He vowed to get even with the little tramp. For himself and her sinful disrespect to the Almighty.
Later, during the show in the large arena, Edwin spotted the same little hussy in a group called The Young Kansas City Cowgirls. He checked the program. Sure enough, her name was listed, the only Lindsay in the show. Lindsay Bellowes. Edwin circled her name with a pencil, carefully folded the program, and secured it in his buttoned pocket.
I’ve got you now, slut. Edwin tapped the computer screen with his fingernail.
The screaming began again, grew louder, twisted down the stairwell. It pierced Edwin’s skull.
“Shut up, boy!” Edwin knocked the chair to the linoleum when he bolted up.
He pulled the dinner bucket from below the sink and dumped the remains of his breakfast into it. Grabbing the plank of wood on his way out, he made his way to the stairwell. He stared at the door atop the stairs. “Shut your yap,” he screamed. “I’m comin’ already!”
God’s burden. He reminded himself he wouldn’t have to tend to God’s burden very much longer.
Things were about to change. No more poverty, no more backbreaking fieldwork. Edwin had a plan. A damn good plan.
“So, where’re we going?” Shannon covertly inched her black skirt down to her knees, or at least as far as she could pull it. Lindsay had insisted Shannon would look “whorishly awesome” in her daring wardrobe choice. Now she regretted it.
“Well, it’s Sunday and I told you I’d take you dancing.” Gavin pulled the car into Wild Bill’s Cuckoo Burger’s drive-in parking lot. No one ever questioned the odd name of the restaurant, just accepted it like an old friend. The drive-in stubbornly embraced a 1950s motif, a quaint relic dropped into the middle of suburban Barton, Kansas. “You know how hard it is to find a dancing venue we can actually get into? I mean, since we’re not twenty-one?” Gavin parked the car under the restaurant’s awning, cutting the ignition.
“Um, sorry, but I’ve already eaten.” She hadn’t. But Shannon didn’t feel comfortable eating in front of Gavin on their first date in case she got a case of the clumsies.
“That’s okay. Get a drink or a milkshake. The sky’s the limit for you when it comes to Wild Bill’s menu.” He snatched off his sunglasses and smiled at her. Shannon wondered if he’d practiced the move.
“Diet cherry limeade please.” Shannon frowned at her black stocking covered legs. Wishing she wore jeans, she silently cursed Lindsay.
“Wow, cheap date.” Gavin pressed the button. An indecipherable voice blared from the tin box. “Ah, I didn’t really get a single word you said, but I’d like two diet cherry limeades, please.”
Shannon snorted and threw her hand up to cover her mouth.
“I like when you laugh. You don’t need to be shy with me.”
Shannon blushed, and then attempted a speedy recovery. “Well, you ain’t heard nothing yet.” She exploded into raucous laughter. To her ears, she thought she sounded like a donkey.
“You’re certainly different, Shannon Wolters.”
“Different ‘weird’ or different ‘good’?”
Gavin appeared to weigh his words carefully before answering. “Both.” Their laughter attracted the attention of some of the other restaurant patrons.
“Hey, I thought we were going dancing.”
“We are.” Gavin jumped out of the car and ran to her side. “My lady.” He opened her door, bowed, and swept his hand in front of him.
“What? What are we doing?” She had an idea and didn’t like it one bit. But she couldn’t help smiling through her embarrassment.
“We’re dancing!” Some ’50s doo-wop crackled out of the speaker overhead. Shannon accepted Gavin’s hand and hesitantly stepped out, her black flats scraping over the gravel. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” whispered Shannon. Gavin gently prodded her to the sidewalk between the parked rows of cars. He pulled her tight against him, swaying back and forth, even though the music called for anything but a slow dance. Embarrassment swept over her, nicely sweetened by a pinch of romantic giddiness. She buried her face in Gavin’s chest, wanting this to end, yet go on forever.
“I told you we’d go dancing on Sunday,” said Gavin.
“Oh, my God! I can’t believe we’re doing this. People are staring at us.”
“Let them stare. They’re probably looking at you because you’re the prettiest girl here. The Queen of Cuckoo Burger.” He thumped his chest once for emphasis. “And I’m the Prince of Shakes.”
“So. Are you always this creative? Or are you just stingy?” She raised her head to stare into his eyes.
“Definitely creative. In a penny-pinching sort of way.”
Shannon chuckled, holding onto his strong frame. “When can we stop?”
“I don’t know. Until they kick us out, maybe? Okay, ready? Hold on!” Suddenly, Gavin dipped her. Her eyes round with shock, Shannon let out a whoop. When Gavin pulled her up, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Don’t do that again,” she said, between breathless laughs.
“Okay, sorry.” They twirled across the sidewalk. Lost in the moment, she stretched up on tiptoes and kissed Gavin. His hands cradled the back of her neck, and then he returned her kiss fully. Several cars honked their horns out of either disapproval or jubilation. Shannon didn’t care. Right now, she was the Queen of Cuckoo Burger. She might indeed die of embarrassment, but only if this new feeling of love didn’t kill her first.
With a snort, Peter Brookes tossed the girl’s underwear onto the ruffled hotel bed.
Earlier, when he withdrew $500,000 from the bank, she had been the teller who serviced him. Several hours later, she serviced him again.
“Get dressed and get out.” He stared at his shirtless body in the mirror above the dresser. He liked what he saw. With great money came a great, chiseled physique. He could afford the best trainers New York City had to offer. Frankly, there was nothing he couldn’t afford. Soon, he planned to test this interesting theory.
“Wait a minute,” said the naked girl. Peter couldn’t remember her name, not that it mattered. “I’m not ready to leave. Besides, didn’t you promise me something?” She smiled seductively at Peter, but came across as rather pathetic.
“Oh, right.” He pulled his wallet from the suit jacket slung over the chair. “Here. Here’s $500.” Peter tossed the crisp bills in her direction, not caring where they landed.
“Peter, you can’t treat me like a whore.” Her youthful prettiness gave way to a bitchy mask of scorn and self-entitlement. Somewhat like his wife.
“Why, yes I can, because that’s exactly what you are. You came here with me because I promised you a watch. I’m not going to give you a watch, but there’s enough money there to cover one. And since this is a business transaction, that makes you a whore. Oh, and call me Mr. Brookes, not Peter. You’re my subordinate.”
“You bastard!” She slapped her hands onto the bed. Her body trembled with fury, although her fake breasts remained unnaturally still.
“Yes, I very well may be a bastard. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a whore. Now, get your fucking ass—a very nice fucking ass—dressed, and leave.”
She stormed off to the bathroom. The door slammed shut, rattling the bed board that had shaken for an entirely different reason minutes ago.
These days, Peter remained calm during these encounters. He found this peculiar, a little troublesome. He used to be quite fond of the aftermath.
At first, Peter’s sexual liaisons focused on seducing and conquering. He derived an immediate thrill by landing the hottest girl at the party, meeting, convention, wherever. Blessed with handsome looks, endless charm, and hoards of money, his arsenal was formidable. Some might frown upon this as an unfair advantage, but Peter took it all in stride. Rarely did he experience rejection.
It used to be only about sexual conquest, and Peter was fine with that. Slowly, the thrill weakened,
though, the blazing flame reduced to wisps of smoke. He upped the ante, setting his sights upon beautiful, married women. He thought of it as competing in a cutthroat environment, not unlike his day-to-day business encounters. It became a challenge to him when he had a worthwhile male opponent attached.
Once more, the excitement diminished. He changed the rules again. It didn’t take long for Peter to discover the joys of demeaning women. He established mastery at berating a recently seduced woman, mortifying them with a litany of colorfully turned phrases and heady psychological games. He reduced women to blubbering messes, eyeliner running down their faces, his words like knives. Sometimes the women turned physically hostile. The ultimate sensation. Charging at him, fists upraised, ready to inflict bodily harm. Once, a particularly volatile slut took a letter opener after him before he disarmed her and threw her, naked, into the hallway.
The bathroom door banged open, jolting Peter.
“You fucker!” Fully dressed and makeup smeared, she looked like a different woman. Everyone wears masks. “I passed up a date with my boyfriend to be with you.”
“Lucky him,” Peter said, sighing, barely acknowledging her existence. “Oh, by the way, quit wearing so much makeup. You apply it poorly, you use too much, and it makes you look like an even bigger whore.” Peter smiled as her sobs receded down the hotel hallway.
It should have been more fun. Once, Peter would have fallen on the bed, laughing, enjoying the lasting memories of his artful cruelty.
But it wasn’t enough anymore. He shrugged, winking at his mirrored image. That was okay, though. Recently, he had upped the ante in his games yet again. Soon, he thought. Soon.
Matt walked up the sidewalk to the front doors of the Lakawatomie Mental Institution. Sunflowers pushed their way through the broken cement—a cracked sidewalk leading to an institute for people with fractured brains. Yet through these very cracks, life struggled to persevere, begging for a chance at normalcy, at survival.
Matt had been negligent in his visits, mainly because they were too painful. He used to come every month, but it was always such a soul-draining experience that he now visited twice a year, at best.
The tired looking woman at the reception area met Matt with indifference. “Hi, I’m here to visit Mary Strothers,” he said.
The woman finished typing the sentence before she looked up. Seemed like an eternity. “Let me call for a nurse.”
A nurse, dressed in an outdated uniform, pushed through the door. The electronic lock secured with a snap behind her. “Hello, Mr. Strothers, if you’d like to come with me?” At least this woman attempted a smile, forced though it may have been.
She passed her identification card through a scanner. Once the green light flashed above the door, Matt followed her down the poorly lit corridor. Familiar, anguished cries beckoned from behind the doors they passed.
“How’s Mary been doing?” He always asked the question, always dreaded the response. Even though the answer inevitably remained the same, things might change one day. Hope springs eternal, as Jay always said.
“She has some days better than others. She’s in her room. Would you like to see her there? Or would you like to arrange to see her in the general hall?”
“No, her room’s fine.” Matt had visited Mary only once in the general hall, something he never wanted to repeat. Other patients had wandered up to them, staring, one man even stroking Matt’s hair.
The nurse stopped in front of Mary’s room and knocked on the door. Of course, there wouldn’t be a reply, but they were sticklers for proper protocol. The nurse once again swiped her card and entered.
Mary sat on the edge of the unmade bed, gazing out the window. Complete chaos had overtaken the room. Clothes strewn everywhere, open dresser drawers, and an overflowing trashcan were the least offensive. An unbearable smell hovered over them like a cloud of cigar smoke. Mary remained immobile, ignoring their presence.
“Mary, look who’s here to visit you,” said the nurse, nearly singing. “Okay, I’ll leave you two to your visit. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Before Matt could respond, the nurse left, leaving the door to the hallway open this time.
“Hi, Mary, it’s Matt.” Her now prematurely grey hair appeared filthy and unwashed. He caressed her cheek gently, and then quickly withdrew his hand. She seemed so fragile; he didn’t want to break her. No more than she’d already been broken. “How’ve you been?”
Silence, nothing new. She had been mostly nonverbal since her initial institutionalization. Occasionally, she babbled nonsense and sometimes, let loose an agonized scream. The screams bothered Matt most of all. He felt she was close to regaining lucidity at those moments, the howls the tormented results. The times when she remembered her past. Sometimes Matt thought it best if she stayed protected within the deep recesses of her mind.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been by to visit you much this year, Mary.” He sat down next to her. The bed wobbled beneath their combined weight. “I’ve been busy with the store and…” Matt dropped the pretence. He had more to say, but they were worthless excuses. She probably didn’t understand him anyway.
He pulled her toward him. She shot him a brief frightened glance before her eyes went blank again. “Mary, I’m so sorry.” Tears streamed down his face. “I’m so sorry you’re in here. It’s my fault you’re here. I should’ve never left you. I’m sorry.” Matt sobbed, gasping for air. His feeble hug met with resistance as she pushed him away. Matt sat in a huddle, his shoulders shaking. Finally, the tears stopped. Mary sat, unaware of everything.
Matt left to find the nurse. He turned around one last time to look at Mary, hoping for a miraculous breakthrough. “Goodbye, Mary. I promise I’ll visit again soon.”
He spotted the nurse leaving another patient’s room. “Excuse me, nurse?” The nurse stopped suddenly, her sneakers squeaking on the floor, and turned toward him.
“How can I help you?”
“Would you please have someone wash Mary’s hair?”
“I’ll see what we can do,” she replied with a curt smile.
Matt walked down the long hallway, gaining speed as he went. By the time he exited the facility, he had broken into a full sprint toward the comfort of his car.
Chapter Four
Feeding time.
Edwin tiptoed up the stairs and unlatched the chain-lock on the door. He peeked in to make sure Joshua lay on his bed, as were the rules. “You havin’ a good day, son?”
Joshua muttered a strangled syllable. Edwin interpreted this as “yes”.
Edwin relaxed his grip on the piece of wood, laid it on the top stair, and pushed open the door. Two-by-fours covered the sole window, natural light unable to penetrate the boundary. The single, dangling bulb illuminated fresh fingernail carvings on the walls. A soiled mattress rested on the floor, a shredded quilt next to it. A heap of foul-smelling clothes, mostly overalls, sat in the corner. Joshua’s waste-bucket occupied the opposite corner of the room, flies buzzing above it.
The three-hundred-pound man-boy sat up on the mattress, wearing nothing but stained underwear. Black hair and beard matted his face. Edwin stared into what passed for eyes in his son’s face—one eye a wet, white eggshell, the other, heavily lidded, the iris constantly roving. Joshua’s mouth hung open, saliva strands stretching from top to bottom while he moaned.
Sometimes Edwin couldn’t believe Joshua was his child, let alone the only loyal one. But frankly, he was the only one who amounted to a good goddamn. True, God only gave Joshua half a brain. But when he followed orders and didn’t suffer one of his fits, he proved to be a damn good farmhand. These days, Joshua did most of the heavy lifting Edwin used to handle, but he was glad to relinquish the duties. Joshua could move hay bales faster than lightning.
“Chow time, boy.” He dropped the bucket in front of the mattress. Joshua scrambled across the bed quickly. Edwin fell back a step. The boy could move.
Joshua reached into the bucket with his huge paw. He d
ripped the greasy mess into his mouth, savoring every morsel. Edwin remembered why he quit eating dinner with Joshua at the supper table. His constant drooling repulsed him. And he grew tired of cleaning up after him. One year of cleaning after Gretchen had been more than enough.
Joshua finished his breakfast in seconds. He held the empty pail out to his father, a pleading look in his one good eye.
“Not now, boy,” snapped Edwin. “Times are tough and we don’t have much food.”
Joshua sat back, rocking on his haunches. A high-pitched squeal rose from his closed mouth.
“Don’t start your cryin’. We’ve got a big day of chores ahead of us.” Edwin backed up again, prepared to flee the room if Joshua started one of his bouts.
The tears stopped flowing. Joshua crossed his arms across his mammoth chest, holding himself, swaying slowly.
Edwin reckoned Joshua to be somewhere around sixteen or seventeen years of age. With Gretchen not around to remember birthdays, and Joshua too dumb to remember his own, Edwin pretty much just forgot. Not like it mattered in the long run, anyway.
Edwin had raised Joshua by himself. Gretchen passed a couple years before Joshua’s birth, so the boy never did benefit from a mother’s loving touch. Probably made him tougher, though, a good thing. The boy would need to be tough. Soon—very soon—the farm would be Joshua’s. It’d be up to him to carry on the proud tradition of the Quail name. At least, Edwin assumed Joshua could procreate. He had certainly showed a healthy interest in the fairer sex in the past.
“Joshua, I’ve got a surprise for you. You and I are going to the big city. Something real important for you to do there.”
Joshua attempted to smile. Edwin wished he wouldn’t. His pink and black tongue lolled about like a slug. Ground down teeth gnawed at his flesh, rimming his gums with blood.
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