A Blind Eye

by G. M. Ford

  “You lemme have a knife and we’ll see about that,” Tommie said.

  She bent at the waist and put her mouth next to Corso’s ear. “You want me to do that?” she asked. “You want me to give Tommie here a steak knife and let him have a little fun with you?”

  Corso raised his head and looked into her nearly colorless eyes. “Just the two of us,” he said. “We checked the death records back in Avalon. Figured it out on our own.”

  Tommie drew back his hand to slap Corso’s face again, but a shake of her head stopped him in midswing. “Smart,” she said. She looked over at Tommie. “You’d think a man smart enough to run us down…a man that smart would know what’s coming for him here, now wouldn’t you?” she asked. “Figure he’d know he ain’t coming out of this alive. Figure it was just a matter of how he went out…easy or hard.”

  She ambled over to the new stove and opened the red toolbox sitting on the floor. Corso watched as she pulled out the top tray and set it on the floor. When her hand appeared again, Corso began to make noises in his chest like a gored animal. He began to struggle against his bonds, throwing himself desperately from side to side, trying to tip the chair over, pulling so hard at the tape it felt as if his arms would be broken loose from their sockets. The look of terror on his face seemed to cheer her.

  37

  Meg Dougherty didn’t realize she was barefoot until she jumped out of the car and ran across both lanes of Route 10 to check the numbers on the mailboxes. By the time she got back into the driver’s seat, she was hobbling, as half a dozen jagged pieces of gravel threatened to work their way through the soles of her feet. She scraped her feet on the car’s carpet and roared off down the road, talking out loud to herself now: “One-nine-six-four-two,” she mumbled. She reached down and brought the page from the phone book up close to her eyes. “Two-four-seven-eight-eight,” she chanted as she floored the car and went fishtailing up the road.

  Route 10, on this side of the river, had started out suburban, neatly trimmed houses and lawns. Numbers in the one-four-four-five-something range. Mailboxes along both sides of the road. Five miles later, things were strictly rural, and all the mailboxes were along the eastbound lane, allowing the RFD carrier to drive along the right shoulder while making his appointed rounds.

  She drove nearly a mile before another clump of mailboxes appeared along the shoulder. Unable to skid to a stop in time, she threw the car into Reverse and burned rubber backward. The mailbox for two-one-four-six-eight was painted to look like a barn. An arrow on the top pointed to the right, up the long driveway to the farmhouse in the distance. “Even numbers on the right,” she muttered to herself, throwing the car back into Drive. “Close,” she breathed. “Getting close.”

  Sarah Fulbrook ran both hands through the stubs of her hair. She pulled a tissue from the box on the desk and wiped first her eyes and then her nose. Billy’s mother’s words still echoed in her mind. “Don’t call here no more.” She heard it over and over. What had started as a tiny amplified voice on the phone had risen to a shout inside her head. She dropped the wadded-up tissue on the desk and held her head in her hands, rocking back and forth in the chair, humming to herself, louder and louder, finding some inner rhythm of sound and motion to block out the words that tormented her soul.

  As the humming got louder and the rocking more frenzied, the room began to fall away…. She couldsee blue sky and a swing…. She was swinging…atschool. Somebody was pushing her, but she couldn’t see who it was. Each push lifted her higher into the sky, until finally her head nearly reached the level of the bar, and the seat began to get airborne, snapping the chains each time she began her descent. Above her own laughter, she could hear the whoosh of the air and the sounds of birds. “Higher,” she cried. “Push me higher.”

  She swung for what seemed an eternity, and then, without warning, the pushes stopped. When she looked back over her shoulder at the ground, no one was there. The arcs of her swing got smaller and smaller, until finally she was still, and the air around her was silent.

  Sarah rose from the chair, walked slowly to the closet, and retrieved her coat. She was still humming as she climbed out the window onto the porch roof.

  Teresa Fulbrook turned the little brass knob on the blowtorch. The sound of rushing gas filled the room. In a single expert motion, Tommie pulled a kitchen match from his pocket, flicked the top with his fingernail, and lit the pressurized gas. She fiddled with the knob until she had a roaring blue flame and then looked up at Corso.

  “This is your doing. Don’t you forget it.” She took a step his way. Corso began to thrash about in the chair. Only Tommie’s hands on top of the seat back prevented Corso from toppling over onto his side. “You hadn’ta lied to me, none of this woulda happened, so don’t be pushing the blame my way.”

  She kept talking as she waved the hissing flame in front of Corso’s face. “All I wanted from you was the truth. After that I’da had Tommie put you out of your misery.” She ran the torch across the front of his hair. Corso heard the crackle and smelled the acrid odor of burning protein. He struggled harder now, but could only move himself to and fro in the seat. “See, this talk about how it was just the two of you that found me here sounds good and all, but…” She took three steps over to the kitchen table. Came back with the poster with her face on it. “But that don’t say nothing about how you all got your hands on this picture, see…’cause I know where this picture come from, and I know who took it.” She took the torch and set the corner of the poster on fire. Held it gingerly in her fingers, tilting it this way and that until only the blackened shard in her fingers remained. The charred remains floated to the ground at her feet. She reached over and put the tape back over Corso’s mouth. Smoothed it down hard with her free hand. “So here’s what we’re gonna do,” she said. “I’m gonna burn off your right ear, and then we’re gonna have us another little talk. If that don’t get your attention, I’m gonna burn off the other one.” She looked up at Tommie. “Hold his head,” she said.

  Tommie laced his fingers in the hair at the top of Corso’s head and slipped his other hand under Corso’s chin. He leaned hard against the back of the chair as Corso began to go wild in the seat. Corso was screaming through the tape, shaking uncontrollably as she brought the torch to bear. Again he heard the crackle of his hair, and then, as she moved again, he could feel the heat of the flame on his flesh. A scream rose and fell in his chest. Without willing it so, a high-pitched keening noise began to escape from behind the tape. Blood splashed in a wide arc as his feet took on a life of their own, beating a frantic rhythm against the floor. A siren wailed full blast in Corso’s ears.

  And then Tommie let go of his head and straightened up and the siren began to wind down, more of a moan now. Corso opened his eyes to see Tommie pointing out over Teresa’s shoulder. Out into the darkened field where a bright white light was bouncing their way. “What in hell is that?” Tommie asked.

  She snapped her head around. “One of those god-damned girls,” she said. She shut off the torch and then pointed to the swinging door separating the kitchen from the living room. “Take him in the other room with Gordie,” she said.

  The quavering light was less than a hundred yards away when Tommie grabbed the chair by the top rail and began to back his way across the floor, towing the struggling Corso, chair and all, out of the room.

  Emily leaned her bike against the kitchen steps and bounded into the house. “Papa,” she yelled as she ran to the kitchen. Three steps inside, she looked over toward the sink and came to a sliding halt. Her mother stood leaning against the counter, arms folded across her chest. The look on her face was like none that Emily had ever seen before. She swallowed hard and asked, “Where’s Papa?” Her mother looked out through the window at the pickup truck in the yard.

  “What are you doing here?” her mother demanded. “You’re supposed to be at Mama May’s. What the hell are you doing back here?”

  “I wanna see—”

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nbsp; When her mother started across the room toward her, Emily made a dash for the swinging door. “Papa,” she cried. “Papa.”

  Papa didn’t answer. The first slap nearly knocked her from her feet. The second sent her reeling backward so violently she hit her head on the refrigerator and slid to the floor.

  “Get upstairs!” her mother screamed. “Right now! Get upstairs!”

  Even in her dazed condition, Emily knew better than to disobey at a time like this. She brought a hand to the red welts on her cheek, then scrambled to her feet and darted for the stairs, using her hands and feet to climb as quickly as possible, her mother following along behind. As she reached the landing, the little girl was swept off her feet and carried down the hall. She used her arms to cover her head, but the anticipated blows never arrived. Instead her mother carried her into the room and threw her on her bed.

  “Get undressed. Get in bed,” her mother said through her teeth. “You move outta this bed, I’ll make you wish you were never born.” Emily threw her jacket on the floor and pulled her sweatshirt over her head. “Hurry up, damn it!” her mother screamed. “Get in that damn bed.” Emily jumped in and pulled the covers over her head.

  She listened to the echo of her mother’s steps. Heard the sound of a banging door and the sudden rush of water. And then her mama came back into the room.

  “Sit up,” she said.

  Emily poked her head out from beneath the covers. Her mother was standing with two white pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Take these,” she said, holding out the pills. Emily sat up and did as she was told. Placing the pills on her tongue and then washing them down with water.

  Teresa Fulbrook left the bedroom door open when she left. Back at the landing, she found Tommie standing at the bottom of the stairs. She motioned him back into the kitchen and then followed him through the door. “Damn kid changes everything,” she said. “We’re gonna have to buy ourselves a little time. Gonna have to give ’em something to think about.” She looked around the room until her eyes came to rest on the new stove. She turned to Tommie.

  “You take that Corso fella out and put him in the trunk of the Pontiac. Make sure you bring a pick and shovel along. We’ll bury him out by Evers Marsh where Gordie takes the kids camping.”

  Tommie started across the room. “Gordie’s got him some gas cans in the barn we keep for emergencies,” she said. “There’s a big old funnel hanging on a nail. Fill the Pontiac up with as much gas as’ll fit. Get us a long way down the road before we need to stop for anything.”

  38

  Sarah threw her bike on top of her sister’s and started up the kitchen stairs. Two steps up, she stopped. The inside door hung open. She opened her mouth to call but quickly changed her mind. Instead she stood still, cocked an ear, and listened. Nothing. Not a sound. And then…she heard her mother’s voice coming from down the hall, talking to herself in that singsong voice Sarah hated so much, the one she used when she thought nobody else could hear. Only this time it was different, like she was doing something else at the same time. Something hard. Something she was straining to do. “Come on now,” she was saying. “Just gonna move you out here. Come on now. Easy does it. That’s it. Come on….”

  When the words suddenly got louder, Sarah panicked and stepped behind the kitchen door. She waited for a second and then peeked around the corner; her mother was bent over, backing into the room, dragging something. Somebody! Dragging somebody by the feet. The air stuck in Sarah’s throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth and watched in horror as her mother pulled the rest of the body into the room and the door swung shut with a clatter. She shrank back into the corner. As she flattened herself against the wall, her hand came into contact with something cold and hard. She looked to the left and saw the big pipe Papa made for the new stove leaning against the wall. Then she peeked around the door again.

  The body had a white Meijer’s bag taped over its head. No matter, though. She knew the shirt. Mama May had given it to Papa last Christmas. Sarah choked back a sob and pulled her head back behind the door. Mama was talking again. “Just gonna lay you down right here,” she was saying. “Make it look like you was working on the stove when something went wrong. Something with the gas. Just a terrible tragedy. Killed the both of you.”

  As she listened to the sound of her mother’s voice, Sarah could feel her anger rising. Feel the heat as it colored her neck and then her ears, until she could hear the power of her own blood and feel her heart beating in her temples like a drum.

  And then the noise. The loud hissing. And almost at once the stink of gas filling the room. Sarah peeked again. Her mother had her back to Sarah’s hiding place. She had a dish towel mashed against her face as she pulled tools from the red metal box. Sarah’s eyes began to water. She stifled a cough.

  When Tommie de Groot bent down to heave his captive into the trunk, Corso uncoiled himself and head-butted him in the face, sending Tommie down onto the seat of his pants. Tommie got to his feet, rubbed his face, then kicked Corso in the head. “You gonna pay for that later, you son of a bitch,” he said. “As god is my witness you will.” He pulled back his foot again and kicked Corso in the solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs, sending Corso into near convulsions as he gasped for air through his tape-covered mouth. Tommie grabbed the shuddering Corso by the lapels and managed to heave the upper half of his body into the trunk of the car. He paused to rub his face again, then grabbed Corso’s feet and swung the rest of the body over the rim. The car rocked on its springs as Corso fell down into the cavernous trunk.

  She was running blind. No headlights. Flying down the long washboard driveway. One hand on the wheel, the other pressing the cell phone to the side of her head. “Could I have your name, please?” the police dispatcher said for the third time.

  “Please,” Dougherty said, “it’s an emergency. I’m at two-seven-six-five-four RFD Ten. M. Fulbrook is on the mailbox. Send somebody please.”

  “I can’t dispatch until I—”

  Dougherty dropped the phone onto the seat. The tinny voice coming through the speaker grew more urgent in its squawking. She reached over and pushed

  STOP until the light went out.

  Another quarter-mile and the house came into view. Wasn’t until she saw the house that she realized she didn’t have a plan. Didn’t have a clue what she might be walking into, so she turned off the engine and silently coasted the last hundred yards. She used the last of her momentum to wheel the car in a wide circle. Grabbed the poster from the passenger seat and left the car facing back toward the road. Just in case. Got out and carefully pressed the door closed. Lights were on both upstairs and down. The room at the downstairs front of the house showed the flickering kaleidoscopic images of a television bouncing off the ceiling and walls. She moved that way. Wincing as the rocks in the driveway cut into her bare feet.

  She stepped over a brick border into a flower bed, got up on tiptoe, and peeked into the room. The gas fire burning in the fireplace added to the flickering in the dimly lit parlor, where an older woman lay stretched out in a black La-Z-Boy, her mouth hanging open, her arms limp. Dougherty took two steps to her right and checked the TV.

  Survivor.

  Corso lay on his side, staring up at the gray night sky. His senses were fading. He knew he was in danger of drifting off into a blank nothingness from which he would never return, so he worked hard to hear the gurgling of gasoline being poured into the tank. Forced himself to count the number of times the gas cans spewed their contents down the hole. And forced himself to notice the sound of the empty cans being tossed aside, and the tuneless whistle and the scrape of boots on the ground. He flared his nostrils and inhaled the heady gasoline fumes, hoping the odor would help bring him around. He had no doubt whatsoever. To drift off was to die. And then the light wavered, and Tommy de Groot was there looking out from his little head, down into the trunk at Corso, before tossing in a pick and shovel and slamming the lid.

 
39

  Emily’s throat was on fire. Her eyes burned like the time she rubbed poison oak into them on a camping trip. The room was sideways. Spinning. Everything seemed like it might come apart and float off like in the cartoons. She stuck one foot out of bed, and before she knew it, she fell on the floor, dragging her bedcovers with her. She lay on the floor, trying to blink her vision back to normal, but the room still looked like a fun house. Her head spun as she thrashed her way out of the covers and crawled across the carpet to the door. From downstairs, she could hear a loud roaring and the sound of her mother’s voice. She tried to get to her feet but couldn’t, so she crawled down the hall on her hands and knees. At the top of the stairs, she again tried to rise and again was unable to get her legs to cooperate. “Papa,” she croaked. The roaring from the kitchen seemed to get louder. Louder even than the roaring in her ears as she tried to back down the stairs on her hands and knees, only to lose her grip and go sliding to the bottom on her belly, where she landed in a tangle of arms and legs. Her lungs felt as if they were frozen. Tears rolled down her face. She couldn’t stop coughing as she crawled toward the back door.

  The limp was gone. Mama May came down the stairs at a lope. “They’re not upstairs,” she said, her face a mask of concern. “Must have snuck back home while I was napping.” She shouldered her way out onto the porch and stood beside Dougherty. She pointed out over the fields at a brightly lit house in the distance.

  “That’s my son’s place over there.”

  Dougherty didn’t wait. She turned and began running for the car, with the older woman hard on her heels. They jumped into the rental car together. Mama May was still trying to close the passenger door when Dougherty threw the car into Drive and went peeling out toward the highway. Wasn’t until they bounced out onto Route 10 that Mama May realized she was still clutching the poster in her gnarled hand.