Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

“This seat taken?” James leaned in, grinning like his charm couldn’t be contained. His hair dropped over one eye, mysterious. I imagined he’d posed it so on purpose. In fact, I suspected everything James did he calculated with the meticulous skill of a chess player. I couldn’t believe it’d taken me this long to realize it.

  “Yup. My date’s in the bathroom,” I whispered. “Beat it before he beats you.” I set my eyes straight ahead, the cartoon onscreen blurring into madcap reds and yellows and blues that didn’t register. With James practically breathing down my neck, I couldn’t focus worth a hang.

  “Come on, Dibs… I know you’re too classy to go out with any of those other bozos from school.” As if invited, he settled in. His shoulder rubbed up against mine and he kept it there. Instead of moving away, I shoved him back. No one infringes upon my cinematic territory.

  “Do I have to go fetch Mr. Halloway to kick you out?” I asked.

  “Hey, it’s a free world! I’m just—”

  “It’s not a free cinema. Buzz off.”

  “Dibby, how long you gonna give me the business? I’m sorry already. I’m so sorry my knuckles are dragging the ground. I—”

  “Shhh!” The bald guy behind us hissed.

  With a hand beside my mouth, I stage whispered, “Sorry.”

  “No sweat, Daddy-o,” added James.

  “Stop it, James. I’m trying to watch the show. Alone.” The movie started. “You need to move.”

  “No problem.” James got up, stepped over my feet, fell into the seat on my other side. “There. Plenty room for both your date and me.” He kicked up his sneakers onto the front railing.

  “Don’t do that,” I spat. “Mr. Halloway doesn’t like—”

  “Don’t flip your wig, Dibs.” More belligerent than usual, he dropped his feet one at a time, clumping them down heavily onto the floor. “Listen, I get you’re still mad at me, but I wanted to explain. It wasn’t copacetic, not a bit, that I asked Suzette out, too. She was, you know, just a back-up plan. I kinda thought you didn’t dig me or something.”

  Boys can be so stupid and then there’s James. “You think I go ‘round kissing any ol’ boy, just for the fun, sport and amusement of it?”

  He shrugged, bobbled his head up and down in a simpleton’s manner. “I dunno…”

  The fact he’d even leant the notion serious consideration couldn’t go unpunished. I hauled off and smacked his shoulder.

  “Ow. Dammit, what was that for?” He rubbed his shoulder, playing it to the hilt.

  “Oh, shut up, crybaby. You know I can hit harder than that.”

  “Shhh!” Clearly at the end of his rope, the bald man leaned far over the seat in front of him. “I’m trying to enjoy the picture!”

  “Don’t sweat it, chrome-dome,” said James. “I can tell you what happens. See that guy?” He pointed toward the screen. “He’s gonna’ turn into a fly, kill some folks, then take a dirt nap.”

  “James!” This time I punched him like I meant it.

  The bald man stood, shook his head. “Why, I never! Dibby Caldwell, your father’ll hear about this!” He shook a finger at me, and only then did I recognize Farmer Gentry from the other side of town. “Kids today! I swan…”

  “Sorry, Mr. Gentry,” I whispered.

  He griped all the way to the balcony exit. From the stairwell, his voice grew even more indignant.

  “Dangit, James, look what you did!”

  James laughed, determined to drag me down his wayward path to ruin. “Ah, I’m glad ol’ chrome-dome flaked off.” He turned around. The hot and heavy couple hadn’t come up for oxygen yet. “Looks to me like they know where it’s at.” His eyebrows wagged up and down.

  “If you think I’m gonna kiss you again, you got another thought coming! Besides, you just ruined the movie for me, too!”

  “You kidding? I haven’t seen it. It’s just, you know, all horror pictures are like that.”

  “Will you just shut your pie hole and leave me alone?”

  James fell silent, a long stretch for him. But it didn’t last. “Really, Dibs, you’re the only girl for me. You—”

  “Mm-hmm. Sure. Heard it all before.”

  “You’re the absolute ginchiest. I don’t care anything about that stupid sosh, Suzette.”

  “Uh-huh. Once a liar, always a liar.”

  “It’s true. I’ll do anything to prove it’s you who I like. Anything. Just ask.”

  I fairly wanted to see if he’d take a head-dive off the balcony for me, true devotion and what not. But I didn’t cotton to answering a lot of Sheriff Grigsby’s questions. “You can start by putting a cork in your hole.”

  “I can do that.” James dropped a hand on my knee and plastered on a serious face.

  “Final warning, James! I’m gonna’ go get Mr. Halloway if you don’t… James?”

  His hand on my knee went cold, freezing through my overalls. Still cutting up, he sat there dang near cross-eyed with his mouth gaping open.

  “James, cut it out.” I pinched up his hand, tossed it back to him. It scooted a bit, then stopped, stuck in mid-air. My hand flagged in front of him. I faked a punch to his face. Not a flinch. Talk about crazy. James had retreated, gone fishing.

  At once, all the smells of the theatre seemed to coalesce and stir into something worse: sour, bitter, full of rot like the butcher shop’s back alley. Gravity pushed down, suffocating, heavy. The film stopped. A stuttering frame displayed a man in a baggy suit, hands up in eternal surrender. From the frame’s center, a dark pinpoint appeared, then spread outward, burning with a black crust of cinder. Then the blank screen faded into a darkness, and I just knew I wasn’t gonna like the next movie.

  I turned around. The octopus couple had been cemented into place: arms entwined, lips smushed together, glued tight. Below, the movie herd had likewise fallen asleep with popcorn clusters lifted and drinks up to mouths.

  Lights flickered from the projection booth, casting moving shadows over the balcony. The projector snapped, picked up speed: click, click, click, clickety-clickety-clickety...

  On the screen, an image jumped to life. A cornfield. In sepia tones, silent like an ancient movie, jerky movement carried me deep into the field. While all cornfields look alike, I harbored no misgivings this was the Saunders’ field. The cameraman filmed a familiar dirt path, the one I’d travelled several times.

  The camera caught a pale fold of color, brighter than the surrounding dull field tones, and scooted in close on Tommy Saunders. Huddled on the ground, arms locked around his knees, he shivered up a scare. Suddenly, the camera swung left. Stalks toppled quietly, announcing Hedrick Saunders’ arrival. Rage consumed his eyes as he turned in a circle. Sweat bled from his hairline, rode down angry lines demarking what might’ve been a handsome face in kinder times. His scythe swung through the air, slashed through corn stalks. The boy looked up, eyes wide, terrified.

  Hedrick’s expression crumbled. Softened into a different man, one hardly recognizable. He heaved his weapon aside. Stumbled toward his son, and knelt. A hand stroked Thomas’s hair as he pulled him into a hug. Thomas’s thin arms reached around and hugged back.

  The camera moved, jostled animatedly through the field. Leaves scratched at the lens, itching to get inside the camera. A flesh-colored blur focused into Hedrick’s face, his eyes closed. The camera pushed in. Hedrick’s bloodshot eyes jerked open. His jaw dropped. The camera pulled back to catch Hedrick slip from his son’s embrace and fall into the dirt. His scythe stuck out from his back. Thomas, on his knees, arms still out, stared down at his father’s body. He let loose an agonized scream, all the more horrible for the lack of sound. A shadow stretched across the boy, twin claws reaching, and finally engulfed Thomas into a blackness that swam into full screen.

  Next to me, James hadn’t moved a muscle, still lock-jawed and paw raised. An eerie stillness reigned, lacquered on thick.

  Something ticked behind me. The smallest, most inconsequential sound and it nearly sent me thr
ough the roof. A sound I couldn’t identify, tiny snaps, maybe the wet lapping of a dog’s tongue? Kissing?

  I turned around, curious, terrified. The red exit lights had gone belly up. A small, shimmering light from the projection booth provided scant illumination. Captured in mid-smooch, unmoving as statues, the couple behind me clearly hadn’t made the sound.

  Tek…skitch, skitch, smek…

  Back in the corner, far left-balcony, last two seats, two people sat. Folks who hadn’t been there earlier. The projection booth light limned the figures, blurry at best, my guess a man and woman. Wide shoulders spread across the back of a seat, a cap on the man’s head. His companion occupied but a slice of her seat, a couple pounds beyond skeletal. A white bucket of popcorn glowed on the armrest between them.

  Suddenly, a hand snaked out, dipped into the popcorn. The rest of the body stayed as motionless as the rest of the moviegoers.

  Crnch…crunch…smek…

  The woman fed popcorn into her mouth. Kernels crunched in her mouth, loud, louder, stringent as tree limbs coming down in an ice storm.

  I hadn’t an earthly clue as to the couple’s identity, and I ‘spected an earthly answer wouldn’t be forthcoming, so I opted to leave.

  Sidestepping James, I skedaddled to the end of the row, the right balcony exit my goal. At the door, I stopped. Braved another look. The woman’s head wobbled, loosey-goosey on her neck. High-pitched laughter, familiar and awful, stopped me dead.

  “You got work to do, girl,” rasped Hettie.

  “Help us rest.” I’d never heard his voice before, but a harsh farmer’s timbre matched the man’s image I’d just seen on-screen.

  Hedrick Saunders and Hettie took turns digging for popcorn, bones creaking, white hands working back and forth between bucket and unseen mouths. Their mass of shadow rippled like waves from a lake-tossed stone. In tandem, they stood, flowed over the theatre’s seats, drifted closer to me. I saw—imagined I saw?—pale kernels slip between Hedrick’s fleshless lips. The popcorn bucket swayed in the liquid darkness, bouncing merrily, carried by bone white, possibly skeletal hands. They moved fast. From one end of the balcony to the next they flew. I couldn’t lock down their location, didn’t want to, just had to to survive. But I couldn’t move.

  And the awful, toothless, wet crunch, crunch, crunch sound drew closer.

  I closed my eyes. Forced my legs against their will. Moved a hand along the wall. My shoulder went through the door first and I didn’t open my eyes until well into the hallway.

  The lobby hadn’t escaped the big freeze either. Ever vigilant, Mr. Halloway stood tall, hands respectfully atop his ticket box. Behind the concession stand, one kid had his head stuck in the hotdog case, getting a bit hot under the collar, I imagined. Another held a cup beneath the soda dispensing machine, the liquid overflowing and soaking the carpet.

  I broke into a run, then pulled up short beside the next concession customer. Angela, Suzette’s top beast, stood there, insolent eyes rolled up (and I fervently hoped they’d stick that way), hand on outthrust hip. Undoubtedly poised between cruel words for the concession stand help.

  There’s scared, then there’s opportunity that only comes knocking every once in a great while. I decided to answer the door.

  From the counter, I grabbed the mustard dispenser. Not nearly enough to satisfy my artistic aspirations, I fetched the ketchup bottle as well. A two-fisted, condiment gunslinger, I commenced to decorating Angela’s precious party dress. Added a few dollops to her hair, too.

  Fresh, untainted air welcomed me as soon as I stepped through the Starlight’s doors. The lights in the lobby flickered once, twice, three times, then brightened the sidewalk.

  From within the theatre, Angela screamed, a sound that thoroughly warmed my heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  As regular as the pigeons, Sunday mornings I could be found in Forton Park. Named after a man who didn’t figure very heavily into anyone’s sense of history, Frederick M. Forton’s bird-spattered statue stood at the head of the small grassy island. His pride jutted out nearly as far as his ballooned up chest. His fancy duds bespoke a man in love with his own importance. With a stone leg propped up on a boulder, he looked as if he’d conquered Mars rather than set foot on a tiny hunk of Hangwell. And I still really never knew what Mr. Forton did. These days, I wanted to limit my knowledge of local history.

  The park itself wasn’t much to sneeze at, not much more than a couple of benches, a tree, and ol’ Mr. Forton watching over his lands. But it was my favorite place to think. Besides that, the best show in town played out once the dueling churches let out.

  Down the street, tortured bike wheels clacked. A dog panted to catch up. Nope, not a dog, but pretty much the same thing. James raced toward me, dying astride his bike. In motion, showing off, he jumped from his bike while attempting to wrangle the handlebars. The bike had other ideas and kept right on going. James ran, hands still glued to the handlebars. For a grand finale, James tossed face first onto the road.

  The bike raced ahead, bumped the curb, and flattened onto the grass not far from me. I laughed, applauded the bike. Always on stage, James hopped up, bowed.

  “I meant to do that.” His smile wavered a bit, kinda dizzy looking. “I saw you from my room.” He gestured back toward the Lewis and Clark hotel.

  “Stop following me.” I bit my upper lip to keep a smile tucked inside. Cad or not, it felt nice having a boy—a cute boy to boot—pursuing me.

  “I’d follow you anywhere.” He sat next to me, kicked his tennis shoes out. “And I got dibs on you.”

  Not the first time I’d suffered through that hoary word-play on my name, but I imagined it’d seriously taxed James’ brain. Giving it your all goes a long way with me. “No you don’t. And never say that again.”

  He sighed. “Dibby…why’d you leave last night? I thought…you know, I thought we were getting along.”

  “Apparently you aren’t the same James that was annoying the tar outta me last night then. Your world must be a mighty odd place.” Unable to comprehend sarcasm other than his own, he grinned and nodded. “What do you remember about last night anyway?”

  “What? I dunno. We were sitting in the balcony, then I guess when I wasn’t looking, you beat it.”

  “Sorta.” I told him my accounting of things.

  “Really? Wow. So…I was a stiff or something?”

  “Same as always.”

  “And you thought Thomas’s old man, Hedrick, killed the kid, but now you don’t?”

  “If anything, it seemed like Hedrick was trying to save his son. Then someone sliced him down with his own scythe.”

  “Man, that’s…hairy. Hey, one other boss thing happened last night after you beat feet. You know Angela, right? Someone dumped ketchup and mustard all over her. She was a real mess, bawling her eyes out. Funny thing is she said she didn’t know who did it. Crazy!”

  “Huh. Weird.”

  “Anyway, what’re we gonna do next?”

  “We’re not doing anything. As president of the Find the Murderer Club, I kicked you out.”

  “Well, I’m reapplying. Here’s my card.” He found his heart, patted it. “My derring-do belongs to you, Dibs.”

  “Don’t you ever give it a rest?” I scooted over. He followed.

  “Nah. I’m gone for you, baby.”

  Don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t give in… Maybe a little giving in’s okay…

  “I want you gone. Now.” Unfortunately, my shameless grin belied my words.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” He grabbed my hand. I yanked it back, our endless tug-of-war battle. Nothing would satisfy other than complete victory. “Dibby…things just haven’t been right without you. Forget about Suzette. All that junk. She’s not important. You are. I really wanna know what happened with your old man about your mom.”

  I didn’t know if I believed him, trusted him. Then again, I doubted he was a good enough actor to muster up such conviction. Maybe I
just wanted to talk to someone. I told him about Mom.

  “So, your mom’s cuckoo? ‘Round the bend?”

  “Show a lil’ respect, dangit! Those are mighty hurtful words.”

  “Yeah, okay, sorry. She’s, ah…looney-tunes?”

  I’m so dumb. Not as dumb as James, but right next in line. I shot up, huffed away toward my bike.

  “Wait! Dibby, hang on!” He ran after me, grabbed my shoulders. Turned me around and tortured me with his dreamy brown eyes. “I didn’t mean anything. It’s just…I’ve never met anyone who’s…” He stammered, better than saying something ignorant again.

  “My mom has a chemical imbalance in her head,” I said, “or something like that. It’s a sickness, nothing to make fun of.”

  “Honest, I wasn’t making fun. It’s just sorta…you know…” If he went for a twirling “crazy” finger around his ear, I fully planned to lay him out. “This is all new to me, Dibs. And, maybe…it makes me think about myself, you know. Maybe my own brain’s kinda imbalanced.”

  His troubled eyes, his unsure mouth-set switched everything around. No faking, no showmanship, just a hurting boy. Someone who I understood, empathized with. In this big ol’ scary world, it’s a bit of a comfort to have someone flailing right alongside of you.

  I took his hand, led him back to my bench, the Dibby Caldwell Sunday bench. “James…there’s not a day goes by I don’t think I’m a bit tetched in the head. The thoughts that meander in and slip away leave their mark. The good news is I’m beginning to ‘spect we’re not alone. Maybe we’re normal and it’s…I dunno, some kinda stupid cosmic test we have to figure out. How to live, how to make sense of stuff… How to be who we are.”

  I had to clear James’ bangs away to look into his eyes. He said, “You think even the football players…even Suzette has weird thoughts?”

  “Even ol’ Suzette,” I answered.

  “This might sound way out, but…do you ever wonder if Suzette and the rest think about…you know, ending it all?”

  I’ve never given thoughts of suicide serious heft, not really. But on occasion—on a particularly bad day, when the weather’s drippy like a runny nose, when I feel like I’m the only suffering person in the world, when I want my tormentors to feel horribly over their treatment of me—that mean and self-serving idea sometimes sneaks right up and pokes a finger inside my mind. And it scares the daylights outta me. Of course I know suicide’s stupid, know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t make a knee-jerk decision based on a stupid bully, or hormones, or a runaway mother who doesn’t love me. Or give more than a fleeting thought to when I look in the mirror and wonder why I’m not like the popular girls.