by Ronald Kelly
“I shot my son,” he told her. “I blew his spine in half, for God’s sake!”
“It was an accident, Joe! You tripped. The gun went off. You didn’t do it on purpose.”
Joe Adkins lifted his eyes. They were full of torment and self-loathing. “Didn’t I? He didn’t want to go hunting that day. I wanted him to go. I shamed him into going. I picked and picked at him, making him feel like less than a man until he felt obligated to go with me. So don’t tell me that it wasn’t my fault. I acted like some macho redneck and ended up crippling my son for life.”
“You’re wrong,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” he told her flatly. “And you know it. He knows it, too.”
Flora simply stood there and stared at her husband of fifteen years. She was tired of hearing his self-incrimination. He had made it perfectly clear to her time after time. Shaking her head, she turned and headed for the kitchen to warm up Chuck’s supper and fetch his medicine.
Sometimes she felt as if she had two invalids living in the house with her. One was a physical cripple, while the other was an emotional one.
~ * ~
Keith stood outside the back door of the farmhouse for a long moment, dreading to step inside. He could see his grandfather clearly through the fine mesh of the screen and he looked none too happy.
Apparently, Jasper McLeod knew his grandson was there, lingering in the darkness just outside the glow of the kitchen light. “Come on in,” he said sternly.
The boy took a deep breath and stepped inside, careful to prevent the screen door from slamming shut. He didn’t want to make it any worse than it already was.
His grandfather sat at the kitchen table, half a cup of black coffee sitting before him. His eyes were as hard and gray as flint. “Have a seat,” he instructed.
Keith did as he was told. “Now what?” he asked. “Are you going to chew me out?”
“That was what I was aiming to do,” said Jasper. He stared at the twelve-year-old for a moment. “What I want to know is what you young’uns were thinking? Mrs. Adkins let Chuck go with ya’ll on the condition that you get him home by six. But ya’ll disregarded the promise you made and that upset her something awful.”
“We’re sorry about that,” said Keith. “Time just got away from us and, besides, Chuck said his mom wouldn’t mind.”
“But the fact of the matter was, she did,” said the elderly man. “Keith, that boy has had a hard time of it in the last couple years. He is paralyzed from the waist down, won’t walk another step again in his entire life. His mother was just afraid for him. Don’t you understand that?”
“Sure,” allowed Keith. “But I think everybody’s making too big a deal out of this whole thing.”
Jasper took a long sip of his lukewarm coffee and sighed. “So, where’d you go anyway?”
“We just rode down Sycamore Road a couple of miles,” said the boy. “Went out into the woods, that’s all. Rusty and the others got spooked over some place called Hell Hollow and we came on back.”
The old man seemed to stiffen in his chair. Something other than anger suddenly shown in his eyes. “Ya’ll didn’t go down in there, did you?”
“Nope,” said Keith. He could detect the old man’s uneasiness. “Don’t tell me you believe it’s haunted, too.”
“Just stay away from there,” warned his grandfather. “Take it from me… that’s not a place for kids to mess around with. Adults, either.”
“Why not? It’s just an old patch of woods and weeds.”
“Just stay away from it,” said Jasper. “Understand me?”
Keith suddenly felt his temper rise. “I’m tired of this third-degree you’re putting me through. I’m going up to my room.”
“I’m not through talking to you, young man!” Jasper told him. “Now, sit back down.”
“You’re not my father,” snapped the boy. “So you don’t have any business telling me what the hell to do.”
“Don’t cuss at me!” bellowed the elderly man. Before he knew what was happening, he reached out and grabbed his grandson by the arm.
Keith’s face turned pale with rage. “Let go of me, you old fart!” He jerked away from the old man’s grasp and backed toward the hallway. “Don’t you ever touch me again, you hear? If you lay your hands on me one more time, I’ll have your wrinkled ass tossed into jail for child abuse. Don’t think I’m bluffing either.”
Jasper could tell by Keith’s expression that he wasn’t. “Please, son, just sit down and let’s – “
“No!” yelled Keith, nearly in tears. “I hate being here, you know that? And I hate you, too! Just stay away from me, okay? Just leave me alone!”
The elderly farmer sat at the kitchen table and listened as the boy’s footsteps mounted the stairs. When he heard the slamming of the bedroom door, a cold sensation of hopeless dread ran through Jasper’s gut, from breastbone to stomach. He had wished for a greater closeness with his grandson, but, instead, his anger had gotten the better of him. As a result, the gap between them had probably stretched further than before Keith had even arrived in Harmony.
He thought of the way the boy had trembled in his grasp, not out of fear, but pure rage. “You old fool,” he grumbled, staring glumly at the stained top of the kitchen table and the cup of coffee that sat before him, growing cold.
~ * ~
“But, Mama – !” began Rusty.
“Don’t you ‘Mama me’, young man,” said Susan McLeod. She stood beside the fireplace in the living room, while her son sat slumped on the couch. “You’re going to have to learn to stop doing whatever pops into your head at the time and show a little responsibility. This isn’t the first time you’ve pulled a stunt like this. God knows you’ve given both me and your daddy enough guff lately.”
“But I don’t do it purposely, Mama,” Rusty tried to explain. “It just seems to work out that way for some reason.”
Susan studied her son. He looked like a smaller, younger version of his truck driver father; whipcord lean and lanky, with sharp green eyes and a shock of orange-red hair the hue of rusty barbed wire. And that wasn’t all. He possessed much of the same personally that Frank McLeod had, both positive and negative.
“You’re a carbon copy of your papa, you know that?” she said. “High-spirited and independent, full of energy. But you’ve gotta learn not to let those things get in the way of doing right. You’ve got to learn to stick to the rules, son. If you don’t, you’ll end up on the county work farm before you reach twenty. I’ve seen it happen before.”
“Aw, Mama, you’re exaggerating,” Rusty half-laughed.
The rigid look on her plump face told him that she, for one, didn’t believe so. “Don’t you sass me, boy. I’m the one talking here. You just keep your butt glued to those seat cushions and listen to what I have to say. Understand?”
Rusty swallowed dryly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I just want you to take a moment and think of what you did this evening,” she explained. “You didn’t just go for a longer stretch of joyriding than you promised Flora Adkins you would. You betrayed her trust and ended up scaring her half out of her wits. She’s been taking care of Chuck since that accident at Willow Lake. She’s waited on him hand and foot, built up his spirits, and never let him out her sight. When she finally decided to give him that first bit of freedom away from her, she put her trust in you and the others to give her peace of mind. And how did you repay that trust? You let her down. You acted as if it didn’t mean anything.”
“Mama,” ventured Rusty, knowing that he was treading on treacherous ground. “Chuck isn’t as bad off as Mrs. Adkins makes out. He can’t walk, but he’s sturdy enough. He just wanted it to be like old times again, if only for a little while.”
Susan McLeod knew what her son was driving at. “And you kind of found it hard to disappoint him by taking him back on time, is that it?”
“Sort of,” said Rusty.
The woman sighed, feeling as if she coul
dn’t fault him much, particularly since his indiscretion had been out of loyalty to a friend. “Your supper’s on the table. You can heat it up in the microwave. We’ll discuss your punishment later.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, leaving the couch. As he passed her, he paused. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
When Rusty had left the room, Susan sat down on the couch, emotionally drained. She was glad that the confrontation was finally over. She didn’t mind bearing the responsibility of raising her son to be the best person possible, but, at times, she felt as if she had been branded the villain of the McLeod household. She knew that Rusty understood the responsibilities she had to shoulder in his father’s absence, but she was afraid, in time, that he might come to resent her role of disciplinarian. Susan just wished Frank was around more often to share such difficult times. Rusty was at the age where he needed a firm hand to keep him in line. And Susan wasn’t at all certain that she was strict enough to do the job effectively.
~ * ~
Maggie Sutton was relieved when she discovered that her parents’ car was not in the driveway. Her brother’s black Mustang was there, but the burgundy Altima was nowhere to be found.
As the girl parked her bike next to the garage and cautiously entered the side door, she remembered that it was her mother and father’s night to go out. They were probably at the Cracker Barrel in Manchester, chowing down on chicken and dumplings, hashbrown casserole, and fried okra.
She entered the house and made her way down the hallway, toward the family room. A glance at the light on the answering machine told her that no messages had been left. That gave her some small shred of hope. Perhaps Mrs. Adkins had been unsuccessful in reaching Maggie’s parents and exposing their neglect in bringing Chuck home on time. That was, unless her brother had answered the phone.
Maggie paused and listened. Tom was home, that was for certain. She could hear his stereo booming from the upper floor of the house. Her seventeen year old brother had some heavy metal band cranked to maximum volume, something he was only allowed to do when their parents were out of the house. Perhaps Tom had not heard the phone ring due to the decibel level of his stereo. And maybe, if she was very careful, she might just be able to sneak up the stairs to her room without alerting her arrival home. If he got an inkling that she was in the house, he wouldn’t be able to resist engaging in his favorite pastime, and that was tormenting her. Since he was twelve, Tom Sutton had made a hobby out of teasing and picking at his little sister; generally making life difficult for her. Especially if she was attempting to keep something from her parents. That alone brought out a particularly sadistic side to his personality.
She climbed the stairs and cautiously made her way along the hallway. A moment later, she had reached the door of her bedroom. Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. She knew Mrs. Adkins would reach her parents eventually and that she would have to face the music sooner or later, but hopefully tonight she would escape punishment.
Maggie knew that she was wrong the moment she laid her hand on the doorknob. As her fingers touched metal, the chaotic thumping of bass and crescendo of percussion ended in mid-note. She whirled and, there, standing in the open doorway of the adjacent bedroom, was her brother. Tom Sutton was tall, handsome, and athletic; three attributes that he was well aware of. He was also the star of the high school football team and the most popular guy in his class. He wasn’t very successful academically, struggling with a steady C average – much to Maggie’s secret delight – but that didn’t seem to bother him any. He had his obnoxious friends, a string of airheaded girlfriends, his car, and his sports, and that was all that was necessary to make him happy. To tell the truth, if Maggie could think of one word that might best describe her older brother, it would undoubtedly have to be ‘asshole’.
Tom leaned against the doorframe and smiled at her. “I thought I heard you come in,” he said, then added “Margret” as an afterthought. Maggie didn’t mind people calling her by her proper name, but for some reason when Tom used it, it completely drove her up the wall.
“I don’t see how you heard anything with all that noise, Thomas,” she said in retribution.
Her brother’s smarmy grin almost faltered. “What are you doing sneaking down the hall like that? Trying to hide something?”
“Of course not.”
Tom’s smile broadened. “Nope. Wrong answer. The patented Sutton Lie-O-Meter just went way off the scale, little sister.”
“You’re a jerk, you know that?” she snapped, turning the knob of her bedroom door. If she could just get into her room, she could lock him out and she wouldn’t have to listen to his stupid remarks.
“Just hold up, squirt,” he warned her. “You know, I got an interesting call tonight.” Tom’s eyes sparkled cruelly.
Maggie froze in her tracks.
“Yeah, it was Mrs. Adkins out on Sycamore Road calling to let Mom and Dad know what kind of irresponsible little brat their darling daughter is. Of course, luckily, I was here to take a message.”
The girl turned, her eyes pleading. “Tom… please don’t tell them. At least not until tomorrow.”
Her brother threw up his hands. “Hey, why put off till tomorrow what you can do today, that’s what I always say.” He glanced at the hall clock. “And I’d say the folks should be home in an hour or so.”
“There’s really no need to tell them tonight,” Maggie urged. “It’ll just upset them, that’s all.”
“Sorry, kid. I’ve already made up my mind to tell them the minute they step through the front door.” Tom Sutton grinned devilishly. “This is what I live for, Margret. The times that their precious angel screws up.”
Maggie stared at her brother. “Why are you so mean to me all the time?” she asked, unable to understand the nature of his viciousness.
Tom shrugged his broad shoulders. “It just comes natural, I guess. Now you go on in your room. I promise to send Mom and Dad in to see you just as soon as they get here.”
Maggie knew no further pleading on her part would dissuade him. When her brother got an urge to make life miserable for her, there was absolutely nothing she could do to change his mind.
The girl stepped into her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She felt her heart sink, knowing that she was in for a good talking-to when her parents arrived. And she was sure that Tom would have his slimy ear glued to the other side of the door the whole time, relishing every word.
Maggie kicked off her flip-flops and lay down on her bed. She stared at the things that decorated her room; the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey posters on the walls, as well as the collection of porcelain clowns that graced her mirrored dresser. There was even a Barbie doll dressed in bright pink leotards and a feathered headdress perched on the edge of her chest of drawers like an acrobat balanced precariously on a tightrope. When she wasn’t hanging around the guys being a tomboy, that was the thing Maggie enjoyed most of all. The circus with its glitz and glamour. The cotton candy and roasted peanuts, the lions and elephants and seltzer-spraying clowns. And, most of all, the ones who defied death at the height of the big top on the tightrope and the flying trapeze.
With a sigh, Maggie closed her eyes and imagined herself in sequined leotards, holding a balancing pole in one hand and waving to the cheering crowd with the other. For a little while at least, she would be that lovely daredevil of her dreams. But, sooner or later, Maggie knew her fantasy would fade with the sound of her parents’ car pulling into the driveway and the excited drumming of her brother’s feet as he rushed downstairs to meet them at the front door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Where the hell am I?” wondered Slash Jackson as he stumbled through the treacherous darkness of the Tennessee backwoods.
It seemed as though he had been walking for hours. After leaving the interstate and the blood splattered Lincoln behind, he had headed eastward through the forest as quickly as the uneven terrain would allow. As the evening drew on and he became convinced that no one was
immediately on his trail, Slash slowed his pace a bit. Using the sun that peeked through the heavy foliage as a reference point, he turned northward, hoping to make a gradual swing west again and meet up with Interstate 24 ten or fifteen miles further on.
By the time the sun had set and the shadows had thickened into total darkness, Slash had lost his bearings. He found himself wandering aimlessly through the dense thicket of close-grown trees and knee-deep undergrowth, searching for some sign of civilization. But the further he descended into the forest, the darker and wilder the wilderness became. He saw no electric lights or even the sign of a deer path, let alone an actual road. Crickets sung in the thicket around him, as well as an owl or a distant whippoorwill every now and then.
He continued on, afraid to turn back. He knew eventually that he would have to come across a farm or town. He woods couldn’t go on forever. If he lost his head, there was a better chance that he would be caught for what he had done to Allison Walsh and Larry Bell. And, as a result, would end up paying for all the other crimes he had committed and probably spend the rest of his life behind prison walls.
He wasn’t prepared to surrender his freedom quite so easily. Slash continued through the deepening darkness, near exhaustion and feeling weak from lack of food or water. Breakfast at an interstate truck stop had been his last meal. Nearly fourteen hours had passed since then and he was ravenously hungry. He was thirsty, too. Strangely enough, he had failed to come across a single backwoods creek during his escape through the forest and his mouth and throat were paper dry. He would have settled for drinking out of a stagnant mud puddle, if it were to come down to that. But, so far, he hadn’t even been lucky enough to find that.
Slash was pushing his way through a wall of honeysuckle, when he saw a patch of moonlight shining through the open treetops ahead. Hoping that it would give him a clearer sense of where he was, he stepped through the fragrant vines, expecting to meet solid ground on the other side. Instead, his foot swung into open air. He clutched handfuls of honeysuckle, hoping to correct his balance, but it was too late. He pitched headfirst down a steep embankment. With a grunt, Slash tumbled down a high grade covered with moss, ferns, and sharp rocks. By the time he finally reached the bottom and landed on his back in a bed of soft kudzu, Slash was a mass of bruises and abrasions.
