Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  “Tommy Goodenow! Where are your manners?”

  He swallowed and issued a mumbly, “Sorry, babe. But they’re mighty tasty.”

  “Ah, it’s fine, girl,” offered Dolores. “I like a man who shows his appreciation through his belly.”

  Patting his stomach, Jim said, “Must be why she’s head over heels for me.”

  Everyone roared except Heather. It seemed Tommy valued his own craven physical needs before their duty. When Tommy finally noticed her glaring at him, he gave a little boy’s nod and wiped his mouth with a napkin. Then he tossed the napkin onto the red and white checkered tablecloth. How his awful manners had escaped Heather before, she couldn’t tell. Still, that’s what marriage is all about, she supposed, learning one another’s weaknesses and accepting them. For better, for worse.

  “Okey dokie. The object of the game is …” While Jim explained the game’s rules, Heather drifted to her special place. Sometimes she thought she actually left her shell of a body. Maybe not. But it was a quiet place, a place to meditate on God made especially for her. Well, she shared it with her Lord and Maker, of course. She prayed, gave thanks, offered her services. Felt downright privileged to be sending worthy souls to Heaven. And to the other place, reserved for people like her parents and the woman and child across the driveway.

  As if from a distance, she heard chatter surrounding her, hollow echoes of voices. Tommy asked questions, the Dandys belted out laughter, none of it mattered. God had sought her out, ordained her to carry on His work. Again, she thanked Him. As if chasing her body, she slowly reclaimed it, feeling God’s light filling her from head to toe.

  “Amen,” she said. The party talk had stopped. Then she noticed everyone looking at her.

  “Heather? Heather, you all right, girl?” Jim loomed close to her face, his breath fetid smelling of pickles. “You don’t look so good. Your eyes. They’re … well …”

  “Do you need to lay down, honey?”

  Tommy said, “No, no, she’s all right. Just how she gets when she prays.”

  “You sure, son? Them pupils of hers look big as saucers.”

  She smiled, comfortable in her serenity. “I’m fine. Better than I’ve ever been.” She looked at Tommy, nodded. God told her the time had come.

  Tommy’s grin grew into a shark’s bite. From his boot, he retrieved a knife, his favorite. Slowly, he twisted it, letting the lamplight catch the blade. He admired its sleekness, its salvation-bringing quality. Then he rested his arms on the table, knife pointing up. “Well now, Jim … Dolores … I’m afraid we didn’t just invite you over to play —”

  Jim yanked the tablecloth toward him. Tommy fell forward, his chin banging onto the table. Faster than Heather could track, Dolores’s hand flew out of the basket. Her arm whipped over her head, coming down lightning fast. Holding something glinting in the light. Whack. The hatchet separated Tommy from his hand, the blade buried into the table. His stump raised, blood spat out of it. He stared at it, stunned into silence. Except for the awful mewling. His jaw wobbled, tongue bobbing, but no words escaped. God, no words.

  “Get back, Mother.”

  Dolores’s chair scraped back across the floor with a teeth-grinding crunch. The table flew up and over, Jim driving it. Tommy crashed to the floor, cookies and dominoes clack-clack-clacking onto his pale face, his bloodless face.

  Heather sat frozen, her arms dead weight at her sides. It’d happened so fast, so horribly. Yet it didn’t happen. A hallucination. God wouldn’t allow it to happen.

  Jim ripped the tablecloth away from the hatchet. He lassoed Tommy with it, a red and white checked ghost, quiet and lifeless. Blood spread like an inkblot through the cloth. His hands around Tommy’s neck, Jim kicked at the table. It skidded across the floor and banged into the altar. Jesus dropped.

  Heather sucked in a deep breath, ready to scream. A hand clamped over her mouth. Tommy’s favorite knife, the one he had finished Heather’s parents with, touched her throat, the steel ice cold. It drew a nick, a tiny one, but Heather felt the warmth of her soul seeping out. Tears of life, of fear, dropped down her cheeks.

  “Well, I’ll be hogtied and dipped in spit, Mother!” Jim let up on Tommy, who slid to the floor. “What in the world do you make of this?” His smile never changed, the only one he knew: cordial, relaxed. As if nothing had happened.

  Behind Heather, Dolores laughed and released a big “Hoo-whee!” Then she said, “I reckon this is gonna be our best date night in a long time.”

  A dark pool blossomed across the floor beneath Tommy. His legs kicked, the way Heather imagined a hanged man might jerk his soul away. Before she passed out, the last thing she saw was her loving husband’s soul drift away. It didn’t rise, just ate itself up, folding inward, then vanished into blackness. The last thing Heather heard was the Dandys’ good-natured laughter.

  Chapter Six

  Rebecca had no idea if she’d slept, the line between waking and sleep muddied. She certainly didn’t feel rested. She sat up, stretched, her sweat-drenched shirt clinging to her. The radiator hissed, a comforting sound. A hint of a dream struggled to surface, one where she was asleep while oddly aware of her surroundings. She remembered sensing an intruder’s presence, felt their warmth, their body occupying space. Someone watching her, unmoving and quiet. She’d struggled to open her eyes, but something kept pulling her down, a rock anchoring her to sleep’s ocean depths.

  She forced a dry swallow down her parched throat. Kyra, still curled up like a potato bug, hadn’t budged. Rebecca checked her phone. Of course there wasn’t a signal; she’d pretty much resigned herself to not getting one until the storm passed. But the time read 8:47, proof that she’d slept. For a little over two hours.

  Rebecca inched out of bed, careful not to disturb her daughter. No doubt Kyra would be hungry when she woke, so Rebecca thought she’d scavenge the kitchen for a snack. Better go alone, too, in case the strange young couple was there again.

  She slipped into her shoes and bypassed the mirror, afraid of what she’d see. Carefully, she removed the chair from the door and stepped into the hallway.

  *

  Bright light warmed Heather from head to toe. At first she thought she’d been lifted straight to Heaven. A voice — God’s voice — spoke to her. Of course she didn’t see Him; more like felt His voice, heard it in divine stereo. She couldn’t make out the words, not exactly. But the message came through strong and clear. A beautiful sensation saturated her mind, her body.

  Her work had only just begun. Tommy’s passing now felt like a minor setback on her path, her mission. He’d gone to a better place, happier now than he’d been in life. And he’d wait for her, this she knew. With God’s shining light showing her the way, she clawed her way back to the sinful, material world.

  Voices echoed as if from across a body of water, hollow and distant. The dull lamplight in the room crushed her with despair, a dismal reminder of the brilliance she’d just left behind. But it didn’t last. If anything, she felt renewed, energized. Ready to continue her work.

  Across the room, Jim Dandy rolled Tommy’s soulless husk up in the plastic she and Tommy had planned to use for the Dandys. Taking out the trash and, really, that’s all Tommy’s body was now. So Heather didn’t mind all that much; a body without a soul seems as pointless as life without faith. It bothered her more that her wrists ached, bound behind her.

  Next to her, Dolores said, “Father, she’s awake.”

  Jim straightened with a double crack of the knees. “Welcome back, young lady.” He dropped a chair in front of Heather and sat. Leaning over, he said, “Doin’ all right?” Tiny blood vessels criss-crossed through his eyes. One long, gray nostril hair dropped and retracted with each breath. And all she could think was how she couldn’t wait to release the Dandys’ souls. She just might enjoy the job as much as Tommy would’ve.

  “I asked you a question, girl. Doin’ okay?”

  Heather nodded.

  “Now why don’t you tel
l us what in the world y’all thought you was doin’?”

  Heather cleared her throat, her mind. “God’s work.”

  “What? Never seen no God’s work that involves knives,” said Dolores.

  “I’ll say, Mother. Why, I think these young ‘uns were fixin’ to kill us. Is that about right, girl?”

  “No. Not kill. Release you.” Heather spat the words, demanding to be heard. Long ago, she’d learned the devil uses ridicule as a tool, a hurdle the righteous need to jump often and with grace. Bring it.

  “What do you make of that?” Jim looked at his wife, his eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Land’s sake! I don’t care how they try to gussie it up, they was fixin’ to kill us. All our years doin’ this, we’ve never had someone try and kill us. Us! Can you imagine? Lord a’mighty —”

  “Yes, he is!”

  “Girl, you talk when spoken to, got that?” Jim’s good-natured act vanished, replaced by an anger reserved for sinners. Heather had woefully misread the Dandys. Sometimes the devil wears sheep’s clothing. “Now … am I to understand you wanted to kill us ‘cause God done tol’ you to?”

  “I’m his righteous soldier, delivering souls, good and evil, to their just —”

  “I’ve heard about enough, Poppa,” Dolores said. “Let’s carry on. I’m feelin’ mighty vital tonight.”

  “You mean ‘frisky,’ Mother?”

  Crimson shades blemished Dolores’s cheeks. With a smile, she said, “Don’t be that way in front of young ‘uns! I declare.”

  A knock on the door kicked Heather’s heart into her throat. God’s cavalry to the rescue.

  With a glimpse at his watch, Jim said, “Ah, right on time as usual. Come in!”

  Snow swirled behind the host, Christian, as he entered. “Good evening again, Missus Goodenow.” To the Dandys, he said, “Are you ready for my services?”

  “Yep.” Jim jerked his chin toward the body on the floor. “Got one to get rid of. Need your help with the girl in a shake of a coon’s tail.”

  At first, Heather took it all in with a sense of invulnerable serenity, knowing God had her back. Yet it became clear the Dandys meant to kill her. And the worst part? At the hands of an abomination, a queer. Unacceptable. God had given her all the time in the world; two worlds, actually. Now was not her time to move on, not by God’s choice. So why hadn’t He come to her aid? The answer seemed so simple, it shamed her that she doubted Him. Of course. Another test to see if she’s truly worthy, one of the faithful. God wants her to fight. And fight she would, too, like a warrior on Heaven’s front lines.

  “Wait! Don’t you let him near me.” She snapped her hands apart, the rope pulling taut. “Don’t let him touch me!” She averted her eyes, unable to look at the homosexual.

  “Now, what do you got against ol’ Christian, young lady?” asked Jim. “Why, he’s like a son to us.”

  “That he is, Poppa.”

  “He’s a sinner! A foul thing from hell! He’s a … a gay!” Even the word tasted bitter on Heather’s tongue. She spit, clearing the repugnant taste.

  “What? A … gay?” The host blinked at Heather, his eyes moist behind his glasses. “I’m not gay. Why does everyone always think that?”

  “Now, missy, you done hurt Christian’s feelings.” Dolores jumped out of her chair, prodding a finger at Heather. “You consider yourself a Christian. Not very Christian-like, I don’t think, callin’ him names. And even if he was a homosexual, don’t you think your God would accept him?”

  Fire flared through Heather, her mind on the verge of exploding. Never had she heard such profanity. It wouldn’t go unpunished, either. “Of course not! God hates queers! Don’t you dare —”

  “But I’m not gay.”

  “Shut up, queer! And your name … the ultimate blasphemy!” Her chair rocked as she wrenched against the binds. The rope loosened, just a bit. Fury drove her, righteousness pushing her over the top. “You’re all goin’ to hell! You hear me? All of you!” With a surge of energy, she shifted to the left. The chair hovered on two legs, tottered, then fell. Pain knifed through her shoulder. She growled through clamped teeth. Soon, very soon, the three of them would pay for their sacrilege. “And I’m gonna send you all there.”

  “Shut yer yap, girl.” Dolores waddled toward the queer. She reached up and stroked his shoulder. “Shhh, Christian, don’t listen to the girl. She don’t know nothin’. We know you’re a healthy boy with—”

  “But I’m not gay.” His lies sounded weaker than his pathetic voice. On the floor, Heather writhed, her stomach roiling from the nightmare surrounding her.

  “We know you’re not, son.” Dolores turned toward Heather, her eyes narrowed. “I’ve had ‘bout enough of this. Damn lil big-mouthed bitch. Let’s put her out of our misery.” She approached Heather, the hatchet raised above her.

  Heather twisted, pushed, the chair scraping over the floor. Her foot swept at the woman’s ankles, her only weapon. Dolores hopped back, studying her weapon. “Poppa, you want the honor with this one?” With a smile, she offered the hatchet to her husband.

  “No, you go on ahead.”

  “But I took care of the boy.”

  Jim smiled. “Well, now, that’s an argument I can’t rightly pass up. How ‘bout we take turns?”

  “Sounds dandy to me, Jim Dandy.” The tip of her shoe smashed into Heather’s nose. Spikes of yellow and orange pain distorted Heather’s world. Above her, a twin image of Dolores prepared for a killing blow. Time for Divine intervention.

  “Wait,” screamed Heather. “Stop! I’m with child!”

  Dolores lowered the hatchet, blubber jiggling on her underarm. The room hushed, quiet as death.

  Jim’s boots appeared in Heather’s line of sight. “You mean to tell me, young lady, you and your fella were havin’ premarital sex?” He said it as if the notion disgusted him, ironic coming from a sinner.

  “What? No. No. Tommy and I just … consummated our marriage yesterday.” She hated telling the Dandys about her marital bed, absolutely despised it. It made sex seem so dirty again. But she had to survive, no matter the cost.

  “Then the baby’s another man’s?”

  Bile raced up Heather’s throat, the horrendous implications sickening. “Of course not! I was … pristine until we got married!”

  “Then it just ain’t possible, girl.” The old man slapped a knee, chortling.

  Just keep right on laughing, devil spawn, you’ll get yours. Soon. Heather heard her very own Judgment Day calling.

  “But it is! I swear to you … absolutely swear … I know it happened. Felt it happen last night. God showed me.” Disgust crawled through Heather. She felt her soul dirtied by pleading with the sinners.

  “‘Spose it’s possible, Poppa. Stranger things have happened. Either way, I don’t wanna take any chances. Not if there’s a baby on board. Not like … like …” Dolores moaned, just once, a train’s diminishing rattle. Wrinkled hands covered her face.

  Jim folded her into a strong hug, so intense Heather expected to hear bones break. “I know, it’s all right. Shh. Don’t go there …” The queer dropped his chin, closed his eyes, and folded his hands. As if praying. Praying! After Dolores settled, Jim turned toward Heather, anger in his eyes. “Well, now, this changes everything. You’d best not be lyin’ to us … for your own sake.”

  Heather saw hope, jumped at the opportunity. “I’m not. I’d never lie about God. I’m pregnant.”

  “All right …” Jim dragged a hand down his jaw, appearing skeptical. But Heather knew one thing he believed in — his wife. Something to remember, something to exploit later in her war. “… then I reckon we got different plans for you, girl. We had our hearts set on the other woman and her adorable daughter, but now …”

  Dolores finished his thought. “Looks like our family might be growin’ more than we ever thought.” Her smile swam back. “Christian, please take care of Miss Heather.”

  Heather cringed at the thought of
his touch. “No, wait! Don’t let him —”

  Christian slapped a hand over Heather’s mouth. Then he squeezed, his fingernails digging into her flesh. She bit his palm, his filthy, disease-ridden palm. Tart, poisoned blood trickled into her mouth. She struggled, spitting against his hand. When he punched her temple, her teeth bit into her tongue. Effortlessly, he pitched her over his shoulder. “My pleasure,” he said, service with a smile.

  *

  “Stop. Stop, dammit.”

  Domenick’s nephew punched the brakes. The Humvee’s back end slid, drawing closer to the parked cars along the road. Once the vehicle rocked to a halt, Domenick’s heart kept knocking.

  “Dumb ass! Who taught you to drive? The blind?”

  “Sorry, sorry.” Calvin threw his hands up like a surrendering man.

  Domenick shook his head, his patience tried. Nothing penetrated his moronic nephew’s skull, so why even bother? He pointed at the car inches from the passenger window. “There. Bet that’s it. Shitty Chrysler. About the right size, but who can tell for sure with all this damn snow? Make sure it’s the right one first. Then flatten the tires. Don’t want him goin’ nowhere.”

  Calvin stared at Domenick, his lower jaw working beneath the mask. “But … Mister Domenick, it’s cold out there.”

  “Cold. Shit, I’ll show you cold. How ‘bout six feet under’s worth of cold? Just get out there and do it, for Christ’s sake. Buncha little girls!”

  Calvin snagged a switchblade out of his coat pocket. The blade flipped out, Calvin studying it by the dashboard light. Buying time. Domenick tossed his hands up in despair, tired of having to explain everything. Twice.

  “Okay, okay, I’m goin’.” Calvin took a deep, germ-ridden breath and slid out. He swiped snow off the side, the hood, nodded satisfactorily toward Domenick. Then he dropped out of sight, and the accountant’s car lowered, more snow tumbling off the roof. He sprang up, smiling, a damn school kid waiting for a golden star. Domenick waved him back.

  “All right, you ready?” Calvin nodded, wisely keeping his mouth shut for once. It only took about ten hours of on-the-road lessons. “Pull up in front of the inn.”