Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  Kyra’s brow wrinkled. Her hand still trapped, she shot Rebecca a helpless “save me” look.

  “She’s shy,” said Rebecca. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Rebecca, this is Kyra.”

  Still standing, Tommy thrust his chest out a little bit more. “We’re newlyweds.” He said it loud and proud, the kind of arrogance youth monopolized.

  Rebecca thought, Just wait until the honeymoon’s over. Instead, she said, “Congratulations. That’s wonderful.”

  “It is,” said Heather. “And we owe it all to God.”

  The girl — no, the woman; something about her eyes looked older than her age — unsettled Rebecca. Obviously a bible-thumper, she shared that same glazed-over, vacant look Rebecca had seen all too often in Kansas. Kyra must’ve felt it, too. Suddenly, she wrenched her hand away as if from a snapping dog. The blonde’s smile faded, her eyes no longer blank, but smoldering with hostility.

  Undeterred, Tommy favored them with another grin. Rebecca knew his type well; she’d had first-hand experience. Big promises and flashy charm didn’t last, not in her charade of a marriage. And she suspected Tommy didn’t have too much knocking around in his attic. Then again, she was making snap judgments. Everyone deserved a chance. “I’m happy for you guys, really.”

  Heather’s hand felt clammy and cool in Rebecca’s, a dead fish, perfectly complementing her demeanor. Then Rebecca chided herself for jumping right back into cattiness.

  Christian swooped in, defusing the situation. With a dancer’s grace, he dropped two plates onto the table. Obviously a man who enjoyed his work, he spun and bowed, waltzing in the spotlight. Finished, he patted his apron. “Fresh off Dolores’s griddle, cakes and bacon. Have a seat, ladies. Your food’s coming next.”

  As far away from the young couple as she could get, Kyra climbed into a chair at the table, her fork poised and ready.

  Christian slipped a champagne goblet in front of Rebecca, bubbles rising in the golden liquid. “A mimosa to start your day off right?” Christian phrased it as a question, but his confident smile told Rebecca no one ever refused it.

  Rebecca shouldn’t, she really shouldn’t. At 7:00 a.m., it was too early for alcohol. And she may have to drive later. Then again, one look out the window changed her mind. The snow beat down with a vengeance, a good three-quarters of a foot added overnight. What the hell? Why not enjoy herself, take advantage of the situation? Honestly, it’d been the most fun she’d had in some time. Her mind made up, she said, “Sure, you talked me into it. When in Hilston, do as the Hilstons do.”

  The host tossed back his shoulders, laughing heartily. “Indeed. I like the way you think.”

  The bubbles tickled Rebecca’s nose, the alcohol warm in her chest, the taste delicious. “Wow. What kind of mimosa is this?”

  “Dolores’s special pineapple mimosa,” Jim piped in. “Ain’t it a beaut?” Catching his mistake, he slipped Kyra an apologetic look. “Sorry, sorry, young gal. I know ‘ain’t’ ain’t a word.”

  “Mommy.” Although Kyra protested, she smiled, this time joining in the adults’ laughter.

  “Sleep well?” With an elbow hitched up over the chair, Jim turned his attention toward Rebecca.

  “Mm-hm. Like a log.”

  The newlyweds ate in silence, yet their eyes never strayed far from Rebecca. Unnerved, Rebecca fortified herself by downing the mimosa in three gulps. Before she swallowed the last bit, Christian set a new mimosa before her. Rebecca rapped her fingers beside the glass, considering, then surrendered. She noticed the Goodenows hadn’t touched their drinks, having set them far away, as if the mere presence of alcohol offended. Already feeling lightheaded, Rebecca forced herself to slow down. No sense in upsetting the newlyweds by getting sloshed. Particularly in front of Kyra.

  “How’re you likin’ the Dandy Drop Inn?” asked Jim.

  “It’s gorgeous. How in the world did you find such a beautiful home?”

  “Feh. Fact is, me and Dolores’s families purt near founded this town. Dolores’s family grew up in the ol’ homestead, passed it down through the generations. By the time we got hitched, the place was fairly run down, but we decided to patch it up. Good investment. It’s paid for itself several times over.” A pocket knife appeared in his hand. He flipped a blade out from the ivory handle and dug the tip under a fingernail. The blonde gave a small, humorless grin. Probably offended, thought Rebecca, her normal reaction. “Heck, I was mayor of Hilston for a while, dang near runnin’ the town. Brought in a lotta business, too, yessireebob.”

  From the stove, Dolores hollered out, “Poppa, don’t clean your nails at the kitchen table. I swan, how many times I gotta tell you?”

  With a chuckle, Jim folded the knife and pocketed it. “Sorry, Mother. Ol’ habits die hard.”

  Unusual for Kyra, she sat at rapt attention, eyes alert. Generally, adult conversation bored her.

  “Anyway, the house was too dang beautiful not to share it. So … we opened it up to anyone who cared to drop in.”

  Rebecca sipped at the mimosa, grinning around the rim. Through the bottom of the glass, she glanced at the Goodenows, distorted and blurry, watching her. It gave her some comfort Kyra chose the far end of the table.

  “Um, Jim, if it’s no trouble, may I use your phone? I need to call about my car and make a long distance call. I’ll be glad to pay for the charges.”

  Jim looked at his wife and dropped his ever-present grin. “Oh, I’m sorry, young lady. Didn’t Christian tell you?” She shook her head. Dread built in her stomach. Sounded like bad news. “The phone’s been out since last night. Ever’ time we get a storm in these here parts, you can count on it like death and taxes.”

  Dammit. Rebecca wondered if they’d ever get out of here. And she imagined her sister was frantic by now, having expected them yesterday.

  Finally, Christian lowered a plate in front of Kyra, then Rebecca. Still hot, smoke rose from the bacon. The pancakes appeared moist and fluffy. “Apple cakes and hickory bacon.” He turned to Kyra and said, “I imagine the young lady will want seconds.” Her fork already dug in, Kyra nodded. “Don’t forget the homemade pecan maple syrup.”

  So hungry, Rebecca tossed manners to the wayside and devoured her breakfast. A race between her and Kyra, Kyra pulled ahead by a small margin. And Rebecca realized it wasn’t such a bad place to get stranded after all. Around a cheek full of food, she mumbled, “This is delicious.”

  “Mommy, don’t talk with your mouth full!”

  Dolores hooted. She untied her apron and clapped it between her hands. “This darling lil girl’s been brought up right.”

  Embarrassed, Rebecca felt her cheeks flush while Kyra beamed. But it didn’t matter. The food tasted glorious, felt even better in her empty stomach. Then a tired sensation crept up on her, the food leaden in her belly, her head dizzy from the alcohol. At the end of the table, she heard muttering, a hair above a whisper.

  Kyra scooted out of her chair and ran to her mother’s side. Pinching Rebecca’s elbow, Kyra whispered, “Mommy, what’re they doing?”

  With their eyes closed, the Goodenows clasped their hands in front of them, their elbows on the table. Praying. Although given their feverish intensity, it struck Rebecca as more like chanting, almost speaking in tongues. Words ran together, one train of a sentence chugging along at high speed.

  Rebecca shook her head at her daughter and mouthed, “Be quiet.” To make sure Kyra received the message loud and clear, she embellished it with a finger to her lips. During Kyra’s early years, Rebecca had tried to indoctrinate religious fundamentals into her, including prayers before meals. Due to Brad’s constant chiding, though, it sort of drifted away. Obviously, the prayer after the meal confused Kyra. And it seemed sort of strange to Rebecca as well.

  First Tommy, then Heather opened their eyes with a resounding “Amen.” Slowly, Heather leaned across the table, her head and limbs low, like a lizard’s. Her eyes — so wide, so unyielding — trapped Kyra in a hypnotic snake’s gaze. The ac
companying smile freaked Rebecca out the most, though; superficially sweet, yet Rebecca could imagine fangs beneath those tight, chapped lips. “Have you accepted the Lord, Jesus Christ, as your Savior, little girl? If not, you’d better do it. Soon.”

  “Mommy?” Even though whispered, Rebecca detected fear in her daughter’s tone. Kyra clutched onto Rebecca’s sweater, wringing her arm. Yet she held Heather in a corner-of-the-eye stare, as if afraid to let the strange woman out of her sight.

  Bolstered by the alcohol, Rebecca stood. “I’m sorry, but our religious beliefs are our own concern.” She turned to Dolores. “Thank you for a delicious breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome, child.” The Dandys seemed to be taking in the unsettling encounter with mild amusement, their reaction to everything. Christian had vanished, his breakfast services apparently no longer needed.

  “We need to get cleaned up,” said Rebecca, excusing herself. And she hated that she felt the need to make an excuse to the Goodenows. Their behavior had been out of line, not hers. Brad had wrought not only physical damage, but he’d left mental scars on her psyche as well. It seemed she’d spent ten years apologizing, accepting the fallout of Brad’s vile behavior as her own.

  Kyra clung to her. With a protective arm around her daughter’s shoulders, she scuttled Kyra toward the door, wanting to get the hell out of there.

  “Accept Jesus Christ now.” Heather’s voice carried an edge with it, sharp as a razor blade.

  Rebecca whirled, seeking courage to put this woman in her place. But the blonde’s unwavering cold eyes chilled her into silence.

  Then the door swung open at Rebecca’s back.

  *

  Well, hail, hell, the gang’s all here.

  Harold stood in the kitchen doorway, retracting like a turtle into its shell.

  First thing this morning, he figured he’d grab some grub, early enough to avoid the other lodgers. After all, who didn’t sleep in at a B&B, especially with a winter storm raising hell outside? The left side of his brain kicked in — years of accounting experience — tallying five adults and a kid in the room. More people than he’d been around in a while. And six too many to keep a low profile.

  He swallowed the huge lump in his throat and managed to say to no one in particular, “Ah, hi. I’m Harold.” His voice quavered. Blood rushed to his face, settling on his cheeks, his forehead. The moment seemed stuck in time, a stalled nightmare. Just like the general trajectory of his life.

  A wiry, tall old fart jumped up from the table and rushed him, hand extended. “Good morn! A real pleasure to have you with us, Harold. Pull up a seat, take a load off. Eat some vittles. Good for the belly, great for the soul.”

  He pumped Harold’s hand like he couldn’t get enough. Reluctantly, Harold hurried toward the empty end of the table, his head down. Although mortified, he couldn’t help but notice the good-looking woman who he’d brushed by on the way in. The kind of woman who’d usually never give him a second look. But that was then, this is now. He bet — damn near’d put money on it if he wasn’t so frugal — if she saw what he carried in the briefcase, she’d do more than just look at him. Maybe he’d put some of his new-found confidence to work. The woman looked a little ragged around the edges, hardly fresh. But she’d clean up well. Strong features, starlet hair, great figure. Too bad about the rugrat in tow.

  “Food’ll be up in a minute. Welcome to the Dandy Drop Inn,” called out the squat woman at the stove. With her back toward him and her head hunkered down so far it’d surely cause future back issues, she looked like Quasimodo. “I’m Dolores.”

  “Um, thanks. And hello.”

  The young couple opposite him stared at the briefcase clutched to his chest. Quickly, he put it between his legs, locking it with his knees, hooking it with his heels. The couple resembled some of his ex-wife’s figurines; all doe eyed and cloyingly cute. He nodded at them and turned his chair away, hoping they’d take the clue and leave him in peace.

  By the door, the attractive brunette cleared her throat and said, “Hi, I’m Rebecca. This is my daughter, Kyra.” She knocked out a gratuitous smile, the bland, half-assed smile most women afforded him. When they bothered.

  Emboldened, the world literally at his feet, he framed a seductive smile. Confident men made it look so easy. “Hi there, Rebecca. Real nice to meet you.” He glanced out the window, made a cursory examination of the weather, pondering his next move. Then he came roaring back with a seriously strong gaze. Keeping things cool. “Looks like we’re gonna be stuck here a while. Hope to see more of you.” His words tumbled out easily, no tongue-tied gymnastics. Is this what it feels like, he thought. Big-shot status; a guy men want to be, a guy women want to be with. It felt good; he imagined it looked even better.

  “Yes, well …” The woman blinked, her smile fading. “We have to be going.” Quickly, she glanced around the room, a visual adios, noticeably avoiding the young couple. But she had included him, not a bad start, not by a long shot.

  “Hey, maybe we can —” The door swung shut, cutting off his seduction. Self-consciousness clubbed him in the head again. He stared at the empty place setting before him. Like a distaff Dorothy in Oz, he clicked the briefcase with his heels three times, waiting for the magic to happen. Wishing to be whisked away.

  “Hey there, Harold, I’m Tommy Goodenow, and this is my wife, Heather. We …”

  The blowhard kid rambled on, standing in front of him, hand stuck out. But all Harold heard was “me this …,” “we that …,” “I’m great …” Typical braggart crap. He zoned him out, the guy’s wife as well. No need for them, not any of them. But a mate, even a sexual encounter — one he didn’t have to pay for — that he could use.

  *

  As dawn lightened Hilston, Brad reached the reported site of Rebecca’s wreck. The gray skies, the relentless snow, the frigid temperature compounded his headache. And all the caffeine he’d practically injected into his veins just gave him a wide-awake migraine.

  Slowly, he crawled down the road, the way he’d driven all night. He studied the woods next to him, looking for signs of a wreck. Nothing. Not within a mile radius of the location. Of course, here in Hicksville, they didn’t have addresses, not even street signs. Buncha redneck inbreds.

  The snow made it damn near impossible to see anything. Snow climbed up tree trunks, devouring them. Tree limbs draped ice like wedding dresses off arms. Which reminded Brad of the expensive dress he’d bought for the bitch. Ended up in a closet, a colossal waste of cash.

  A drift next to the road rose solid and unbroken, a wall nearly three feet tall. As he turned his car around, a new white layer of snow had already covered his tire tracks. Every so often, he’d check his phone, hoping for a call from his partner. But the damn phone had no signal. Seemed like Hilston sucked it out the second he reached the city line.

  Then he spotted something that didn’t quite fit. He punched the brakes, the car continuing to skate down the road. Once he finally stopped, he backed up. To his right, the drift was smaller, definitely lower, almost mound shaped in the middle. Something a car could’ve carved out.

  He shifted the gear into park and left the car running in the middle of the road. No need to worry about other traffic. Smoke coughed from the tailpipe as he passed it. With his coat collar clutched to his neck, he stepped over the wall. The snow rode up to his thighs, more resistant than walking through water. After brushing wind-blown snow away from a tree trunk, he examined it. Raw bark. Next to it, a large fallen limb poked tendrils through the drifts. He dug his gloved hand down, feeling nothing. Peeling back the fingertips, he stuck his hand in again. Something sharp pricked a finger. Glass. He licked the fingertip, savoring the taste of blood.

  But where the hell was her car? And where was the bitch, the backstabbing bitch?

  He stumbled up the hill and collapsed into his warm, waiting steed of steel. But he couldn’t relax, not now. It would all end soon, he could feel it. Definitely not the time for a nap or anythi
ng pussy like that.

  This time the snow didn’t slow him. Nothing could deter him. Right was on his side, after all. He sped down the road the way he came, his mind racing ahead of him.

  What if she got a ride into the next town? By a truck driver or someone else? Some guy she’d let into her pants? Laughing at Brad while screwing him?

  Goddammit.

  The car couldn’t go fast enough. Steering wheel in one hand, he held his phone just over the dash, checking it every few feet.

  The trees along the road thinned, sparsely spaced and scrawny looking. Soon, he crossed the Hilston line into God knew where. Another half mile down the road, three bars on his phone bounced to life.

  “Yes, goddammit, ‘bout time.”

  The car fishtailed, slaloming across the road. He went with it, correcting the wheel, spinning it in the opposite direction. Adrenaline spiked. The way he always felt when closing in on a perp, closing in like a hunter.

  After locating a number for the Hilston Sheriff’s office, he dialed it. Five rings, six rings, seven … His pulse raced, his breath fogging up the windows.

  “Sheriff’s department.”

  “I need some information on a Chevy reported in an accident last night —”

  “Uh-huh.” The cop sounded cocky, a little fish in a big ocean. “And who might I be talkin’ to?”

  Brad gave his stats, badge number, and detective status. Just enough to make the little minnow nibble at his toes.

  “Got it, Detective Stanchfield. Let’s see what I can pull up on the magic box …” With a clunk, the cop dropped the phone. A tap-tap-tapping of computer keys accompanied the cop’s inane humming. Like this wasn’t more fucking important than anything else he had going on.

  “Detective?”

  “Still here.”

  “Sorry, can’t find anything. No Chevy, no mention of a …” Paper rustled. “… Rebecca Stanchfield, nothing of the sort. Sorry.”

  Goddamn incompetents. “Bullshit! I know damn well —”

  “Hey, hey, easy there. We’re all on the same team, dedicated law enforce —”