by J. Thorn
One bullet, Luke thought. F'only he'd used it. F'only Aaron'd use it now. But his brother would never do such a thing. Aaron would forever be loyal to their father, whether out of fear or respect was unknown, and it hardly mattered. Aaron had watched Susanna die. Despite his apparent concern back at the Lowell farm, he would not intervene should Pa decided to kill Luke. It would be their father's will, and that will was as good as God's own for them. They served and did not question, and it was something Luke, despite his own years of faithful service, had never understood. If not for Momma-In-Bed's words, he might never have comprehended why they did the things they did, and the confusion and inner conflict of emotions that had manifested itself in those days after his sister's death might have driven him mad, or forced him to run away to escape them.
A farmer shoots the crows and sprays the bugs to protect his crop, don't he? Momma had once told him. Shoots wild dogs and foxes and them sonofabitchin' coyotes to keep 'em from eatin' his chickens'n killin' his herd, don't he? Well, that's what we do. We're a rare breed, all of us, and what's outside there in the world would love nothin' better to destroy us because of what we believe in, because of our closeness to the Almighty God. To kill us outta jealousy because they ain't never gettin' so close to Him. They're the predators, Luke. They're the skulkin' dogs creepin' up on us, tryin' to snatch you from my bosom, from God's grace, like they did with your poor sister, fillin' her head with sick thoughts and vile dreams, corruptin' her till she was so diseased she went crazy and had to be put to sleep. Don't let them do that to you, boy. Let your Papa show you how to protect yourself, and your kin.
"Luke," Pa called. "Get your ass out here."
It was too late. He could run, but they'd run him down. He could beg and they would ignore him.
He was going to die. Right here. Right now.
The warm breeze through the glassless window flowed over him, and still he did not move.
One by one, their heads turned to look at him. It was the scene from his worst imaginings come to life.
Y'all know what needs to be done when a dog ain't no good no more don'tcha?
We do, Pa.
His father spat. Wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You hear me boy?" He was holding the doctor's gun. The gun with a single bullet left with which to end a life. His life.
Trembling uncontrollably, Luke let his hand slip from the door handle.
"Maybe he got shot," Aaron said. Then louder, "Luke, you shot?"
Papa stared for a moment, waiting for a reply, then started to walk toward the truck. "He better be goddamn shot," Luke heard him say.
He had seen their victims piss themselves many times over the years, had even seen the old doctor do it tonight, but had never really understood the kind of fear that could make that happen, make a person forget their dignity, and reduce them to the level of scared little children. But as he watched the lithe shape of his father striding toward him, that gun gleaming in the light from the truck, the understanding finally came to him, manifesting itself as a sudden wet warmth at his crotch. And as if everything that had been holding him back had been flushed out in that hot stream, galvanizing him into action, Luke choked back a sob and quickly scooted over into the driver seat.
"Pa?" Aaron called, in a worried voice.
Their father said nothing, but stopped walking. "Whatcha doin' son?"
Son. It was the first time Luke had heard the man call him anything but "boy" in years, but whatever power Pa wanted it to have over him was diluted by the fact that affection didn't suit him, and never had. His father was trying to stall him.
With clumsy hands he reached down, praying that his fingers wouldn't find only air down there in the dark beneath the steering wheel, the keys tucked securely in Aaron's pocket. A slight jingle of metal and he allowed himself a breath, then quickly straightened in his seat and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life.
He looked up, out into the night, into his father's face.
The eyes looking back at him almost sucked the soul from his body, leaving him a withered empty shell with his hands clamped on the wheel.
"Don't you fucking dare," his father said, and his right arm rose, knuckles tight on the trigger of the doctor's gun. Behind him, the boys were frozen, pale faces making them ghosts in the headlights.
Time seemed to stretch, as if those dark tendrils Luke had feared earlier had finally burst from Papa's eyes and mouth, and were anchoring the truck in place, crystallizing the breath in Luke's lungs before it had a chance to reach his mouth.
When they were kids, Aaron had once surprised a backpacker who had stumbled upon the body of her friend. Before she had a chance to scream, he burst forth from the trees and wrenched her head around, breaking her neck. For Luke, who had been crouching on a branch above the scene, it was the first time he had heard the sound, and the memory of it had never left him. He'd heard it a hundred times since, but that first time had stayed with him because it had sounded like the hinges opening on a forbidden door, a door to a new and terrifying world he was preparing to enter.
This was the sound the gun in his father's hand made as he slowly cocked the hammer.
"Was it the old man?" Pa called to him over the sound of the engine. "He say somethin' that tripped the switch? Make you feel bad? Get you thinkin' about your poor 'ol cocksuckin' sister? Get you all choked up, wonderin' if what we're doin' ain't right?"
Luke cleared his throat, watched the exhaust fumes tumble out around his father's feet.
"Maybe it was that pic-ture," Pa said, mockingly. "You got a hankerin' for some wrinkled 'ol cunt, that it?"
"Luke," Aaron cried out, his voice unsteady. "What you doin'?"
"Fixin' to run," Pa answered. "Ain't that it? He's ready to turn his back on us. On God."
Luke's heart thumped so hard against his ribs he figured they could all hear it, even over the engine. His breath shuddered out of him, as he slowly brought his hand down to the gearshift and jerked it out of neutral, keeping his foot planted firmly on the brake. The vehicle rocked. The engine started to choke, and for one heart-stopping moment, Luke thought it was going to stall. But it coughed once and ran steady.
"You ain't gettin' far boy."
Luke knew he was right. But then, he hadn't far to go.
"Now why'nt you just cut that engine and step out here where we can talk face to face?"
His father's eyes refused the light, but Luke leaned forward a little to peer into them for a moment. He had transcended fear now, the adrenaline in his veins burning through him, lapping at his brain, trying to force him over the border of that place he had kept away from all his life—the place where the truth, and his sister, were buried.
He pressed his other foot down on the gas, the other still on the brake. The engine whined, the sound deafening. The smoke from the exhaust rose like fog around the truck. When his father spoke, he did not hear the words, but understood the message on the lips that formed them.
"You ain't leavin' here alive."
The faint trace of a smile faded from Papa's face as if he too realized what was going to happen, what had to happen if he expected to maintain control of his children. Unlike the doctor, his grip was dead steady, the black hole of the muzzle targeting a point somewhere in the trembling oval of his son's face.
From the light side of that secret place in his mind, Luke heard his sister whisper to him, and could almost smell her perfume assailing his senses. We was wrong, Luke. What he taught us was always wrong, and we are the sinners.
Swallowing back the tears, "Who said I was leavin'?" Luke said, and took his foot off the brake. The truck lurched forward, closing the distance between him and his father in a heartbeat. Just long enough for a whispered prayer, a plea for forgiveness, for Luke to shut his eyes, the image of Papa-In-Gray's livid face made chalk-white by the lights branded onto his retinas as he pulled the trigger.
-12-
"You like to sing?" Pete asked, drumming his fingers on the steering whe
el to some imaginary tune. "My Pa don't. Second Ma—I call her that because she weren't my birth Ma—was a great singer, and even my first Momma weren't too bad, but Pa can't carry a tune for nothin'. I ain't so bad myself, though I always forget the words, so I don't much like to sing. Prefer to hum. Don't need the words to hum." He smiled broadly, and wished he didn't have to watch the road, but every time he stared into the mirror at the girl lying swaddled in blankets in back, he heard Doctor Wellman's no-nonsense voice warning him, And don't you keep leering at that girl like you're doing now, you hear me? You're not going to do her much good if you run yourselves right into a semi. So he limited himself to short glances and resisted the urge to pull over for a while, just to sit in the peace and quiet and listen to the girl's breathing, just so the false breeze of their passage didn't keep creeping in the window and stealing away the smell of her. But the cranky old doctor had warned him about delaying too, said the girl mightn't make it if he dawdled, so he kept the truck moving steady through the night, the high beams picking nothing out of the dark but gray ribbon and yellow stitching, and the occasional mashed up bit of roadkill.
He couldn't believe his luck.
He'd fully expected an earful from his father, especially after the old man had grabbed him and all but flung him into the truck after catching him spying on the girl. Then he'd watched him get drunker and drunker, which was never a good thing, and guessed things were going to get even worse. But to his surprise, his father had told him he was sorry for what he'd done, for the way he'd been to him over the years, and that he wanted to make things right while there was still time. Pete had listened, not entirely sure he wasn't dreaming it all, but when his old man stood, put his arms around him and gave him a stiff awkward hug, he'd known it was happening for real. A change had come upon his father, as sudden and unexpected as snow in summer. Pete had stayed quiet, afraid if he opened his mouth he'd say something dumb enough to undo whatever had brought about the transformation. Instead he'd just sat by his father, and basked in the kind of attention and affection he'd only ever seen between other kids and their daddies, and had given up expecting for himself. He liked it a whole lot, so much so that, as overjoyed as he was to be entrusted with the girl, he couldn't wait to get home again.
But for now it was just Pete, the road, and the girl, and he was plenty proud of that.
Go to Doc Wellman's, his father had told him, a strange look in his eyes. He'll know what to do. And tell him I'm sorry.
Pete hadn't really understood what there was to be sorry about. They had, after all, done the sensible thing. But he didn't want to ruin his father's newfound kindness toward him, so he'd wordlessly accepted the task and hightailed it over to the doctor's house. There he'd found Wellman a little nervous, as if he was expecting a tornado to come down and pull away everything he owned. He'd hustled Pete and the girl into the truck, hardly saying anything at all, except to give Pete some stern instructions.
Here's her address. Listen to me carefully. You give that to the orderlies so they'll know who to contact. Now get moving, and don't stop for a goddamn thing, Pete. Not a thing, you hear me? She might die if you do.
At the memory of those words, Pete checked the speedometer and figured it wouldn't hurt to pick up the pace a bit. Wellman had told him it would take him the better part of an hour to reach the hospital. They'd only been on the road for half that, and the last thing Pete wanted was for the girl to die. They'd say it was his fault, that he hadn't driven faster, and his father would go back to being angry all the time again.
Pete had his own reasons for wanting the girl to survive. He wanted to hear her voice, to hear her say his name. When they'd loaded her into the truck, she'd been asleep, and still hadn't woken up. He wished she would, if only just for a few minutes. So he talked to her, keeping his voice low, hoping she might grab onto his words like a drowning man might grab a tossed rope. He wanted her to see who had carried her away from whatever bad things had happened to her in Elkwood. He wanted her to see her rescuer and know his face so she would know who to look for when she was able.
It was not until later, when the road widened and split into four lanes, the sulfuric radiance of the sodium lights jaundicing the horizon, the stars erased from the sky and pulled down to form the glittering lights of the Mason City skyline, that the girl spoke. Slack-jawed by the sheer size of the sparkling canvas overlaid on a horizon he seldom saw uncloaked, Pete at first didn't realize he was hearing a voice other than his own in the confines of the truck's cab, but when at last he registered her soft whisper, he jerked in his seat and almost lost control of the vehicle. Forcing himself to be calm, he eased the truck back into the correct lane, held his breath, stomach jittering madly, and raised his gaze to the mirror.
She was looking straight at him.
Instantly, all moisture evaporated from his lips, and a strangled croak emerged from his throat. He had to remind himself to watch the road, but as hard as it had been before, it was next to impossible now that she was awake. He swallowed with an audible click. Hoped she didn't scream like she had the last time she'd seen him.
"Hello Ma'am," he said.
"Who are you?" she replied, and for the first time in his life, Pete had to think about the answer.
"Uh...I'm Pete. Pete Lowell. I'm a friend."
Her voice was soft, so soft he had to strain to hear her over the droning of the tires, the hum of the engine. "Where are you taking me Pete?"
She said my name. The butterflies in his stomach caught fire, lighting him from the inside out.
"Hospital. You know...to get you fixed up and back to wherever you come to Elkwood from. Doctor Wellman told me to take you. Hope that's all right." He smiled, forgetting she probably couldn't see it in the mirror. "We all want for you to get better."
She stared for a moment, then her one uncovered eye drifted shut. She was silent for so long he thought she'd gone back to sleep, but then he heard her whisper, "I don't like to sing either."
Pete nodded, his smile threatening to split his face in two, and felt something like sheer, uncontaminated happiness settle like a warm blanket over his soul.
"I live in Columbus," she said. "You know where that is?"
"No," he said, and wished he did, if only to seem worldlier than he knew himself to be.
"Ohio," she said. "When I'm all better, I want you...to come see me. So I can thank you."
Pete didn't think he'd ever felt such elation. What had previously only seemed like unattainable fantasies were rapidly evolving into possibilities, and he vowed to explore as many of them as she saw fit to allow him.
Her voice was growing softer, and he felt a pang of sadness that it might be the end of their talk. "Will you come?"
"Yes Ma'am," he said, grinning toothily. "I swear I will."
He went back to watching the road.
PART TWO
-13-
For an eternity she lives in a world of dreams, and there is no pain. She is vaguely aware of figures dressed in white constantly shifting in and out of the twilit world between waking and sleeping, but most of the time she does not fear them. Their presence soothes her, represents a reprieve from the pain. Sometimes there are voices but when she tries to focus on the speaker, she sees only blurry shapes sitting on her bed, figures cut from the daylight pouring in through the large veiled window. They tell her things about her body, about her progress, but the words mean nothing. Sometimes there are others, voices she knows, familiar voices that make her heart ache as they weep beside her, and hold her. She does not like to be held, feels her skin crawl as their hands alight on her tender flesh, but she knows they do not mean to harm her, and so she says nothing, even as she withdraws a little more inside her shell. For a long time she says nothing. For a long time she lives inside her head, crouched in the dark peering out at the light, at the endless parade of unclear faces, not yet ready to accept them but glad they are there.
She does not want to be alone.
Alone, the nightmares come unbidden. The men put their dirty hands on her naked body; crush her beneath their weight. She smells their sweat, a stench she will remember for the rest of her life, feels the piercing pain in her groin as they roughly enter her—no romance, no desire—just rape, taking what they want, what they have no right to take, delighting in her objection, relishing the violation over and over again, stealing a little piece of her every time. Then their smiles as they step back to appraise her, crooked yellow teeth gleaming, eyes like polished stones, studying her, taking in every bead of sweat, every hair, every part of her bare battered body. In their hands they hold dirty blades as they turn away like magicians waiting to spring a surprise on the audience. Though she has transcended pain of the physical kind, she wishes for death, for sleep, for escape. Most of all, she yearns for the chance to turn back time, to contest Daniel's decision to shun the highway in favor of a merry jaunt through the backwoods. But she'd been outvoted, and a little drunk, a little high, and so had kept her mouth shut as they headed off down the narrow path marked by a signpost that told them they were three miles from a town called Elkwood.
*
This is where the nightmare began in real life, and in the realm of turbulent sleep, it does not deviate from the script, though sometimes the scenes are rearranged at the hands of a deranged editor.
The four of them, toting backpacks, a colorful bunch: Daniel in a gray Old Navy T-shirt, knee-length jean shorts with frayed hems and sandals; Stu in an appropriately loud lemon T-shirt and red and green floral-patterned Bermuda shorts, his shades hanging around his neck, a NY Mets cap pulled backwards on his head; Katy, more conservative in a khaki "skort" and a lime green polo shirt marred by slight sweat stains beneath the armpits, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail, one thick lock of it following the curve of her cheek; and Claire, wearing denim shorts and a white cutoff shirt that displays her toned stomach and the belly-button piercing she'd had done before they left Columbus. She remembers that ring most of all— a silver circlet running through a small fake diamond—because it was the first thing the men ripped from her body.
