Midnight Grinding

by Ronald Kelly

  “Like I said before,” scoffed Todd with shake of his head. “Pure, Grade-A bullshit!”

  Darrell’s lean face turned as solemn as stone. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Hell, no!” said Todd. “But liquor can cloud a man’s mind sometimes. You know that as well as I do. When you’ve enough whiskey in your system, you could end up seeing pert near anything.”

  “I was stone-cold sober!” claimed Darrell. “I saw it, I tell you! I swear I did.”

  “Saw what, Darrell?” asked a voice from the far side of the barroom. “What did you see?”

  Todd and Darrell turned toward the front door and instantly grew silent. Danny Ray Fulton had entered the honky-tonk during their bantering debate and they hadn’t even noticed. Darrell stiffened up and stared at the bottom of his empty shotglass, afraid to look up. Todd, on the other hand, glanced over at the tall, broad-shouldered man. Danny Ray was one of the many unchanging aspects of Hawkshaw County. The big man with the oily shock of black hair and the brooding eyes looked the same as he had for the past fifteen years. His daily schedule was as predictable as his physical appearance. He worked all day laying asphalt for the state, then spent what little free time he had at the Roadhouse Saloon, drowning his troubles in hard liquor and mournful country tunes on the jukebox. Everyone at the Roadhouse understood why Danny Ray drank so much.

  They would, too, if they were married to a bed-hopping whore like Lizzie Fulton, and had to put up with a squawking brood of five snot-nosed kids, half of them not even the product of his own loins.

  All eyes in the tavern—except for Darrell’s—were on Danny Ray as he slammed the door behind him and crossed the room to the bar. His muddy brown eyes, which held that customary expression torn somewhere between angry contempt and hang-dog misery, centered on the lanky truck driver as he chose a stool and sat down.

  “I asked you a question, Yates,” he said flatly. “Exactly what did you see out on the Old Logging Road?”

  “Nothing,” mumbled Darrell. “I didn’t see nothing.”

  Danny Ray knew the man was lying and also knew the reason why. “You’ve been talking that crap again, haven’t you? That bullshit about Betsy Lou.”

  He glanced over at Todd Hampton for confirmation, but Todd was keeping out of it. His eyes were centered on his work-callused hands and the day’s worth of dirt that had accumulated beneath the fingernails.

  “What about it, Stu?” Danny Ray asked the bartender. The middle-aged man with the bald head and the collection of faded tattoos on his brawny arms stood behind the bar, thumbing through an issue of Hustler.

  Stu Kilpatrick, who had never liked Darrell or his habit of idle boasting, grinned with tobacco-stained teeth and nodded his head.

  Danny Ray’s rage cranked up a couple of notches. “What did I tell you about spreading those damn rumors, Darrell? That tree up yonder is just a tree and nothing else.”

  The liquor in Darrell’s stomach momentarily quelled his fear of the brawny road worker and he glared boldly into Danny Ray’s eyes. “How the hell would you know? You ain’t been up there lately, have you? The last time you were up there on the Old Logging Road was the night it happened…the night you killed Betsy Lou Brown.”

  Danny Ray lost his temper then. His big, work-hardened fist lashed out, catching Darrell across the bridge of his nose. With a yelp, Darrell fell back off his barstool, blood running freely from his nostrils. He hit the floor hard on his ass with enough force to make his teeth rattle.

  Before Danny Ray could make his way around the corner of the bar and do more damage to Darrell Yates, Todd Hampton jumped up and grabbed hold of the man’s arm. Danny Ray whirled, his fist cocked back, but he refrained from acting when he saw the warning look in Todd’s eyes. Danny Ray was a big man, but Todd was bigger by fifty pounds and had a reputation in Hawkshaw County as a man not to be messed with.

  “I’d suggest you just calm down, Danny Ray,” said Todd. He gradually released his hold on the man’s arm. “Ol’ Darrell, he’s just liquored up and talking trash. He didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Then he oughta keep his mouth shut,” grumbled Danny Ray.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” agreed Todd. “He should. Listen, Danny Ray, everybody in the county knows what happened that night and they know you weren’t responsible. That curve out on the Old Logging Road is a real sonuvabitch. Anyone could have made the same mistake.”

  From the dark expression in Danny Ray’s eyes it was plain to see that the man didn’t want to talk about it. He turned to the bartender and laid money on the counter. “Just give me a bottle of Wild Turkey, Stu, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Stu set the bottle of liquor on the bar, then counted out Danny Ray’s change. “I don’t mind you sticking around,” he told him. “You’re welcome here any time, just as long as you don’t cause trouble.”

  “Naw, I think I’ll just go on home,” said Danny Ray. He directed a withering glare at Darrell Yates, who still sat on the floor, holding a hand to his bloody nose. “I might just get the urge to turn rowdy again. And that might be dangerous for one of your customers.”

  Danny Ray grabbed up the Wild Turkey and stalked toward the front door. Before he stepped out into the humid night of the Tennessee summer, he regarded Yates once again.

  “Remember what I said, Darrell. Keep your mouth shut about that damn tree.”

  When Danny Ray had left, Darrell picked himself up and reclaimed his place on the barstool. “Crazy asshole!” he cussed. “He’s got a short fuse, that’s for sure.”

  “Shut up, Darrell,” said Todd. “Danny Ray’s a good man. It’s just that some fellas can only be pushed so far. And, if you ask me, Danny Ray’s been pushed way too far already. A helluva lot farther than most men could handle.”

  ***

  Lizzie was at it again. Danny Ray knew it when he saw Fred Larson’s Chevy Blazer pulling out of his driveway. Fred was a cocky bastard. He even grinned and waved at Danny Ray as he drove past.

  The compulsion to turn his own Ford pickup around, run Fred off the road, and beat him half to death crossed Danny Ray’s mind, but he fought down the urge. He had acted on similar whims before and they had only netted him public disgrace and short terms in the county jail. Danny Ray let his truck idle in the road for a long moment, his knuckles white with anger as he clutched the steering wheel tightly. He waited for the violent impulse to pass and, a few seconds later, it finally burned itself out.

  Danny Ray turned into the gravel drive and drove to the shabby single-wide trailer that he had bought, used, after he and Lizzie had gotten married. He parked his truck, seeming to be in no hurry to enter the place he called home. He broke the seal on the bottle of Wild Turkey, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, burning swig of the amber liquor. He sat there for a while, staring at the lighted square of his bedroom window. Behind the drawn curtains, the silhouette of Lizzie flitted back and forth, first rearranging the linens of their bed, then spraying the stale air of the room with Glade, attempting to mask the tell-tale scent of sweat and sex with the overpowering odor of potpourri.

  Danny Ray waited until the bedroom light winked out. He took a couple more swallows of whiskey, then left the cab of the truck. He crossed the unmowed yard, mounted the junk-cluttered porch, then let himself in through the front door.

  The living room was dark, except for the glow of the 25-inch Magnavox in the far corner. Danny Ray’s five youngsters—ranging from ages two to nine—lay on the filthy carpet, snacking on pretzels and cherry Kool-Aid while they watched a late night talk show. It was already an hour and a half past their bedtime, but their mother didn’t seem to care. She was stretched out on the couch in her housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers, sipping a Coors Light while she watched TV with the kids.

  Danny Ray stood in the doorway for a long moment, totally ignored by the members of his family. Then he marched across the room, took the remote control from where it lay on the coffee table, and cut the television off with a pre
ss of a button. The action brought a mutual moan of disappointment from the children, but they grew silent when they saw the stormy look in his eyes and the bottle in his hand.

  “To bed,” he told them flatly. “Now.”

  No protests were uttered as the five jumped up from the floor and headed down the hallway to the two bedrooms they shared. When Danny Ray heard the last door slam shut, he turned to Lizzie, scarcely able to contain his rage.

  Lizzie took a sip from her beer and stared back at him curiously. “Does that go for me, too?” she asked sarcastically.

  “No, you’ve already been to bed once tonight, haven’t you?” he asked her.

  “What do you mean?” replied Lizzie. She smirked as she took another swallow of beer.

  Danny Ray stepped quickly to the couch and slapped the can from her hand. It spun across the room, landing in a threadbare armchair and splattering its cushions with beer. Lizzie flinched at the blow at first, then gathered her nerve and laughed in his face.

  “You whore!” growled Danny Ray. He loomed over his snickering wife, his hand raised overhead, on the verge of striking again. “Sleeping with every man who’ll buy you a six-pack or a carton of cigarettes…and in front of your own children, too.”

  Lizzie’s laughter was hard-edged with cruelty. “That’s right. And why the hell not? You sure ain’t gonna satisfy me like I want to be. Dammit, Danny Ray, you can’t even get it up half the time.”

  “Shut up!” said Danny Ray. His fist quivered, aching to plunge down into the center of her sneering face.

  “I ain’t gonna do it! Not this time!” Lizzie’s jaw jutted in defiance. “You know as well as I do what your problem is. Or, rather, who it is.”

  “Don’t say something you might regret, Lizzie,” warned Danny Ray.

  “Well, it’s true, ain’t it?” said his wife bitterly. “You’re still in love with her. Still in love with a woman who’s been dead for going on fifteen years.”

  Danny Ray suddenly felt his rage turn into deep despair. “Don’t say that. It ain’t right you should say such a mean-spirited thing.”

  “Don’t make me out to be the wicked witch!” yelled Lizzie. “I tried to make this marriage work when we first got hitched. I really was crazy about you back then and that’s no lie. But trying to compete with her for your love just got to be too damn much for me to handle. If she were a living, breathing woman, maybe I’d have a chance. But how can I fight a corpse? Why don’t you tell me that, Danny Ray?”

  “You’re wrong, Lizzie,” he told her dully.

  “No, I ain’t,” replied his cheating wife. “I’m right on the money.” She left her spot on the couch and turned toward the hallway. “I’ve had it up to here with you, Danny Ray. If you love Betsy Lou Brown so much, why don’t you go on over to the graveyard and pay her a visit? Take that shovel out of the tool shed and dig her confounded carcass up. Maybe there’s enough left of her for you to screw around with.”

  A few moments ago, such a remark would have incited Danny Ray toward violence. Killing violence. But his rage had dissipated. A great sadness settled atop his broad shoulders like an unbearable weight as he watched his slutty wife shuffle off toward their bedroom at the rear of the trailer. He wanted to hurt her at that moment, wanted to make her beg for forgiveness for what she had said about Betsy Lou. But he just couldn’t seem to muster the energy necessary to do that.

  Instead, he turned and left the trailer. Danny Ray climbed back into his pickup truck and started the engine. He took another swig of Wild Turkey, then backed the vehicle down the driveway to the main highway. Once the truck’s tires hit asphalt, Danny Ray shifted into gear and stamped the gas pedal. Soon, he was heading north, toward the county line and a lonely stretch of rarely-used back road that he honestly thought he would never have to travel again during his lifetime.

  ***

  Just about everyone in Hawkshaw County knew what had happened on the Old Logging Road back in the summer of ’78.

  They knew about the car crash, how Danny Ray Fulton had misjudged the sharpness of a single curve and drove smack-dab into the center of that big black oak that the road made a sudden hairpin turn around. They also knew what had happened to Danny Ray’s girlfriend, Betsy Lou Brown. How the force of the collision had propelled her head-first through the windshield and into the unyielding trunk of the tree.

  The folks of Hawkshaw County also knew the old wives’ tale concerning the tree on the Old Logging Road. Several people had sworn that they had traveled the curve of the dirt road late at night and, in the glow of their headlights, witnessed a strange sight. They claimed to have seen the distinct impression of Betsy Lou’s lovely face on the western side of the big tree, forever etched there by a split-second of deadly impact. Other folks embellished the story a bit, swearing that even the color of the dead girl’s hair and eyes could be seen on the face on the tree.

  That was where Danny Ray was headed that night. He wanted to see for himself whether or not the rumor about the face on the tree was true. He hadn’t been back to the curve on the Old Logging Road since the night of that awful crash, but tonight he felt the need to witness the phenomenon on his own, if it did, indeed, exist.

  Danny Ray reduced his speed as he approached the fatal hairpin turn on the rural road. He squinted against the darkness. There was no moonlight to speak of that night and, even with the help of the truck’s high beams, it was difficult to see where he was going. The pitch darkness of the Tennessee woods seemed to absorb all light and instantly turn it into blacker shades of shadow.

  Finally, he reached the notorious curve. Danny Ray pulled his truck to the side of the road, then cut the engine as well as the headlights. The night closed in around him, almost claustrophobically so. Danny Ray listened to the abundance of night sounds that echoed through the dense thicket: the singing of crickets, the rustle of small animals picking through the underbrush in search of food, and the occasional cooing of a lonesome dove.

  I want doves, she’d said once. I want doves at my wedding.

  Danny Ray took another swallow from the bottle of Wild Turkey. He hoped that the liquor would fortify his nerve and give him the strength to proceed. But his paranoia was at a fever pitch that night, as well as that weighty feeling of oppressive guilt, the feeling he had never quite been able to shake, even after all those years.

  He was on the verge of making a U-turn in the road and hightailing it back to town, when he gathered the courage and decided to go through with it this time. He set the whiskey bottle on top of the dashboard, took a flashlight from beneath the seat, and climbed out of the truck. Then he walked slowly, but deliberately, toward the tree that had caused him so much pain and grief that summer night fifteen years ago.

  He waited until he was almost to the tree before he switched on his light. When he did, he played the beam across the textured column of the ancient oak. The eastern side of the tree was unscarred. It was the opposite side that had taken the full brunt of the head-on collision.

  Danny Ray stood there for a moment, breathing in the muggy night air, afraid to witness what lay on the far side of the old tree. He closed his eyes and recalled that night. He remembered the scent of Betsy Lou’s perfume, the deep thrum of his Trans-Am’s big eight-cylinder engine, even the song that blared from the car stereo…Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps.”

  He took a deep breath, braced himself, and then made his way to the other side of the tree. The first thing he noticed in the glow of the flashlight was the deep scoring at the base of the trunk. It was the spot where the nose of his Trans-Am had impacted with hard wood. He then let the light play upward. He found what he was looking for midway up the trunk.

  “Good God Almighty!” he whispered. “It’s true. It really is.”

  Danny Ray reached out and lay his hand upon the oval indentation, then drew his fingers away and studied the pattern that had been permanently etched into the trunk of the oak. It was her face. The face of Betsy Lou.

&
nbsp; He would have known that face anywhere. The petite nose, the wide-set eyes, the luscious lips, full and pouty. It was a face Danny Ray had fallen hopelessly in love with during his junior and senior years in high school. It was the face of the girl he had intended to marry and raise a family with, as well as share all his secret hopes and dreams for the future.

  It was also a face that he had hated angrily, if only for a single fateful moment.

  As Danny Ray stared at the death-mask of his beloved Betsy Lou, memories began to nag at him. He began to remember things…things he had fought to suppress for years and, for a while, had been successful in doing so. For a long time those memories had been kept at bay, buried deep down in the dark side of his soul. But, now, they began to resurface, swiftly and without warning, assaulting his conscience with their painful clarity.

  He remembered the argument. He remembered the biting accusations, the slamming of the car door, and the swish of Betsy Lou’s plaid skirt in the glow of the headlights. He remembered the pressure of his foot on the gas pedal and the speed of the Trans-Am surging forward…as well the impact of steel against fragile flesh and bone.

  A potentially hot date that night had turned terribly sour. They had been on their way to their regular make-out spot on the Old Logging Road, when Betsy Lou had confronted him about going out with another girl the previous weekend. Danny Ray had denied it, of course, but Betsy Lou hadn’t bought his innocent act. She demanded that he stop the car and let her out. He did and she immediately began her angry march back down the road toward the main highway.

  And what had Danny Ray done? Had he jumped out of the car and apologized for cheating on her? No. He had sat, fuming, in his car for a long moment, then lost his temper entirely. Shifting the Trans-Am into gear, he turned the car around and roared down the road after her. They were on the far side of the hairpin turn. It loomed immediately up ahead.

  An instant later, he saw her in his headlights. And, in that instant, he reacted childishly…if cold-blooded murder could be described in such simple terms.