Boondocks Fantasy

by Jean Rabe

  Nina nodded. “There’s one after this next exit. It’s a new one; there may not be a mall close, eh? After that, we’ll head to the rest area.”

  “All this corn,” Alicia shouted to make herself heard over the music. “Are we out of Ohio yet?”

  “Soon,” Nina laughed. “Not that Indiana is any better. It’ll be hours before you see a city again, eh?”

  “Maybe we should ditch this?” Natalie asked, gesturing at the SUV. “Someone might have gotten a good look.”

  “Good thinking, Chiquitita,” Nina looked at her with approval. “But I’ll hate to ditch this ride, you know? Still, better to be careful. We’ll get a new ride after this exit.”

  “What’s that sign say?” Alicia asked, leaning forward, pointing with the hand that held the lit cigarette.

  “Sanctuary,” Nat said.

  “Nothing,” Nina frowned as she steered the SUV toward the local road. “No stores, no signs, nothing.”

  “Corn,” Alicia spat. “Nothing but pinche corn.”

  Natalia looked out the window. On her side, the fields were filled with low green plants, with bits of red. Strawberries, maybe?

  “Let’s get back on,” Juanita leaned forward. “There’s nothing here. And that means the people, they have nothing.”

  Nina snorted. “Farmers are rich. Everybody knows that.”

  “There,” Natalie pointed ahead. “There’s a sign.”

  The paint was faded, but the flowers at its base were bright red and cheerful. Sanctuary, it read. Below was the word “population” but there was no number next to it.

  Nina eased up on the gas, and the big vehicle glided into town.

  Natalie looked around, at the houses with big porches and lots of flowers in the yards. There were kids’ swing sets and sand boxes, and low white picket fences. It was pretty . . . nothing like her neighborhood back in Detroit. Lots of hanging baskets and toys in the yard.

  “See,” Nina said softly. “There is money here, yes?” She carefully stopped at the stop sign and then accelerated. “Let us see what we can find here in this fat, white town.”

  “I’m not so sure, Nina.” Alicia took a deep drag on her cigarette. “The other places, they have been by the exit, you know? Here . . . all these houses . . . I don’t think—”

  “You’re right,” Nina snapped. “You don’t think. I do.”

  Alicia shut her mouth, her lips a thin line.

  They went on for a while, until the town center came into view. Here it was, a square, with small storefronts. There was a hardware store, a dry cleaners, and there—a grocery store set back a way from the road. People doing their shopping, many unloading full carts.

  “There, right there,” Nina pulled in carefully. “See her?”

  Natalie saw her, a thin old lady wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, with a straw hat on her head. She was unloading her cart into the back of a big new pickup truck. The cart was sticking out, and there was a black handbag there, the handles sagging over the side.

  “Oh, yes,” Nina breathed, getting the SUV into position. “Be ready, Chiquitita.”

  Nat’s heart started to race as she put her finger on the button, ready to move.

  “Clear,” Juanita said softly as they slid up to the cart.

  Nat hit the button, and the window slid down quietly. The hot humid air blasted her face as they rolled past the cart. Nat held her breath, leaned out, grabbed the handles, and pulled the purse in through the window in one quick, quiet move.

  The purse caught on the cart, dragging it back into the SUV with a clang.

  The woman turned, her gaze catching Natalie’s. Blue eyes blazed in the shadow of the hat.

  “Shit,” Nina snarled, slamming on the gas.

  Natalie caught herself on the window edge as the big vehicle lurched forward. She yanked on the purse, but it was still stuck. The cart tipped and swayed, dancing on its wheels.

  “Let go, let go!” Alicia shrieked.

  Natalie let go, and fell back into the seat. The cart fell over, its contents spilling as the SUV engine roared. The vehicle surged forward—

  Then squealed to an abrupt stop.

  Natalie was thrown against her seat belt. She looked over to see Nina pale and shaking, looking down at her foot pressed firmly on the brake.

  “Nina,” Natalie gasped. “Go, GO!”

  Nina sat stiff, facing forward. “I can’t. I can’t move!” she said, her voice hoarse with fear.

  Nat moved her hand to release her belt . . . and could not. She could not move. Madre de Dios . . .

  Alicia opened her door and got out.

  Nat could see in the mirror as Alicia climbed out, her face frozen, her eyes terrified. But she moved slowly, walking back a few steps to the old woman, who was standing there staring at the SUV. Holy Mary, what was she doing? A crowd was gathering now, all around them.

  “I am sorry, ma’am. It was an accident.” Alicia’s voice was stiff, almost forced. “Let me help you.” She knelt and started to pick up the cans that were rolling around on the ground.

  Juanita’s door opened, and she was getting out. Natalie gasped as her own hand moved to the door, and pulled the handle. She tried to stop herself, but she could not control her own body. Inside she shrieked as she reached for the celery on the ground.

  “Accidents happen,” the old woman said. The people around them had already reached for the cart, setting it back up on its wheels. “Perhaps we can talk about it over some milk and cookies?”

  Natalie trembled inside. It sounded like a question.

  But it wasn’t.

  Sheriff Seth Tucker sighed as he pulled his cruiser into Miss Abigail’s drive and spotted the big black SUV parked next to her pickup truck. Seems the grapevine was right this time. He called in the Michigan plates to Helen, and she promised to run them for him before she took her break.

  He parked, picked up his hat, and eased up out of his car and into the summer heat. That was one mighty big SUV. One of them new Mountaineers. He leaned against the back window and shaded his eyes to look inside. The number of purses in the back didn’t surprise him. He was just as glad it wasn’t something worse.

  Seth didn’t bother with the front door, but took the path along the side, under the grape arbor. He knocked on the side of the wooden screen door and waited.

  Miz Abby appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her blue eyes pierced him right through the screen, but he was well used to that glare. “Afternoon, Sheriff.”

  “Afternoon, Miz Abby.” He took off his hat and nodded to her. “Hear tell you have some visitors.”

  “Marigold Harper was in the parking lot, one row over,” Miz Abby’s voice was dry. “I suspect the entire county knows by now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Seth stood and waited, not dropping his gaze.

  “I can handle this myself, Sheriff,” Miz Abby’s eyes narrowed.

  “No doubt about that,” Seth said calmly. “But this thing needs to be done proper, with paperwork and all. We’ve talked about this, ma’am.”

  Miz Abby snorted. “Should never have let them build that exit off the turnpike, Seth. We don’t need this kind of thing, and it’s going to happen more and more.”

  “That’s as may be,” Seth agreed. “But while we are a sanctuary, we are also part of this world, Miz Abby.”

  “Well, come on in then.” Miz Abby swung the door open. “We’re having cookies and milk in the kitchen.”

  Seth took off his hat, and ducked his head to enter the porch and step in to the kitchen. It felt ten degrees cooler in here, with the ceiling fan going in a lazy circle overhead.

  Seated around the table were four girls, dark-skinned and dark hair, dressed in black tops with black jeans. They all had that terrible dark makeup on and enough mascara to choke a horse. He’d guess they’d be over eighteen, except for the smaller, thin one off to the left. She didn’t look more than sixteen, even with the make-up and nose ring.

  Seth sighed inside
. They looked hard. Hard lives, hard living. The tattoos, the piercings, the hair. They looked horribly out of place in Miz Abby’s kitchen.

  And he was betting they weren’t much for milk and cookies, either.

  Their bodies were sitting straight up in their chairs, their black leather jackets hanging neatly from the backs. They had napkins in their laps, their hands folded over them, their eyes wide with fear. He couldn’t say he blamed them.

  “Ladies, this is Sheriff Tucker.”

  “Hello, Sheriff,” came the forced chorus of low, hoarse voices.

  “Now, be polite and introduce yourselves,” Miz Abby chided.

  Obediently, each girl spoke her name in turn.

  Seth shot Miz Abby a glance that she ignored. “Pull up a chair, Sheriff,” Miz Abby said as she busied herself by the stove. “Milk? Sweet tea? Coffee? Although how you can drink coffee in this heat is beyond me.”

  “Coffee’s fine.” Seth hung his hat from the back of the wooden chair and settled down into it. “Merlin was saying there wouldn’t be a break in the humidity much before Sunday. Can’t come soon enough for me. It’s good for the crops, but hard on a body.”

  “Merlin would know; he has an eye for the weather.” Miz Abby brought over a big old white mug of steaming coffee. “You take it black, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Seth reached over and helped himself to the plate of chocolate chip cookies in the center of the table and took a bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue. “Mighty fine cookies, Miz Abby.”

  “Flatterer.” Miz Abby scoffed, but he knew she was pleased.

  The four girls all reached out at the same time, picked up the cookie off their plate and took a bite. They chewed slowly, even as their eyes rolled frantically around in their heads.

  “So what brings you by, Sheriff?” Miz Abby leaned against the counter, wiping dishes with her towel.

  “Heard about the incident in the parking lot. Just wanted to see if you were all right . . . and learn a bit more about your guests.” Seth took another bite of his cookie.

  “It was an accident, Sheriff.” Miz Abby was firm. “Wasn’t it, girls?”

  “Yes, Miz Abby.” All four chorused.

  “My groceries got tossed about a bit, a few eggs broken.” Miz Abby continued. “No real harm done.” She turned and put the plate in her cupboard. “The girls have offered to make it up to me. I was thinking about putting up some jam this week, and could use the help.”

  “Making jam is pretty hot work,” Seth observed.

  “Yes, it is.” Miz Abby agreed. She reached for another plate. “I’ve a mind to do strawberry this year. I’ll set aside a few jars for you.”

  All four girls took a drink of milk and another bit of cookie.

  “Well, that’s mighty nice, but—” Seth’s radio chirped. He reached for it, with an “excuse me.” Miz Abby just kept drying her dishes.

  “Tucker here.”

  “Sheriff, that SUV was reported stolen out of Bloom-field Township.” Helen’s voice filled the kitchen. “And it seems there’s a string of purse-snatchings down 75 and the turnpike, stretching from there to here, all with the same MO. None of the victims got a plate, but they all involve a black SUV.”

  “Imagine my surprise. Thanks, Helen.” Seth signed off. “Well, Miz Abby. Seems that I need to talk to the girls.”

  Miz Abby raised an eyebrow.

  “Alone,” Seth said firmly. “And freely.”

  “Very well.” Miz Abby said. She folded her dish towel and placed it on the counter. “I’ll be out in the garden.” She went to the door, taking up her hat and a pair of gloves. “But first there’s something you need to see.” She glanced at the table. “Girls?”

  Four hands rose up to tug at their necklines. Three of the girls pulled theirs down, but the fourth, the youngest, Natalie . . . her hand paused. Seth raised an eyebrow at that, and glanced at Miz Abby. Miz Abby’s eyebrows had gone up as well, but then her eyes narrowed.

  Natalie’s face had turned red, with effort and embarrassment to Seth’s way of thinking. But she lost the struggle, and pulled down her neckline to reveal a tattoo of a small female demon. Seth looked around at four identical tattoos. But the older girls had more color in theirs.

  Seth looked over at Miz Abby, who was studying Natalie like a new and interesting bug under a microscope. “You know that mark, Miz Abby?”

  “The design is a succubus. A female demon.”

  “Ah,” Seth nodded. “Thank you, Miz Abby.”

  She snorted, put on her hat, and went out the screen door without another word.

  Seth turned back, and had to grin as the room exploded in female voices, screaming obscenities in Spanglish. The screams grew louder as they realized that they couldn’t stand. Nina reached out, grabbed her milk and threw the glass at the counter, where it shattered, dripping milk down the side.

  Seth winced. That would be another few hours in the kitchen, stirring big pots of simmering jam. “Ladies.”

  “Hijo de tu chingada madre!” Nina spat, her lovely face screwed up in an ugly grimace.

  “La tuya,” Seth responded.

  There was a flash of surprise in all their eyes.

  Alicia pointed at the door. “That is a bruja. A pinche bruja!” She made a sign against the evil eye.

  “Yes,” Seth agreed.

  They all stared at him.

  “Well, at least, she is a witch. The most powerful in the county.” Seth took a sip of coffee. “I’d skip the foul language if I were you.”

  “Pinche puerco,” Juanita muttered.

  Seth shrugged. He’d been called worse. “I’m not the one who tried to steal a witch’s purse.”

  “You are going to arrest us, right?” Natalie’s eyes were full of tears. “Send us back to Detroit?” She sounded almost hopeful.

  “Nope,” Seth said. “Miz Abby needs some help around the farm this summer. There’s plenty to do.”

  “You cannot do this,” Juanita beat on the table, making the dishes rattle. “You must—”

  “We’ll let Detroit know that we found the vehicle. We’ll return all the purses, with all their property—after all, we found them in the car.” Seth drained his coffee, and considered another cookie.

  “You cavron,” Nina hissed. “You cannot abuse us so—”

  Seth glared at her. “Abuse? Some hard work over a few months? Please.” He stood up, taking his hat with him. “When Miz Abby’s done with you, we’ll see where we’re at.”

  Nina snatched up another glass, reared back to throw . . . and froze.

  Miz Abby stepped back into the kitchen.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Miz Abby.”

  “Some cookies for later, Sheriff?” Miz Abby smiled as Nina slowly lowered the glass to the table.

  “Not unless you magicked away the calories, ma’am.” Seth patted his stomach.

  “No such luck, I’m afraid.” Miz Abby looked around her kitchen. “You have a good afternoon, Sheriff. We’re going to clean up the kitchen, and see if we can’t do something about the weeds that are choking off my peas.”

  “I’ll take the SUV with me, ma’am. I’ll send some of the deputies for my cruiser.” Seth nodded to the girls, solemn and silent in their chairs. “You ladies have a good afternoon.”

  Seth settled into the leather seat of the Mountaineer and turned the air up and the radio down. He’d have to come back in a few days and check on the girls. By then, Miz Abby would have them scrubbed down. They’d be dressed in sensible clothes, without make-up and their various earrings and studs, and tired to the bone.

  Sure was going to be an interesting summer.

  The fact that the young one, Natalie, had been able to resist Miz Abby, even for a moment, now that was the real interesting thing.

  Seth chuckled. A few months hard work would only make them think they were dying. It would be good for them. Might make a difference.

  It had for him.

  Of course, he still couldn
’t stomach the taste of strawberry jam.

  THE STORYTELLER

  D.L. Stever

  D.L. Stever is the youngest grandma you ever saw and is emerging as a fiction writer. She is previously published in Terribly Twisted Tales and Timeshares. A veteran of the U.S. military, D.L. enjoys working in her yard, digging and planting with hopes that things will grow like they are supposed to according to directions—which is not always the case. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband of many years and one dominating Yorkshire terrier.

  My momma’s friend, Old Josie Miller, lived over on Bear Creek, and once a month Momma would bake a pie or cake to take for a visit with Miss Josie. Miss Josie would always cut the dessert and give Willard and me a slice along with a cool glass of sassafras tea. She never ate a piece in front of us.

  Miss Josie lived alone in a gap set back from the dusty dirt road. A graveyard filled with her relatives clung to the top of the mountain on the left, and a lone grave lay on a knoll on the right. The latter was where her husband Jacob lay buried, close enough so she could keep watch over him, “until the Lord called her home,” she once said.

  “Tell us a scary story, Miss Josie,” Willard and I would plead. Growing up in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky where the supernatural abounded, many a dark evening my brother and I sat enthralled as we listened to stories of apparitions, mysterious lights, and strange sounds.

  Miss Josie would always begin in a voice low and haunting. My favorite story is still crisp in my mind.

  “One evening, as it was gettin’ pretty dark outside,” she said, “I got my pail and went out around the hill to the barn to milk the cow. I was standing in the doorway, not far from the graveyard, and I saw Roosevelt Run-ions coming toward me on the path.”

  Willard and I leaned closer.

  “Roosevelt was walking really quite almost like his feet wasn’t touching the ground, like he was floating. He had a pick and a shovel swung up over his shoulder. Roosevelt’s head was down like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.” Miss Josie shook her head, gray hairs coming loose from her braid, looking like threads from a spiderweb caught in a slight breeze.