by Paisley Ray
With Mitch’s help, we’d plowed through the washing and drying of the last of the china, serving spoons, and silver serving trays. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that his hand had brushed against mine, and that as the dishwashing continued, his hips bumped mine. The men in this town confused me. Bubba Jackson was the bad boy who popped and sizzled and brought nothing but trouble into my life, while Mitch seemed to step in at the last hour and save my sorry ass. Except on my last visit, the tables had turned and he was the one who needed to be rescued from Kelsie’s lies.
As much as I was attracted to Mitch, I had a long list of reasons why he wasn’t right for me. One, I wasn’t keen on the idea of being a long-distance girlfriend. Two, he was Patsy’s younger brother and if things went south, I didn’t know if my friendship with her would stay intact. Three, he was still in high school.
He leaned his back against the sink while I rinsed the bubbles down the drain. “Sorry about the singed Galaxie and all. Bet it puts a real crimp in getting around.”
I hadn’t delved into that fiasco. I tried not to look backward and re-live the less-than-brilliant moments I’d had in this town. “We were lucky none of us were seriously injured.”
“Walk with me to the dock?” he asked.
Despite being on dish duty, I felt Mrs. Brown’s turkey dinner still sat heavy inside my stomach and I figured the walk would help. Besides, the sun was creeping down toward the water and in a showy flash of color, threw a burst of oranges and pinks over the river. That seemed worth getting a closer look.
On the path through the palmetto grasses, Bacon, Katie Lee’s tabby, lay sprawled while she battled the blades that swayed in the whispering wind with her paw. Near the garage, Dr. Brown shouted, “Uncle. Simms.” We both stopped in our tracks when we saw the garbage cans tipped over and the Thanksgiving carcass, potato peelings, and other assorted trash sprawled near the driveway. The coonhounds each ravaged the scraps as Dr. Brown closed in on them.
Down at the dock, the Browns’ Bayliner ski boat was secured to the pier with a slipknot. The fiberglass bottom creaked and groaned as the river lulled and swayed the vessel in the river current. The protective cover that kept the birds from leaving presents on the leather seats was off, and I guessed that Dr. Brown had it ready in case someone wanted a ride after dinner. Since my last visit, he’d installed a handful of electric lanterns on top of the pier pilings. Dusk was still approaching, but I imagined that they cast a soft glow at night and helped the Browns navigate into the dock after dark.
Mitch and I sat on the edge and listened to early evening noises: frogs and cricket chirps mingled their lyrics to the lapping of the water as it washed over the rocky shore. “Something’s been bugging me about the night we drove in,” Mitch said.
The muscles in my neck stiffened.
“I don’t think the gas station inferno was an accident.”
“Mitch.” Was he trying to freak me out?
He reached for my hand. “Hear me out.”
I anticipated a tough love kind of scolding, except I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.
“Billy Ray is sick. Real sick, and I think he went into hiding on purpose. I don’t know why, but he’s got it out for you and me. He tried to kill us.”
“He’s not that smart,” I said.
“Worse, he’s running on crazy.”
“It’s not possible for him to have been behind the explosion. How would he know we’d be there at that moment? We didn’t even know we’d be there.”
Mitch rubbed his hands over his face. “I just. It was so deranged, that night. Everything that’s been going on.”
“What is going on with Kelsie?”
“I’ve barely seen her since.”
“So you’re not on speaking terms.”
“I bumped into her in town just last week.”
“And.”
“Said that she’d missed seeing me around. Asked if we could get together and hang out.”
“Please tell me you’re not considering it.”
The sun began to fall behind the Trent and lights in homes across the river twinkled. Something shiny from woods on the far bank reflected onto shore. He let out a breath. “Raz, don’t you get it?”
I stared at the water. “I don’t care how she looked. I don’t like her.”
A strained smile washed his face. “The whole pregnancy talk was a cruel joke. I passed out that night and I never did remember sleeping with her. I just took her word for it. Heck, I haven’t slept with anyone, yet.”
My jaw wanted to rest on my chest but I worked to hold it in place. “But why?”
Mitch slid an arm around me. “I have certain standards when it comes to intimacy.”
“What I meant was why did she pretend she was pregnant?”
“Who knows? Maybe for the attention.”
“But eventually you’d figure it out.”
“Patsy’s theory is that Kelsie thought she might be pregnant, and figured I’d be a better catch than the real daddy.”
“Yeah, well, it was a wake-up call. You can’t be too careful who you party with.” I blushed at my own hypocrisy. I’d been guilty of my own dangerous liaison.
Nudging me with an elbow, he said, “I’ve been thinking about you lately.”
I didn’t know what to say. My feelings had been consumed with the note Bubba had penned and I hadn’t paid too much attention to any of the signals Mitch threw off. “Mitch, I …” What could I say?
A boat sped past on the opposite shore and we watched it shrink as it moved east. The dock rocked in the wake and then we both heard the crack of shattered glass in the lantern on the piling to our left.
Instinctively we crouched.
“What the Hell?” Mitch said.
A second later, a whistling crack ripped a piece of the pole apart, sending wood chips and splinters raining down on us.
My mind went blank.
Incredulously, I stared at the now glassless and bulbless lantern. “What cracked the…” I began, but my words were drowned as Mitch pushed me off the dock, jumping in behind me.
I CONSIDER MYSELF A water kind of gal. Pools, ponds, lakes, and oceans all put me at ease, and a perfect day would be dividing my time in and on the water. But the shock from the unexpected plunge chilled my core. Despite my hair partially drying into a tangled, frizzy mess, Mitch’s and my clothes were still wet underneath the beach towel Mrs. Brown had provided.
The Craven County policeman left the Browns’ hours ago. A deputy had kicked around the dock for ten, fifteen minutes max, taken a few photos and a statement from Mitch and me so he could fill out a report. Disgusted at the vandalism to his new lantern, Dr. Brown posed the question, “Who in the world would do something like this?”
From the looks of the strained stitching on the deputy’s uniform shirt, he had a stomach full of pumpkin pie and wasn’t going to let some broken glass ruin his day. Off the cuff he mumbled, “Probably a rogue hunter who’d nipped to much cordial after dinner. Probably took to practicing before deer season officially opens.”
“And used the Browns’ dock light for target practice?” I asked.
“Daddy, you been having any trouble with the neighbors?” Katie Lee asked.
“Not a one,” he said.
“Who lives across the River?” I asked.
“Don’t right know,” Dr. Brown said. “We’re mostly friendly with folks on this side.”
Patsy looked to Katie Lee and then to Mitch with an unspoken thought. I guessed she weighed the benefits of mentioning the short list of suspects on her mind, but decided against opening her mouth.
Handing Dr. Brown a copy of the report, the policeman walked up the bank and said, “Sorry y’all had a startle on the holiday ‘n’ all. I’ll take a look on the other shore. Be sure and keep an eye on your property this long weekend.”
Dr. Brown shook the deputy’s hand before he left. He turned to Katie Lee. “I don’t quite know what to say.”
�
�Daddy, I take offense at that stare. This doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
His glance from Katie Lee to me didn’t go unnoticed. “Well then, I’ve got an early morning ahead of me. If y’all excuse me.”
Once Dr. Brown was out of sight, Patsy said, “That was no accident. Whoever fired those shots was an Annie Oakley showoff.”
Mitch had been unnervingly quiet, not saying more than one or two words until now. “Those shots weren’t random.”
“What makes you think that?” I squeaked.
“They were close, but not too close. Like a warning.”
“Does Nash know how to shoot?” I blurted.
Katie Lee blinked.
“He’s handled guns,” Patsy said.
“He’s no sharp shooter, “Mitch said.
Under the glow of the floodlight on the garage, I watched Katie Lee’s cheeks redden. “Why would y’all think Nash had anything to do with any of this?”
Patsy gawked. “Because he’s Nash.”
“He and I are on friendly terms. Nash and Hugh get along.”
None of us looked her in the eye.
She swatted my arm. “He’s been the perfect gentleman every time I’ve seen him.”
I thought of Nash in Sheila’s bedroom. No comment.
“He’s even come to some of the parties at the house on campus.”
“At the art master party, he penned a Sharpie snake tattoo on Francine while she dozed.,” I said.
Katie Lee giggled. “Are you serious?”
“And got Roger, Stone, and Hugh wasted on Halloween.”
“Despite Nash’s practical jokes, he has some sense. He wouldn’t use our dock as a shooting range.”
Patsy rattled her keys. “Practical joker is a kind description for his extracurricular activities. See y’all around.”
Mitch gave me a hug, and whispered, “Don’t go out alone.”
Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, Katie Lee asked, “Where’s she gonna go without a car?”
Patsy turned over her engine and backed into the shadows before she and Mitch disappeared down the driveway
A HOT SHOWER AND clean underwear made me feel human again. When I came out of the bathroom, the lights were off in the bedroom and the shades billowed against the evening breeze that smelled of salt. The late night news buzzed about some black Friday gift guide and how some stores were going to open an hour early for the big day. Katie Lee’s chest rose and fell in a synchronized dance with the tap of the plastic shade string that the wind pulsed against the wall. Ducking under the shade, I looked out into the night toward the street. On the surface, things that happened around here were weird, but there had to be a simple explanation. Something I was missing. I turned the cast of Katie Lee’s friends and acquaintances in my mind: Nash, obvious troublemaker—whittling into Katie Lee’s good graces. Bubba, clever ulterior motives—no idea what entrepreneurial endeavors he’s got his hands in. Billy Ray, dead. Mitch, the cute catch wanted by Kelsie.
My mind tried to draw links where there were none. In a daze, I watched the sky when I glimpsed a Zippo flicker in the wooded brush. Crouching down, I crawled to my duffle and changed into a sweatshirt and jeans, before slipping out of the room.
I walked down the edge of the steps, close to the wall so they wouldn’t creek under the pressure of my bare feet. The front door was unlocked—southerners. I couldn’t tell if the rockers on the front porch swayed or if I imagined it. Settling into one, I rested my feet on the rail and waited. I heard the footsteps before I saw him. He stopped ten feet from me. As he inhaled, the glow illuminated his face. The sweet nicotine wafted toward me, and I was miffed that I’d quit smoking. He just stood there, staring at me, and in a game of chicken, I glared back. Like hell was I going to talk to Bubba Jackson first.
“Miss me?” he asked.
My heart quickened. I was insane for coming down. For having anything to do with Jackson Kimball, but like a moth to a flame, I couldn’t stay away. “Like the taste of spoiled milk.”
“You sure know how to charm a guy.”
“What are you doing here?” I whispered.
He tossed his cigarette and ground the toe of his boot over it. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“No.”
As he moved closer to the porch, my heart began beating in overtime and the inner me asked, What the hell are you going to do with this one? I knew what I shouldn’t do, and struggled in a realm between animal instinct and emotional clarity.
Bubba walked up the steps and leaned against the column near my bare feet. My back rested against a handmade needlepoint bolster pillow. Rocking back, I looked up at the blue painted ceiling hoping for divine intervention. None came.
“You’re madder than a hornet,” he said.
“And you’re one fry short of a happy meal.”
“What?”
I stood. “It was you, wasn’t it? Why’d you take target practice on me this afternoon?”
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me.”
“Raz.”
“Oh no. There’s no sweet-talking. And your I’m-so-cute-come-play maneuver has lost its appeal.”
The corners of his mouth curled and he reached for my shoulder.
I stepped back behind the rocker. “Bubba Jackson Kimball, I know it was you, so quit acting like I’m the lamebrain.”
“Ouch.”
“That prank was crazy stupid.”
He ran his hands through his hair and walked a few paces down the porch. “You make me crazy. You come to town and don’t call. You cozy up with that McCoy boy.” He lowered his voice. “I got jealous.”
“Jealous!”
“Shhhh. You don’t have to announce it to the whole neighborhood.”
“You idiot. You could’ve killed Mitch or me.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t, but you just told me. You owe Dr. Brown a new lantern.”
He walked back toward me. “I’ll make it up to him.” Diminishing the space between us he asked, “Am I forgiven?”
I turned my back to him. There was something I needed to ask, and I dug for the courage, knowing his answer could change things between us forever. “Last spring, the knock down fight you had with Billy Ray on the campus. That really wasn’t about me?”
The night noises were quiet and I listened to the rocker rolling against the porch floor.
“He was blackmailing me. I have debt from my Herbal-U vitamin business, and sold a few blocks of hooch to cover my overhead. He caught wind and threatened to turn me in unless I gave him some concessions.”
It shouldn’t have surprised me that Bubba was dealing again. Habits were habits and bad ones were hard to break.
“That was it. I’m not running drugs anymore.”
“What’d he bargain, for his silence?”
“Raz,” he said in my ear, and his hands slid up my arms. His breath whispered on my neck. “It doesn’t matter.”
My back stiffened and I stepped away from Jackson. He let go of me and plunked into a rocker. “He wanted five-thousand dollars. And he wanted access to you.”
Air became trapped in my chest. I’d been fishing with a hunch on my hook. I didn’t think I’d actually catch something. My God! Had Bubba shot Billy Ray? That was my next question, but the porch light snapped on.
Dressed in head to toe camouflage, Dr. Brown held an oversized cleaning knife in his right hand. “Rachael. Everything all right out here?”
Jackson fumbled and nearly tripped as he stood.
“Jackson Kimball. I haven’t seen you around these parts in some time. Your mama well?”
“Yes sir, Dr. Brown.”
NOTE TO SELF
Have upgraded Bubba from raccoon to badger.
If I read his proposition correctly, Mitch has plans for us.
DECEMBER 1988
CHAPTER 16
Dern Near
The semester was over. I’d taken my last final an
d handed in a ten-page, double-spaced typed paper this morning. Thank God for my electric typewriter and cover up tape. I’d finished it last minute, and didn’t have the time to wait in line to use the Word Perfect program in the new computer lab. Plus I didn’t like the feel of the paper that ran through tractor-fed printers. It was thin, the ink was light, and you had to tear off the left and right edges, which tended to give papers a tattered look.
On the short walk with Katie Lee from the parking spot in the back alley to the front porch, a pelting semi-frozen rain lashed my exposed bits and somehow found its way down the neck of my jacket vest.
I’m not normally a Grinch. I like the smell of a freshly cut pine tree, enjoy the seasonal spiked eggnog, and take delight in decorating cutout cookies. But after a long afternoon with Schleck; unpacking reproductions, cataloging, then repacking the pieces in the same carton with a new address label, I was done. Cooked. Finito in the tank.
December was normally the season of merry merry. In past years, it had been the time of year when I went home for a month to veg-out, avoid Dad’s space-cadet aerobic-instructor girlfriend, and ponder life, love, and pursuit of whatever guy I was or wasn’t obsessed with. Staying in North Carolina over winter break this year would give me time to throw my head into a complete analysis of my romantic conundrums and sort them out. Ticking some permanently off the list and out of my memory was a priority.
Sheila had been busy covering the ceiling molding in pink garland, stringing fat bulb blue lights up the banister, and while we were out, she’d placed a four-foot tin foil Christmas trees with flamingo ornaments in our TV room. As Katie Lee and I walked into the house and were blasted by Buster Poindexter’s, “Zat You Santa Clause.”
“Jesus, that’s loud. It’s like someone threw up pink and sparkly around here. We’re living in a lounge bar.”
“I kinda like it,” Katie Lee said.
Leaving our shoes and backpacks by the door, we moved into the Flamingo Lounge. “Why this song?”
