by Alan Lee
We left. She kissed my ear and my neck, and would have crawled into my lap if I let her. She breathed heavily.
“You’ll be the biggest guy I ever fucked,” she said.
I didn’t comment. I fought against the storm raging inside and fought to keep my car on the road.
“I bet your dick is bigger than Roy’s. I hope so. Hurry up.”
She kept whispering into my ear, and somewhere between Kahill’s and her house the spell she’d cast over me vanished. The more she talked the more she turned into a beautiful trash can. An open sewer with a great body.
We stopped in front of her house. I let the car engine run.
She crossed her arms, took the hem of her shirt in her hands, and pulled it off with one easy motion. Her bra was dark blue, a pushup, and the moonlight touched only the upper curves of her breasts.
“I want to be fucked, Mack. For an hour. We go until I say. Got it?”
I wanted to. It’d been a long time, over a year, and she looked fun. Visions of past conquests flitted through my memory, clouding judgement.
“Taylor…”
“You can tell people about it. Fucking me is a big deal.”
“I can’t do this.”
She put her hand in my lap and squeezed. “I beg to differ, big boy. Wow.”
She opened the door and got out. She undid the top button of her jeans. It parted with an audible pop of cloth. I could no longer see her face, only her hips, her hands, her navel.
I can’t do this.
Yes you can. Best hour you’ve had in months.
Maybe, but I’ll pay for it.
Go inside. Take her clothes off.
“Listen,” I said. “For reasons I won’t explain right now, I can’t.”
“What? Get out of the car.”
“Goodnight, Taylor.”
I stomped the gas and fled.
Like a coward.
Like a man broken.
30
The phone woke me. I sat up stupidly in the sea of white sheets, searched for the source of the ringing, and located my cell after nine years.
“Hello,” I mumbled.
“Not at church?”
“I don’t go.”
“I recommend Olive Branch Baptist,” the voice said.
“Andrews,” I said, identifying the voice.
“Yeah?”
“Detective Andrews. Just figured out who you are,” I said.
“Late night?”
“What do you want.”
“To update you. On Murphy and his friendly neighborhood drug distribution service. He didn’t exactly have a marijuana wholesale warehouse, but we found enough.”
“Good.”
“We don’t think he’s very well connected, and it doesn’t appear he knows much about the murder of Mackenzie Allen.”
“I got that impression too. Who supplies him?”
“This is tobacco county, August. Thousands of acres full of tobacco leaves. People pay their bills by growing tobacco, and buy new trucks by growing weed here and there. Impossible to bust them all. Murphy had twenty sources, at least.”
“So you bagged a dealer,” I said. “But that’s it.”
“Exactly. We’re stone cold on the murder. We dragged in the usual troublemakers, a few informants, and nothing. Nobody knows anything, nobody has heard anything. We’re not even sure which direction to look.”
“Same here,” I said and rubbed my eyes.
“The paper is roasting us,” he said. For the first time since I met him, he sounded frustrated. “Same story, front page, every day. And we’ve still got nothing.” I smiled and remembered the intense pressure from the LA media. I didn’t miss that. “You’ve done a lotta homicide investigations, right?”
“Lotta people die in Los Angeles. The City of Angels. And homicides.”
“You have me there. I only do a small handful per year. Is this normal? No leads, nothing suspicious, nobody knows anything?”
“Nope. This is bizarre. Either that or you suck at your job.”
“Come in soon. We’ll compare clues.”
“You have clues?”
I hung up and stared at the ceiling, picturing the note I had received on my keyboard. A lot of questions would be answered if I could solve that card. Each day I woke wondering if a new note was waiting for me.
I stared at the far wall and last night’s events played across it like a movie screen. We’d driven frantically back to her place, her mouth and hands everywhere. Old emotions slammed into me. Old and new. Taylor laughing and teasing, her fantastic sexy smile. If I’d stayed, the next hour or two would’ve been marvelous and hot and steamy, and I wanted it. I hadn’t had a night like that in a while.
But I’d moved to South Hill to get away from things like that. Empty things. Things that hurt the next morning. Taylor would be a drug and leave me flying high just to crash in a few hours, depressed and miserable.
I pictured her. The blue shirt in her fists, a slow sultry look on her face. The ripples of her abdomen, the soft mounds over her lacy bra, toned shoulders, moonlight…
“Scrambled eggs and sausage.” My father walked in holding a plate and a glass of orange juice. “You’ll need to get your strength back, after last night.”
31
That night my father put Kix to bed and we played a quick game of Backgammon, and then he left for Roanoke. Like most nights, I spent thirty minutes cleaning up blankets, books and toys from the floor. He hadn’t learned to crawl so the mess remained centralized. I was getting pretty tired of washing his high chair tray and his bottles. Lucky he’s worth it. Then I sat down with popcorn to watch football. Sunday night is football night.
As I watched, I thought about my father. A good man but he had changed, getting lost after Mom died. He dated a lot, and had received messages from several women during our weekend. Lost within work, within accomplishments, retirement property, women, gadgets, and more women. But he still walked around like most of the world, hoping no one would notice how lonely he was.
My phone rang.
“Hey Mack,” Mr. Cannon said. Mr. Cannon was the long-haired, skinny, nosey computer whiz who taught seventh-grade English.
“Hey Mr. Cannon.”
“You know, you can call me Trevor.”
“Hey Trevor.”
“Hey, I was just calling to let you know,” he said, “about our Wednesday night service this week. Our Wednesday night services are real nice. Real good time. This Wednesday we’re cooking Brunswick stew.”
“How was church today?” I asked. This was the third call I’d gotten from him in a month. He went to church, brought home the bulletin and let me know about all the upcoming dates. He won the honor of being my most persistent friend.
“Real nice. Pastor shared about apple pie and how it can’t be apple pie without apples. And we’re the same way, except with the Bible.”
“I don’t have a clue what that means, Cannon.”
“Anyway, let me know if you want to go. Brunswick stew is real good.”
We hung up, and I munched on popcorn and thought about stew. Maybe I’d go.
My phone rang again.
“Hi, is this Mack?”
“The one and only.”
“Hey Mack, it’s Sam. From yesterday.”
“Sam,” I said slowly. Carla’s husband. “From yesterday. No bells. Sorry.”
“I’m really funny,” he said. “Remember?”
“How’d you get my number?”
“South Hill Middle staff directory. Online. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”
“No problem. What’s up.”
“I, jeez,” he said. “I don’t really know how to say this, or why I’m calling. I suppose just to warn you. Though I imagine you don’t need it.”
“Probably not. I’m very strong. Warn me of?”
“Aaron and Roy, mostly,” he said.
“Oh no. They have guns and beards and everything.”
�
�Can we keep this phone call between us?”
“Probably,” I said.
“Okay. They both got their pot from Jon,” he said. “And you were recently reported to have busted Jon. Not a lot of potheads around here love you right now.”
“That’s a shame. They’re such a highly sought after demographic.”
“Roy spent the night in jail for drunk driving last night too. His wife called us, furious. They think you tipped the cops.”
“Gasp,” I said.
“Yeah. Those two guys usually find a way to run off whoever Taylor brings around. I think it’s some game they play. She does it on purpose.”
“You’re a good guy, Sam. I appreciate the warning.”
“No problem, Mack.”
“Did you know Mackenzie Allen?”
“Yeah, a little. Played cards with him once.”
“Lots of card players in South Hill,” I said.
“There’s not a lot else to do.”
“Where does everyone play?”
“Different places. Jon Murphy’s, quite a bit.”
“Think he’ll invite me to the next one?” I asked. He laughed. I’m a riot. Back on top. “Did Aaron know Mackenzie Allen?”
“Yeah. Aaron and Roy both knew Mackenzie Allen, but never liked him much.”
“Why not?”
“Because of Taylor. Taylor has a guy to flirt with wherever she goes. She visits a lot of hunt clubs. The one you saw yesterday is a piece of crap. There are some really nice ones. TV, satellite, air-conditioning, refrigerators, everything. She has a guy she’s stringing along at each club. Sorry to be the one telling you all this. But she used to flirt with Mackenzie Allen at school, and not with Roy. Made Roy mad.”
“Roy hated Mackenzie Allen,” I said. “And now Mackenzie Allen’s dead.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But I’m sure Roy didn’t do it.”
“Did Taylor ever date Deputy Andrews? Captain America-looking guy?”
“Yeah. Yeah, she did. You know him?”
“Not really,” I said.
“He’s one of the many.”
“Sounds like you’re not thrilled with your wife’s friend selection.”
“Well,” he chuckled into the phone. “I really like Taylor. And only partially because she the hottest girl in South Hill. Other than Carla, of course.”
“Course.”
“She’s got a lot going on for her. Including men issues, unfortunately.”
“Actually,” I said. “I think her taste has improved recently.”
“Yeah,” he said and I could tell he was smiling. “But not by much.”
32
I knocked on Taylor’s door and walked into her classroom during our planning period. She sat reclined in her chair, facing the door. Her right leg was crossed over her left and she bounced her right shoe, a red kitten-heeled sandal, on the end of her toes. Her left sandal lay on the floor beside her foot. Toenails painted a dark wine color. I couldn’t see the color of her skirt, it was so short. Her blouse was a tight, pale white.
“Well, well. Changed your mind, preacher man? Come to eat the forbidden fruit?”
“Look at that. A biblical allusion.”
“I’m a christian too, you know,” she said.
“Tell you the truth, I’m not sure what that means. I thought I once did, but I think maybe it’s a subjective thing. Like saying you’re rich, but by whose standards?”
“What’s your definition of a christian?” she asked.
“I don’t know. What’s yours?”
“I don’t know either,” she said. “How can you be terrible at this? You’re a preacher.”
“I used to work at a church, with their youth group. I’m not a preacher.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I go to church.”
“I don’t anymore.”
“Then you aren’t a christian.”
“I think that just means I’m not on an attendance roll somewhere,” I said. “And I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“The hell you shouldn’t,” she said. “You shouldn’t have stopped. You shouldn’t have dropped me off and left.”
“You and I are after two different things.”
“I’m just after some fun, preacher man. Especially with you.”
“And I’m doing my best to avoid exactly that.”
That stopped her. Her leg quit bouncing.
“Why?”
“I’ve had that kind of fun for almost a decade. Made me miserable and mean. Now, I’m waiting. For something substantive.”
“And I’m not it,” she snapped.
“You’re probably somebody’s real thing. But not mine. We don’t fit.”
“The kissing fit.”
“The kissing…” Was out of this world. “Was a mistake. No matter how it felt.”
“Are you a queer preacher?”
She stood and walked barefoot to stand in front of me. Her body stood so close to mine she had to look all the way up to see me. I started to feel overheated. And prurient.
“I know you’re not queer,” she said. “Because I can tell you want me.”
“Never said I didn’t. Just can’t.”
“You’re not impotent. I can tell that too.”
“I have to go grade papers,” I said.
“Wuss.”
My planning period seemed to last forever. I sat staring at my door, hoping Taylor wouldn’t walk in. She had already sent me an email. It said, How long do you think you can run from me? I wasn’t sure if I could turn her down again. Walking out of her classroom and driving away from her place had been some of the toughest decisions of my life. Giving in would have been easy. And so fun. So much fun. I hurt thinking about it.
My door opened. My heart stopped.
“So,” Kristen said. She was the blonde teacher from Radford, married to Curtis. “I’m impressed.”
“With?”
“You.” She walked in and sat in a chair near me. She wore comfortable black shoes, black slacks and a gray shirt. “I didn’t think any man would be able to turn her down. I’m not even sure if my husband could.”
“Yes he could. You’re worth it.”
“Thanks. Still, I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. If it’d been her instead of you just now, I might have caved.”
“You really are a good man, aren’t you?” she said.
“I’m a desperate man. Desperate to do things right.”
“You decided not to roll in the hay with Taylor Williams because you don’t think you two will end up together. That’s something a good man would do.”
“You found out about this quick.”
“I’m a girl. She’s a girl. She needed someone to cry to.”
“She cried?” I asked.
“Not bawling. But yeah, a little.”
“Wow,” I said. “Probably because I’m handsome, huh.”
“Probably because you’re a pig.”
“I’m joking. Making jokes helps you ignore things, like pain, you know.”
“Is that why you’re always making lame jokes?”
I frowned. That showed her.
“What kind of right things are you trying to do?” she asked.
That question was too big to answer. Too big of a concept, too big of a change in my life. There was no easy way to express my former despair compared to current hope.
“She’s a cistern,” I said.
“A what?”
“A leaky cistern.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a metaphor,” I said wisely.
“I’m aware. Still don’t get it.”
“Water was precious in the ancient Middle East, and so they’d keep it in cisterns, underground holding tanks. You’d survive if your cistern was holding water,” I said. “We all keep our life in different cisterns, hoping they’ll hold, support us, keep us alive. Family, job, alcohol, whatever. Some cisterns are healthy, some aren’t. One of mine used to be havin
g fun with girls. Girls like her. They were a cistern for me, where I put a lot of energy, time, and self-worth. Except it didn’t hold water. Doesn’t work. Never fills. Leaves you empty inside.”
“I get it.”
“But you don’t,” I said. “You wouldn’t get it unless you’ve been exhausted pouring yourself into relationships and gratification only to realize it’s shallow and empty. Work so hard and end up even lonelier. It’s a scary feeling.”
“I can tell.”
“Fun isn’t the goal. Fun leaks,” I said.
“Wow.” She smiled. A great, big beautiful smile. “You hate talking about yourself. This is an encouraging change.”
“There are things worth talking about.”
“How do you know Taylor’s not the girl?”
“I figure the right girl won’t show up at my door in heels with wine the first week I meet her.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Don’t act surprised. I’m handsome.”
“That’s like a pornographic movie,” she said.
“You shouldn’t watch porn.”
“I don’t. I was playing off a stereotype.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Uh huh,” she said.
“But you’re right. That first night, she might as well have worn a sign that read, ‘Not right for you.’”
“Probably wouldn’t have matched the heels,” she reasoned.
“Plus, I think the only reason she wants to date me is because I’m the only one in South Hill she hasn’t.”
I jammed my small gardening hand shovel into the ground and wiped my forehead.
“Gardening is not for sissies,” I said. The autumn sun had increased its intensity when it saw me gardening, or so it felt.
“You noticed,” Ms. Allen said.
Kix and I’d brought Ms. Allen a tray of burgundy fall chrysanthemums. We caught her gardening, as I’d hoped we would. As soon as Kix saw her he’d held out his arms and she hadn’t let go since.
I had six of the dozen flowers planted in front of the house, in the partial shade of the porch. Behind me in a pile lay the tulip bulbs that hadn’t flowered well earlier in the year. I’d been instructed to pull them out and replace them. The six planted flowers were packed in with soil so I redistributed the mulch and started on a new location with the seventh.
