where he’d been resting and jumped at Caleb, resting his front paws on the boy’s arm.
“Chill out, Dolan.” Caleb pushed the dog gently from him. “Go sit.”
The dog’s eyes bugged out, his tongue lolling in excitement.
“I keep telling you that dog is retarded.” Jason Baker laughed from where he sat carving his own pumpkin.
Caleb looked up, his eyes flashing. “Uncle Jason, I’ve asked you not to say that word. It’s mean.”
Jason laughed again but had the courtesy to look remorseful. “Sorry, kid.” He patted the concrete by his lap. “Come here, Dolan. Come here.”
The dog tore off across the driveway at full sprint. He didn’t even try to slow down before running into Jason’s side.
Jason wobbled but got his balance before he lost hold of his pumpkin. He looked over at Caleb. “What would you call that?”
Caleb grinned. “Just happy. He’s excited to see you.”
“Uh-huh. Sure he is.” He patted the driveway again. “Sit, Dolan. Sit.”
Dolan did, eyes still rolling and following every movement of those around him.
“Is he sitting the way you need him to so that you can carve him?”
“Yeah, that’s great. Thanks, Jason.” Caleb nodded, then turned his attention back to the pumpkin. He whispered something to Mason, who shook his head, then broke into one of his shy smiles.
You should see them, Shannon. We did good, you and me. Can you believe Caleb will be driving in two years? I wish you were here. Travis would have sworn he could hear her whispered response in his ear.
