Full moon. Another month gone by. Another month older, another month frying donuts, another month for the same old worn-out, rump-sprung, elastic-gone panties, another month of the same stained uniforms, another month of too many expenses for the income, another month alone.
She looked up at that moon from where she sat on the edge of her bed in her tiny little trailer and wished she had the guts to drink in the morning. She could really enjoy a nice, refreshing martini at the moment.
But coffee would have to do. She lit a cigarette from her bedside pack and remembered that she’d forgotten to buy coffee filters. She’d have to use a paper towel again today.
~ ~ ~
“I’m going to buy this land and put up a monument to York,” Sly said.
Denny snorted. He was feeling increasingly restless as York’s breathing became deeper and more labored. His fingers toyed with ball bearings as he listened to Sly talk with an unusual calm and confidence, even though he was just talking bullshit. Buy the land. Sure. Put up a monument to York. Absolutely. What crap. Sly rarely held down a laborer’s job for two days straight.
“Make it a park. For the kids, you know?”
“Yeah, they’ll all get run over by the trains.”
“No, they won’t. It’ll be nice. I’ll make it nice. Brenda’ll know how to do all that stuff. She’ll help.”
“You and Brenda and what taxpaying organization?” Denny knew that York was about to die, and he couldn’t deal with it. He couldn’t deal with it. He jumped up and shook out his sleeping bag, but the old seam finally let go, and feathers flew with the dirt and grit.
“Hey,” Sly said. “What are you doing? Stop it.”
Desperation gripped Denny. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He wanted to stuff the sleeping bag into York’s mouth and still that awful breathing. He wanted to call 9-1-1 and bring an ambulance down here to save him. He wanted to curl up into a little ball and have Clover rock him. He didn’t want to deal with the bulldozers that would be there in a couple of hours, he didn’t want to listen to any more of Sly’s government conspiracy crap, he was sick of living in the weeds, in the dust, in the dirt, he was sick of the politics, he was sick of the low-down lifestyle. He was sick of having that grit in his nose and in his mouth and between his toes every damn day of his life.
He remembered having that six hundred some-odd bucks in his pocket, and ordering that steak and cold beer with confidence. He’d like some more of that feeling. He’d like to be clean, and to stay clean. He’d like—Jesus God—he’d like to go back to school and learn some new things.
Then he heard it, from a few miles south, the whistle from the train as it left Bonita. That whistle carried a long way on the clear air, and Denny heard it call him.
“I gotta go,” he said to Sly. He threw the handful of ball bearings into the weeds, and taking nothing with him but the pain pills in his pocket, he ran up the embankment and started walking north on the tracks. When the freight caught up with him, he’d grab hold as it slowed for the curve and jump aboard. He wished he’d said good-bye to Clover, he wished he’d said good-bye to York. Oh, well. He kept walking. Behind him, he felt the vibrations of the approaching train. Ahead, he felt the vibrations of his future. Within each was the excitement of the new freight, the new experience, the new place, the new people, the boldness of the unknown. Within each was also the dread that nothing would ever change, that his whole life would merely be same shit, different day.
If that were true, then everything Clover had done, everything York had ever said would all be useless. York’s life would have had no meaning.
It was inconceivable, but deep down, Denny thought it to be true. An old anger fired up in him that he hadn’t felt in a long time, not since the last time he was hopping freights, before he showed up at York’s.
He owed York. He owed Clover.
And the best way to repay them, he figured, was to get the hell out, and not rub their noses in the uselessness of it all.
He ignored the little sob that broke free from his chest, and started walking faster. The freight was coming and he was going to have to run to catch it.
~ ~ ~
When Milo saw Deputy Travis’s car in his driveway, he figured something had gone wrong down by the tracks. The sky was beginning to lighten and the air was harsh with the heat of the approaching day. For a moment, Milo forgot his personal problems and worried about business. Deputy Travis probably screwed up the mission, and he was here to tell Milo all about it.
Well, Milo thought, I’ll listen to the young punk’s confession, and then pull out my .32 and blow my brains out right in front of the kid. That ought to be good for a decade of therapy. At least he’d make a difference in someone’s life.
But the lights were off, and the kitchen was dark.
Milo knew, with a terrible certainty, what he was going to find in his bedroom long before he walked down the hall and pushed open the door.
Susie Marie lay with her back to Travis, wound up in that expensive sheet, sleeping. Milo couldn’t see her face. Travis snored, lying on his back, the sheet down around his waist, his hairy chest and one muscular leg exposed, the bedroom reeking of sex.
Milo paused, the swirl of emotions weakening his knees. He felt indignant that he should be left to see this. He was hurt that Susie Marie would actually commit this act in his own bed. He was furious at Travis for cuckolding him, and he was lonely. So horribly lonely. There was no one in the universe with whom he could share his burdens. Nobody. Not his wife, not his employees, not the council, not the sheriff, not his mother, not anybody.
Milo Grimes was alone in the world.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Wake the fuck up!”
Susie Marie twitched, opened her eyes, saw him, gasped, pulled the sheet up to her chin and scooted up toward the headboard in fear. Travis continued to snore.
Milo felt himself weaving. He wanted to sit down, but to sit down would be to mitigate his power. He needed his power right now. It was all he had.
“Hey!” Milo said again, and kicked the foot of the bed.
Susie Marie nudged Travis with her freshly pedicured foot.
“What?” Travis said, rubbed his hands over his face, and opened his eyes. “Oh, jeez,” he said when he saw Milo. He looked up toward Susie Marie with what appeared to be some type of apology on his face. “God, I musta fallen asleep.”
“Musta,” Milo said.
Travis sat up and reached for his clothes.
“Sit tight,” Milo said, and pulled the gun from his pocket.
Susie Marie gasped with a satisfying little noise of fear. “Milo!” she said in a little mouse voice.
“Whoa,” Travis said. “Hold on, now. This isn’t something that’s news to you.”
“You prick,” Milo said. He was astonished at the man’s chutzpah, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet went through Travis’s right lung and knocked him back onto the bed. Bright-red blood flowed from the hole and began to froth from his lips as he looked, wide-eyed, back at Milo.
“Nice shot,” Milo congratulated himself. “Don’t die too fast. The entertainment has just begun.” He turned to Susie Marie, who looked like she was about to scream. “Shhh,” he said, holding the short barrel of the little gun to his lips. “Shhh.” He walked over to her side of the bed, and tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his heart as she cringed and shrank away from him.
Milo sat on the edge of the bed. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep, but he had work to do first.
“The thing is, Susie Marie,” he said, and then forgot what the thing was. Oh, yeah. “The thing is–” But the thing was too big to say. The loneliness, the guilt, the hurt, the lies, the years of deception that had permeated their lives. . . . It was all just too much to say, to deal with, to account for. Hell, she knew it. She was part of it. “Well, hell,” he said. “You know.”
She nodded, and he shot her in the same place. Right lung.
; “Well, okay, then,” he said, and stood up. He went to the foot of the bed, standing right before them, as if on stage. He had their undivided attention, or as much as could be expected from two bleeding, gasping, dying fornicators, and he discovered that he had no last words.
He put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
~ ~ ~
York dreamed of strings. Dark, thick, ropelike strings that wound around his chest, light, silvery weblike strings that floated up to the full moon, gossamer strings that bound his eyes, rubbery strings that hobbled his feet. He struggled with the strings, trying to break free, needing to breathe, but breath didn’t come easy. First, the wrists, he thought, if he could only free his wrists, then he could pull away the rest of the bindings, but he was asleep, paralyzed in a dream, and he couldn’t move his hands.
He struggled, his breath coming harder and harder, the bonds around his chest turning into steel bands, and someone was cranking down on them as if tuning up a barrel. He began to panic, feeling closed in and afraid. He wanted to yell, to tell whoever it was to stop, but his mouth was sleep-befuddled, and he had no breath to speak with anyway.
Then a cool hand was laid upon his forehead, and a sweet, light, rich voice spoke clearly into his ear. “Stop struggling,” she said.
It was just that simple.
~ ~ ~
Clover’s eyes popped open, and a sudden alertness was upon her. It was early dawn, a time of day she was all too used to seeing as she suited up and walked down to the donut shop. But today was her day off.
She gave herself a luxuriously feline stretch, and thought about what lay ahead. First, go down and wake York, then bring him home. While here, he could bathe and shave, while she made a few phone calls, then she could trim his hair. His chances of getting into a nice place would be better if he looked clean. Maybe then he’d take a nap while she went to the Goodwill to get him some new clothes, and then she’d take him to his new home. Someone would take him, and he’d go someplace nice, she just knew it. He was too important. He was too wonderful. He was her daddy.
That would probably take up most of the day, she thought, what with paperwork and all. But once York was settled in his new place, and she’d maybe read to him, and made sure he had a good meal in his belly, she thought she might have business down at the train station in Bonita.
Maybe. She had to consciously push aside thoughts of Denny, but she knew that if she didn’t have to see him whenever she went to see York, she’d get over him fast.
Whatever. Denny was probably long gone anyway. She didn’t have to think about him, she had things to do that were infinitely more important.
The birds were singing their morning songs, it wasn’t too hot yet, and the day had purpose and direction. Life was good, Clover thought, and it was going to be a beautiful day.
~End~
About the Author
Elizabeth Engstrom is a sought-after teacher and keynote speaker at writing conferences, conventions, and seminars around the world. She has written thirteen books and edited four anthologies, and she has over two hundred fifty short stories, articles and essays in print. Her latest novel is Baggage Check, a thriller. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her fisherman-husband and their dog where she teaches the occasional writing class, puts her pen to use for social justice, and is always working on her next book. She is on faculty at the University of Phoenix. www.elizabethengstrom.com
Connect with the Author Online
You can email the author or find out more about her through her website:
www.elizabethengstrom.com
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Other eBooks from IFD Publishing
IFD uses the services of Smashwords to distribute ePub versions of its titles. You can find the following titles at most distribution points for all ereading platforms. The links below will allow you to purchase directly from Smashwords. You will be able to select the version that is right for your ereader.
Novels:
Siren Promised, by Alan M. Clark and Jeremy Robert Johnson
Beyond the Serpent’s Heart, by Eric Witchey
How I Met My Alien Bitch Lover: Book 1 from the Sunny World Inquisition Daily Letter Archives, by Eric Witchey
Bull’s Labyrinth, by Eric Witchey
Lizzie Borden, by Elizabeth Engstrom
Lizard Wine, by Elizabeth Engstrom
The Northwood Chronicles: A Novel in Stories, by Elizabeth Engstrom
Black Leather, by Elizabeth Engstrom
Candyland, by Elizabeth Engstrom
York’s Moon, by Elizabeth Engstrom
Baggage Check, by Elizabeth Engstrom
To Kill a Common Loon, by Mitch Luckett
The Man in the Loon, by Mitch Luckett
The Blood of Father Time: Book 1, The New Cut, by Alan M. Clark, Stephen C. Merritt & Lorelei Shannon
The Blood of Father Time: Book 2, The Mystic Clan's Grand Plot, by Alan M. Clark, Stephen C. Merritt & Lorelei Shannon
Jack the Ripper Victims Series: Of Thimble and Threat, by Alan M. Clark
Jack the Ripper Victims Series: The Double Event, by Alan M. Clark
A Parliament of Crows, by Alan M. Clark
D. D. Murphy, Secret Policeman, by Alan M. Clark and Elizabeth Massie
Death is a Star, by Christina Lay
Novelettes:
The Tao of Flynn, by Eric Witchey
To Build a Boat, Listen to Trees, by Eric Witchey
Beware the Boojum, by Eric Witchey
Short Story Collections
Suspicions: A Collection of Short Stories, by Elizabeth Engstrom
Short Stories:
“Apple Sniper,” by Eric Witchey
“Brittle Bones and Old Rope,” by Alan M. Clark
“Crosley,” by Elizabeth Engstrom
“Seducing Storms,” by E. M. Arthur. Private Party Erotica # 1.
“Diver's Moon,” by E. M. Arthur. Private Party Erotica # 2.
Children’s Illustrated:
The Christmas Thingy, by F. Paul Wilson. Illustrated by Alan M. Clark
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