Peculiar Country

by Stuart R. West

  “My, oh my, you gave me a fright,” I said. “We don’t see too many clowns around these parts. Did the circus leave you behind?”

  James ignored the verbal arrows and asked Suzette, “Was that your chauffeur?”

  “No, silly,” she tittered. “We don’t have a chauffeur. That was our maid.” She frowned, lips pouted out like chewing gum bubbles. “The nerve of that woman! She acts like she’s my mother. Doesn’t let me go anywhere without her. I swan!”

  “You have a maid,” James said dully.

  “Of course, silly! Doesn’t everyone?” Suzette wrinkled her nose, looked around. “It smells funny here. Is that all the dead people?”

  “No, it’s your perfume. Scent of skunk.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “That’s mighty clever, Suzette,” I said. “Even if it doesn’t make a lick of sense. Did you tell your folks where you were going?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Her face contorted into a rabies struck beast. “If Momma knew I was coming here, she’d ground me for life! I had to talk the maid into taking me.”

  “Course you did. Now that our precious cargo has arrived, let’s get to it.”

  By the time I laid out the plan again, full-on dark had set in. The time I’d been waiting for. The three of us climbed between the fence posts and duck-walked through the Saunders’ cornfield. We set up behind the front row to view the house.

  “Dang it to heck, Dibby, you didn’t say I’d be crawling through dirt.” Suzette clipped every syllable precisely, showing her good and annoying upbringing. “My dress is going to get filthy.” She swayed her hands over herself like she was a valued Crackerjack prize.

  “Hush,” I whispered, “we don’t want the Saunders to hear us.”

  Suzette pouted a bit, hugged herself. Unlike us, she refused to squat and just sort of bent over behind the stalks.

  Right on schedule, Devin Meyers stomped out onto the porch. Tonight, his tipped hat—always just to the right—wasn’t the only thing tipped about him. He wove a round-about way to his pickup truck, scattershot as all get out. Before his weekly Monday night poker game, Devin had apparently been hitting the bottle, getting warmed up.

  The truck snorted, banged an ear-jarring shot out its tailpipe. Then Devin swung the vehicle around and sped out of the drive. Gravel zinged up, hailed down onto the truck’s body. A smoke trail hid the truck’s departure, but the knocking of the engine eventually slipped away into silence.

  “It’s time,” I said. “Suzette…go be more annoying than ever.”

  Clearly, she didn’t catch on to my backhanded compliment. She grinned, shared her metallic lattice. Eager eyes jumped with anticipation. I imagined she’d never dipped a lacquered toenail into wild waters. Could be I’d uncorked the bottle and let the Genie out. I sorely hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

  She patted her hair, straightened her dress and departed. Through the yard, she kept adjusting herself, itching as if she’d just stumbled into a wood tick party. In front of the porch, she stopped. Her shoulders heaved, her fists bunched. She repeated the motion several times until she lathered up a good head of tears.

  Her baby-like boo-hoo-hoo’s traveled back to us in the cornfield, her silly talents finally put to a humanitarian cause.

  Suzette bounded up the steps—her hands pressed at her sides so as to keep her skirt from flying up—and pressed the doorbell. Patience not one of her strengths, she kept banging away at the doorbell.

  At last the door opened. Evelyn Saunders stood there, dark glasses on, cigarette burning between two fingers, looking every bit the washed up motion picture star from yesteryear.

  I couldn’t hear what Evelyn said, but Suzette’s tirade rang out loud and clear.

  “You’ve…you’ve…gotta help me. Please, ma’am. Please, oh please, can’t you help me find Pockets? He ran away… I was just out walking him not far from here and…he got away from me. Oh, I don’t know what I’ll do without Pockets. He’s my best friend… And my parents will tan my hide! I wasn’t supposed to walk him, not by myself… But he needed to… Ohhhhh, please, miss, can you help me? I just don’t…”

  Washed-up movie star met the brash young upstart. Suzette gave the performance of her short, irritating career, and I almost bought into her act myself.

  Evelyn leaned over, face to face with Suzette. She gave Suzette a reassuring, yet wary, pat on the back, turned, and vanished inside the house. Quickly, Suzette made the “a-okay” sign, finger meeting thumb to form a circle, smiled at us, then immediately resumed a scrunched up face.

  Tissue box and glass in hand, Evelyn reappeared. She ushered Suzette toward the twin rocking chairs that I’d shared with Evelyn the other afternoon. They sat together, rocking. Worse than a suffering critter caught in a bear trap, Suzette’s simpering drowned out everything.

  I nodded toward James and we cut left through the cornfield. Above, the moon felt robust tonight, gifting us with an ample belly of spotlight. The field traveled a ways beyond the back of the Saunders’ house. Once cleared of the front porch, we broke cover and hightailed it toward the back door.

  Three steps up and we stood on the scant back porch. James tried the doorknob. Locked. Usually in the country, folks tended not to worry too much about burglars, so they left their doors unlocked. Unless they had something to hide, of course.

  Hands cupped around his eyes, James peered through one of the small door windows into the kitchen. He peeled off his jean jacket, wrapped it around his hand, and popped it through the lowest window. Glass tinkled and dropped inside.

  Amazed, and not in a good fashion, I grabbed his arm, and gave him a mighty shake. “Dang it, you said you knew how to get into houses,” I hissed.

  He shrugged, his mouth tipping slantwise. “Don’t have a cow. We’re in, aren’t we?” he whispered.

  “I thought you were gonna pick the lock, not destroy property!”

  “Geez, maybe you want James Bond instead of James Mackleby.”

  I had a thousand things to say, most of ‘em as colorful as Dad in a cross mood. But it seemed pointless, the damage had been done, and time was wasting.

  James reached through the window, twisted his arm inside. He bit his lower lip, suffered through a contortion of sorts, then the lock clicked. With his retracted hand, he turned the doorknob. It swung inward.

  “Like magic.” He sprinkled invisible magic dust with wiggling fingers.

  I tiptoed into the kitchen. James followed. From the kitchen doorway, beyond the living room, I made out Evelyn’s silhouette, her back against the window. Suzette’s sobs rode the air like a particularly foul bout of gas. Evelyn countered with an indecipherable, yet soothing tone. They’d be busy for a spell.

  I held my finger to my lip, whispered, “Stay here. Keep an eye on things.”

  James nodded.

  Slowly, nerves jangling, I tiptoed across the kitchen. Just like in our house, the linoleum squeaked. At every outburst beneath me, I winced.

  That odd burnt smell smacked me again, haunting in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I imagined if sad memories—ones that had a tendency to overshadow life—carried an odor, they’d smell just like the Saunders’ house.

  Tonight, Evelyn had her burgundy curtains drawn back, allowing in a healthy stream of moonlight. Good news for my secret investigation, bad news if Evelyn happened to turn around to look inside.

  The mountains of clutter hadn’t been touched since I’d been there before, not that I expected it. Traversing a clear course around the piles proved tricky. I sucked in my gut, slipped sideways through two leaning piles of periodicals. One of them timbered a bit, then wobbled back into balanced complacency. My hip banged into a small table. Figurines wobbled, little sheep and children in prayer clicked against one another. Near the edge, a kneeling boy timbered, his pointed hands leading his dive. Too late, too risky for me to grab for him, I pulled in my breath. The figurine bounced once on the rug’s edge, flit up, and landed on the hardwo
od floor. The clatter was miniscule, the figure unbroken, but I fully expected Evelyn to storm in, scythe above her head.

  To my relief, Evelyn still sat bewitched by Suzette’s inexplicable spell. Consoling the young girl with half-hearted clichés and phrases, clearer now.

  I navigated toward Evelyn’s photographic shrine to Thomas, the shelf above the fireplace, the only part of the house where dust carried no business. My hand traveled the rough-hewn shelf until it found the end. Close to the window I stood, just a couple feet away from Evelyn’s back. Hand shaking, I grabbed the face-down frame. And lifted it.

  I pretty much expected what I saw, a heart-breaking photograph of Boot’s grandson, Richard Holmberg. The same blond boy I’d seen in my visions. But unlike in Boot’s photo where Richie’s aura glowed like a sunbeam, here he looked like hay gone to seed. Thin, unhealthy, cheekbones poked uncomfortably beneath his skin. Darkness around his eyes contrasted with the white of his eyes. Once vibrant hair looked dirty, greasy. Knees drawn to his chest, he sat in a corner where a bed met two walls. All of this I’d fairly expected.

  What came next I never expected.

  Water filled the bottom of the picture frame. The level rose. Sheets at the bottom of Richard’s bed lifted atop the tide, floated like ghosts. Top of the waterline, items swirled around in Richard’s room: sneakers, underwear, overalls, a teddy bear not too different from Rags, and Lord, did I wish I was back in my own bed with Rags!

  Hypnotized, absolutely unable to tear away, my hands glued to the frame, I watched.

  The water reached Richard. It lifted him, liquid hands carrying him toward me. Face in frame, Richard opened his mouth in a silent scream.

  The glass in the frame broke. Water rushed out, splashed up my arms, soaked the front of my shirt.

  I shrieked.

  On the porch, Evelyn’s voice rose. Footsteps pounded across the floorboards.

  Shaking, shivering, I dropped the framed photograph. Watched it twist top over bottom. Richard’s tiny hands jut out from it, grasping for help. The frame smacked hard. In the blink of an eye, the photo snapped back to its original state, Richard on his bed. Nothing awry except the broken frame glass.

  Outside, Suzette screamed, too. Her voice trailed off into the night as surely as she had, obviously running away to save her own skin.

  The door opened.

  Backlit by the moon, Evelyn Saunders stood in her doorway, shoulders up, sunglasses abandoned. Rage personified, her nostrils rose and dropped with each chest-heaving breath.

  “You! You little…bitch! What…what do you…” She noticed Richard’s photograph at my feet. Her gaze moved across the room. With an animalistic roar, she came at me.

  “Mrs. Saunders, I’m sorry! Evvie! I—”

  Her hands gripped my throat. She swung me around, a murderous merry-go-round. Magazines cascaded to the floor. Figurines bobbled, shattered to the floor.

  I couldn’t breathe. In a rasp, I managed, “Evvie, I just want to talk …” It came out garbled.

  Our horrific hoe-down continued. The room spun in a sickening circle. Her fingers bit into the back of my neck, her thumbs pushed into my throat. I couldn’t muster the energy to pull her hands away. Weak in the legs, I would’ve collapsed had Evelyn not been holding me up by the throat.

  She screeched, ranted, raged. My world wavered.

  “You come into my house and sully my Richard? Poor, sweet Richard! I’ll kill you, you little bitch, for doing that to Richard! For disturbing Thomas! For—”

  “Mother!”

  The sudden, unexpected shout stopped Evelyn’s mad cascade, but my world kept revolving. Evelyn released me from her grip. I toddled in an inebriated circle, then dropped to the floor, coughing. Sick to my stomach, eyes bleary, I looked up.

  From the kitchen, from the shadows, James stepped forward. “Mother… It’s me… Thomas, your son.”

  He’d doffed his jean jacket. Brushed back his hair. He wore his soulful puppy-dog eyes, the ones that weakened my will. And damned if he couldn’t have passed for an older Thomas with his dark coloring.

  “Thomas…” Evelyn hesitated, took a step toward James. “It can’t be…”

  “It’s me, Mother. I’ve come home.” In their beyond slow dance, James took another step.

  “You’ve come home… Finally… I’ve prayed and prayed… And He’s answered me. Oh my God, son…” Evelyn’s legs gave out. She thumped down onto her knees. A split in her hose raced up beneath her skirt. She grabbed her head of blonde hair and tugged. A wig fell, leaving a patchwork of matted, shorn hair, anything but movie star caliber. “Thomas… Come here, Tommy… Mommy needs you.”

  Never mind the fact she’d just tried to kill me, my heart bled for her. Sobs drowned meaning from her words, but I didn’t need to understand them. The intent was clear.

  James stared at me, raised his hands in a panicked “what do I do now?” look. I nodded, gestured. Go to her.

  Unsure as I’d ever seen him, James took baby steps toward Evelyn. When he knelt next to her, Evelyn folded her legs beneath her, settled in.

  “Oh, Tommy…”

  The sobs just got worse, louder. Evelyn threw herself onto James. Her arms locked around him. Her crying rattled the windows, the grief in the room physical.

  “You’ve come back to me, Tommy… At long last…”

  Although I could see James squirming in his own skin, I let Evelyn work out her grief a spell. Even killers—sad killers—were due their emotional release.

  Quiet as I could, I went toward them. Sat down. “Evelyn,” I said. “I know you’ve been through a rough patch…” I kept my voice low, soothing as spring water. A trick I’d picked up from Dad’s parlor room manner. “But now that Thomas has come back, it’s time to get everything out. Get what’s bothering you off your chest. Make a clean start of things.”

  She didn’t look at me, just kept hugging on James. But she nodded, released a hand long enough to drag her wrist across her nose.

  “Evelyn, what really happened to your husband, Hedrick? With Thomas?” Truthfully, I felt a bit like a heel, grilling a woman at her most vulnerable. As far as rotten tricks went, it was a doozy. But my allegiance lay with the dead boys.

  “Hedrick… he found out Thomas…you…” She squeezed James harder. He winced and I understood completely. The woman had a surprisingly vice-like clutch. “…he found out that you…wasn’t blood kin. That he wasn’t your real father.” She spoke to James, mouth to his shoulder and directly into his soul. I didn’t even exist. “That goddamn ol’ witch Hettie told him so! Hedrick, he…he just lost control. Started screaming about how he was gonna take you away from me. That I wasn’t fit to be your mother. You…overheard it all.” She leaned back, framed James’ face in between her hands. “You remember that don’t you, Tommy?”

  James nodded. She pulled him to her chest, stroked his hair. “Course you do, Tommy. You’re all better now.” She broke into a soft hum, rocked James.

  I couldn’t lose her yet. “Evelyn, what happened next? After Tommy overheard your argument with Hedrick?”

  “Well, Tommy, he…you took off. Just started crying and running for the fields. Fit to be tied, Hedrick went after you. He grabbed the scythe by the tractor and followed after you. Oh, my Lord…I was so scared. Just petrified! Hedrick was off his rocker, wailing mad. I thought he might hurt you, Tommy… So I ran after the two of you… I caught up, heard Hedrick telling you how he was going to take you away. Take you away from me. My Tommy… I wouldn’t have it.” She paused, swallowed. Pulled James even closer and I suspected she never wanted to let go.

  “Tommy… What happened next… It just happened. I don’t even remember it, tell you the truth. Not really. Just…well, next thing I knew… I was standing over Hedrick. All the blood…too much blood… And I’m so sorry you saw it happen. So sorry…”

  Evelyn froze, eyes dried up by terror.

  “Evelyn? What happened next?” I prodded.

  “I didn�
��t know what in Heaven’s name to do! So I called your birth daddy, Tommy. He always knew what to do. He helped fix things. But nothing could help fix you, Tommy.” Her hands played over James’ face as if she were blind. “You never were the same again… My boy… I’m so sorry, sorry for what I did to you, sorry for what you saw that sent you down into your darkness… I’m sorry I killed your daddy in front of you…” Evelyn’s tale became non-linear. She repeated things. Spoke nonsense.

  I tried to set her proper again. “Evelyn…What happened to Thomas? After he saw you…put Hedrick to rest?”

  She looked at me, first time in a bit. Eyes wide and incredulous like I’d just stopped by for a surprise visit. “Tommy just sank into himself. Could barely talk. Wouldn’t eat or sleep or play. Just kept moaning, repeating how I’d killed his poppa. Over and over and over and—”

  “Of course Tommy remembers those sad days, Evelyn,” I said. “But what happened later? What happened to Tommy?”

  Doubt troubled Evelyn’s brow. She shook her head, searched inward. I imagined truth and fiction weren’t being very companionable in her head. “Why, you ran away, didn’t you, Tommy?”

  Not a fast learner in improvisation, James looked imploringly at me over her shoulder.

  I rolled out my hand along with a dose of impatience.

  “Um, no, Mom,” he said. “Someone killed me.”

  Kinda cold and knifing right to the point, but it’s where we needed to go.

  Evelyn shook her head violently, clamped her eyes tight. “No! That’s not true, none of it! You ran away! That’s what he told me, goddammit! That’s why he got me another boy, too! To fill your place ‘till you came back to me! Course no one killed you! You’re here now, aren’t you?” With a tender touch, afraid to break her long-lost son, Evelyn separated from James. She studied him carefully. Her eyes cleared, nostalgia and sadness departed. Anger once again swam to the forefront. “Wait… I don’t understand… Who—”

  “Evelyn, who told you Tommy ran away?” Things looked set to implode. I raised my voice, raced my words together. “Who was Tommy’s birth daddy? Is he the one who killed Tommy?”