Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  “Well,” she continued, “good Samaritan that I am, I took pity on Hedrick. And told him lil’ Thomas Saunders had a different birth daddy. Hee! Ol’ Hedrick just took off like a shotgun blast. Course he wasn’t seen again after that night.” She scratched her whiskers.

  “Who was Thomas’s real father?” I asked.

  She chuckled. “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it? You see, I know things, quite a few things, I do. Specially ‘bout that cursed Saunders clan. Let me ask you something, Dibby… Do you really wanna know what happened to Hedrick Saunders?”

  I inched back, afraid to speak, scared. Not only of Hettie, but of the answer to the Saunders mystery. At long last. But if her sadistic grin was any indication, I didn’t know if I was quite ready.

  “Are you absolutely surrre you wanna know what became of Hedrick Saunders, Dibby?” Long and teasing, her words resembled a cat’s purr. She scooted in closer, so close I literally had my back against the cold wall. I nodded.

  Eyes tapered to slits, she said, “You might not like what you hearrr…” Words all sing-songy, she grinned, pleased with herself.

  “I need to know.” My throat and mouth dry, I barely formed the words.

  “This is your last chance, Dibby. One final opportunity to just pick yourself right up and get on home without—”

  “Just tell me!” I hollered.

  “Why, Dibby…everybody knows Hedrick Saunders up and ran off with your momma!”

  Hettie’s laughter exploded, flinging shrapnel into my world. My stomach roiled. The witch’s cackling ballooned into the room, taunting me about my mother running off with the man next door. How she left me behind, unloved like a red-headed stepchild.

  The secret Dad wouldn’t tell me.

  Hettie held her gut, guffawing, lolling around next to me. I hoped she’d choke on her laughter.

  In a white hot burst of heat, I bolted off the bed, ran for the door. Sweat-covered, my hand slipped from the handle. Second attempt I lassoed it and threw the door open. I made a beeline for the front door, stumbled into furniture, uprighted candles that snuffed out onto the floor. Hettie’s incessant laughter chased after me.

  “Your daddy ain’t told you the truth about your momma,” the ol’ witch gleefully cried out. “That’s rich! You come back again and I’ll tell you all ‘bout poor lil’ Thomas Saunders!”

  I threw open the front door, then threw up on the front steps.

  Winded, I fell onto my hind quarters, just dropped right down onto the porch. My world spun, out of control, and any control I thought I had over my life flipped over into a lie.

  “Dibby?” From out of the shadows, James cautiously approached. “Hey…you alright?” With one eye glued on Hettie’s front door, James bent over, shook my arm. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  Course not, you damn fool, I wanted to yell. But I didn’t. Instead I just nodded, said, “Let’s get outta here.”

  As we wheeled down the road, I could still hear Hettie’s cruel laughter and taunts. Like spicy food, they stuck with me well into the wee hours of morning.

  * * *

  For the first bit of our long trip back, I didn’t say a word, not a peep. Even though he was chomping at the bit to find out what’d happened, James must’ve realized my need for quiet. Finally, on the last leg, nearly home, I hopped off my bike and walked. James did the same. And I told him my story. All of it.

  “Wow. That’s terrible, Dibby. I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged, carried big shoulders, and didn’t do right by them. “It wasn’t what I thought I’d find out.”

  “Your old lady just up and left with the neighbor? Never said goodbye or, you know, left a note or anything?”

  “I reckon there’s a lot ‘bout her leaving I don’t know about. I was young, three years old. My recall isn’t what it oughta be. And Dad…he never talks about her. All I have really are these vague memories. How Mom was perfect. But then reality’s gotta way of sneaking up and pulling the rug out from under you. What I really remember…was Mom not talking. Not doing much of anything. I think…the last time I saw her was at our kitchen table, just bawling her eyes out.”

  James stopped, put an arm across my back. I rested my head on his shoulder.

  “I really don’t feel up to snuff. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore, James.”

  He nodded. “Copacetic.”

  I girded myself, took a couple of breaths, then moved on. “Hey, what happened to you back at Hettie’s? When she grabbed me?”

  “I…ah…I kinda’ hid back in the woods. I was watching the house, looking for a chance to rescue you.”

  “You mean you were scared and high-tailed it for cover. My hero.”

  “Come on! I was really trying to—”

  “Wet your britches.”

  He sighed. “I’m telling you I was—”

  “Never mind. So…what did you see out there? I mean, from the moment I got up on her porch.”

  He paused, but continued to walk his bike along Main Street. Finally, he said, “Dibby, I don’t know what I saw. Really. I kinda…maybe I don’t wanna’ think about it too much.”

  And maybe he was right. Finally learning how to cope in Peculiar County.

  “So, what’re we gonna do now?” he asked, clearly relishing a change of topics.

  “As much as I surely don’t ever wanna visit that ol’ witch again, she told me to come back in regards to Thomas Saunders. I just wish there was someone else willing to tell me the truth.”

  “I guess there’s that Boot guy,” said James.

  “You kidding me? I’d rather go with Hettie.”

  “Whatever you do, I’m going with you. You can count on me, Dibby.” Moonlight caught in his eyes, illuminated his commitment. For a moment, I wanted to be bold, grab him, continue where we left off the other night. But the news of my mother—not to mention my sick breath— washed such notions away.

  We neared the Lewis and Clark Hotel. As if on cue, James released a not-so-subtle yawn, his arms taking turns stretching for the stars.

  “You don’t need to see me home, James. I can manage just fine on my own.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, it’s the right thing to do. I can’t just leave you—”

  “You’ve performed enough heroic duties tonight.” I laughed. He toed the dirt, his male ego wounded. “You just get on to sleep. Not too much time left in the night anyhow.”

  Hollow barks bellowed from within the hotel. James jumped as someone’d stuck a lit match between his toes. “That damn dog!”

  “You’re finally accepting Mittens’ ghostly origins?” I asked.

  “Guess I am. Now.” He grew edgy, twitchy, searching up and down the street as if afraid something from Hettie’s had followed us home. “Anyway…g’night, Dibby.”

  “Good morning, more like.” He leaned in, gave me a quick hug, a buddy hug. A sudden, heartbreaking, puzzling change in our status quo. Then again, we’d both been through a lot tonight. Or could be he got a whiff of my breath, similar to a skunk gone belly-up.

  On the way home, I rode fast and hard. I had an abundance of anger and hurt I needed to cast away and better it be through bicycling than taken out on Dad. Even if he deserved it.

  Nearing four in the morn, I gave up the idea of getting any shut eye. With a fresh pot of coffee, I set up camp at the kitchen table. Time slowly ticked by as I played out all the scenarios in my head, the many different conversations I intended to have with Dad.

  Going on six o’clock, Dad finally shuffled into the kitchen. He saw me, scratched his stubble, gave a half-hearted, tired smile, yawned, then sat down.

  I yawned too, contagious as a cold, and hardly the commanding way I’d wanted to start the proceedings.

  “Thought I smelled coffee. You’re up early, Dibs.” His brow tucked down as he gave me a once-over. “Everything okay?”

  “Dad… Why didn’t you tell me about Mom?”

  Caught off guard, he shook cobwebs from his mi
nd. Then that heavy brow of his dropped with the weight of the world. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Mom ran away with Hedrick Saunders?” I kept my face serious, my voice monotonic. I wouldn’t surrender, although cracks formed along my voice’s wall. The unfairness of it all clobbered me. Surely, the onus should’ve been on Dad to have this talk with me long ago.

  Dad looked down at his folded hands, too ashamed to look me in the eye. “Dibby…that’s not what happened.”

  “You’re just gonna keep on fibbing to me, Dad? I got a right to know what happened to—”

  “She didn’t run off with Hedrick Saunders.”

  “Sure, she didn’t! How’m I supposed to believe anything you say anymore? Why—”

  “It’s true because I know where your mother is.”

  “Where? Tell me!”

  He grabbed for my hand and I knew then what he aimed to tell me was much worse than Hettie’s version of the truth. “Your mother’s in the Lackasaw Mental Facility. An asylum for the mentally ill.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Say that again… No! Don’t say it again! I don’t understand any of this! Why didn’t you tell me? Is she crazy? Am I crazy? Am I going crazy? Are we all crazy in this stupid, dumb—”

  “You’re not crazy, Dibs.” His smile looked like it hurt him, his gums full of splinters. He squeezed my hand. I held on for dear life. The ride just kept getting bumpier. “And your mother’s not crazy either. That’s…kind of an unfortunate term. Your mom had…has issues.”

  “Issues?” That word was all it took—one lousy little word—to break the wall holding back my tears. “What…kind of issues?”

  “She was depressed. Had been for a long time. And it was damn negligent of me to not have noticed it before I did.” He sighed, kicked his slippered feet out. Preparing for a long trip down Memory Lane. “For no reason I could understand, she’d become prone to crying fits. She wouldn’t sleep. She stayed awake nights, wasting away, sobbing. I tried to figure out what was wrong with her. Studied my medical journals. Even consulted a couple colleagues from college. I couldn’t figure it out…”

  He swallowed audibly. Wouldn’t look up, considering his failure and how his much vaunted science and logic had failed Mom.

  “She took to drinking, too,” he continued. “I suppose it was her way of medicating. That’s where…those rumors about Hedrick Saunders came from. Everyone knew Hedrick liked to tip at the bottle. Your mom and Hedrick closed down the Tavern many a night. I didn’t much care for Hedrick because of it. And…I’m ashamed to say I bought into the rumor, too. About their running away together. You know how tongues tend to wag, particularly in small towns. When your mother left about six months or so after Hedrick did, it didn’t take long for the gossip mill to get up to speed. For the longest time, the thought just ate me up. ‘Till she called me.”

  “You…talked to her?”

  “About two years ago, I think it was. Took me by complete surprise, just when I’d nearly accepted the fact I’d never see her again. But I was over the moon to hear from her, that she was okay. But she said she wasn’t. She’d checked herself into Lackasaw. A mighty big step for her. And after many years of being lost, living by bare means, she was finally getting help. Help I’d failed to provide.”

  “Can we…see her?” Frankly, I didn’t know if I really wanted to. The thought terrified me. Or filled me full of anger. I didn’t know what to think, a terrible time to need my mother. “Maybe just a small visit?”

  Dad shook his head. “Afraid not. Not yet, at least.”

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t want you to see her this way. I tried to tell her it wouldn’t matter. But like it or not…it’s her decision. She said when she’s better…then we could visit. Some day.” He spread trembling hands, then closed the gap. “I’m still waiting. But she is getting better. Be happy for her, Dibs. She’s getting the help she needs.”

  Not only did that sound like a double-edged sword, but I felt both sides puncturing my heart. How could I be happy for a woman who’d abandoned us? When she couldn’t be bothered to tell us why, let alone farewell. When I didn’t matter a bit in her decision.

  Except, of course, for all those years I blamed myself for her deserting me, wondering what I’d possibly done to make her despise me.

  “But…was she unhappy with you? With…me?”

  Dad looked at me with mournful eyes. “No. Absolutely not. I mean…yes, we had our fair share of problems in our marriage. But sometimes…people just get sick. Not right in their head. Not crazy, mind you, but…your mother developed a chemical imbalance in her brain. But Dibby, know this…she loved you. Loves you.”

  Dad enveloped me. I tucked into his warm embrace. Alternately, I bawled, then raged. Wiped my mess of a face, then started all over again.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I warbled. “All this time… I never knew. All this time I’ve wondered…”

  “I know, Dibs. And I’m sorry.” Once his voice broke, I knew I’d had it and started another round. “It wasn’t fair of me or her. I’m sorry. I guess… maybe I was wrong.”

  “It should’ve…been…my…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  We stayed that way for some time. As much as I wanted to be acknowledged as an adult with needs and thoughts and feelings of my own, as much as I wanted the world to finally wake up and see me, tears reduced me back into a child. Helpless in my father’s loving arms. And sometimes, no matter how old or mature you are, maybe that’s a-ok.

  * * *

  Dad took pity on me. Red heat splotches from crying speckled my face, a notorious visual sign school bullies were almost supernaturally attuned to recognize. Or maybe Dad realized I hadn’t been to bed all night. Could be guilt played a big part in his decision, too. Whatever the reason, Dad considered it best I stay home from school.

  Under any other circumstances, I’d do cartwheels over the idea. But it meant not seeing James and I couldn’t risk leaving him to the dangerous clutches of Suzette. He could barely look after himself, let alone worry about predators.

  We compromised. I told Dad I’d go into school late. He hemmed and hawed and finally relented. I hit the hay.

  Sleep came calling, but not for long. Troubled dreams mosied into nightmares, normal folks swapped their skin for demon scales, and my classroom caught on fire. Flames licked the chalkboards and blackened the windows ‘till they exploded. My classmates fled while I remained stuck in my desk, unable to move. The classroom tore apart. Nothing more than stage props, the four walls slammed down into dirt.

  Dream logic performed its lazy magic and dropped me into the Saunders’ now familiar cornfield.

  Thomas Saunders’ face—pale as the underside of a slug—screamed at his unseen assailant. His malnourished arms swept up, flinging left and right. Down on the ground, he curled into a pill bug, trying to make himself invisible amongst the corn stalks.

  A man’s voice rose. Fury torched his lungs. Stalks cracked and caved. They parted. Thomas screamed.

  Hedrick Saunders stood unveiled, hovering over his son, panting. Eyes wild. Single brow scrawled with anger. A scythe in his hands, the weapon he no doubt had nicked me in the back with.

  I tried to scream, but couldn’t find my voice.

  And I woke, knowing full well that wasn’t any ordinary dream. Stalk scratches on my arms provided the proof in the pudding.

  Thomas appeared to be growing impatient. Since I hadn’t been home last night for our usual get-togethers, I imagined Thomas had contacted me via other methods, stepping up the details in his show-and-tell stories. Attempting to light a fire—literally—beneath my hind quarters. A warning?

  Undoubtedly, Hedrick Saunders had killed his own son, Thomas. That much was clear now. But more mysteries remained. What had happened to Hedrick? Why’d he do it? And where did he dispose of poor Thomas’ body?

  I had a lot to do before my fourth hour class, and little ti
me to do it, even though I sure as shooting didn’t want to do it.

  In the basement, Dad stayed busy stuffing dead folks with chemicals and what-not, so I didn’t bother him. I left silent as my shadow and sped through the outskirts of town.

  On Hollow Crick Road, Odie Smith was making his afternoon rounds, delivering mail and hand tosses with equal vigor. Once I caught his eye, he practically dove for cover into his mail sack. His always eager-to-please smile sunk, too. Through my actions, I’d managed to shake the always durable Odie Smith and it made my skin crawl.

  Without James slowing me down, I zipped past the Judge’s tree and down into Dead Man’s Slip fast as a jackrabbit.

  In the daytime, the woods didn’t seem nearly as big or scary. Shadows originated from definite sources I could point a finger to. The way I liked things.

  Still, the farther I traveled along the narrow dirt road, the more nature conspired against me. Everything hushed again in an unnatural union.

  I could’ve heard a pin drop onto the forest floor. Once I rounded the corner and pumped the pedals up the final hill, things changed. At first, the hubbub sounded like the unleashed sobs of a family viewing a lost loved one. But as I conquered the hill, savage, anguished wails rose beyond any sound a human could make. A clowder of cats sat on Hettie Williquette’s sagging front porch. Agitated, their tails switched back and forth. Some clawed at the front door, others stood on their back legs pawing at the windows.

  I wheeled up close, much closer than I’d dared come last night on my bike, hoping to quiet the ruckus. But my attempts did nothing but rouse the cats into further distress. The cumulative sound resembled the police/fire department building siren, the one that hadn’t gone off since JFK had been shot.

  With a gut shot full of dread, I laid down my bike. Carefully, I wove between a porch full of fur. Even though I knew there wouldn’t be an answer, felt it in my bones, I knocked on the door anyway. Next, I peeked into a window, saw nothing but Hettie’s empty front room. The six pointed star and candles that had (or might not have) been on her floor the night before had been removed.