Kate Fox & The Three Kings

by Grace E. Pulliam

  Snap out of it, Kate. What are you doing? I turned on my heel, and without saying goodbye, headed towards the back exit. Surely there had to be a door, window, or outlet for escape from W.H.O.R.E. My thoughts momentarily lingered on Essie and David. I reassured myself they would be fine. They’d find a way out. Of course they would. They didn’t just make a spectacle of themselves in front of the entire congregation. They didn’t almost die at the hands of someone they had grown to trust.

  I launched myself down the church hall, lined with empty, dark Sunday school classrooms. The old floors creaked loudly under my hurried steps. Finally, I spotted the door at the end of the hallway. I held in a deep breath as I opened the door and peeked outside, releasing a relieved sigh when the coast was clear. Beyond the playground and crowded parking lot was a wooded area.

  “Kate?” called a familiar voice. Essie rounded the back corner of the church, out of breath. “You’re okay! Are ya okay? The door was locked! We couldn’t—” She started toward me, smiling in relief, but footsteps followed behind her.

  I was faced with a decision: keep the promise I made to myself, which involved getting the heck away from these folks, or continue living my miserable life with them. As Joy’s round frame came into view, I bolted in the direction of the woods. I prayed I could outrun them, as I tried to control my breathing. Keeping my pace, I cleared a fallen tree and thick kudzu. The rustling of feet was close; I peeked over my shoulder and counted four figures. Joy was with them; I felt confident I could at least outrun her soft, lumpy body.

  To my delight, exhaustion never hit. I felt as though I could run forever. I no longer heard the crunching of leaves or heavy breaths. Even if W.H.O.R.E. abandoned the hunt, it was imperative for me to get as far away as possible. I swallowed and caught my breath, flinching at the pain when I moved my neck, which was like trying to swallow a cactus. I had no clue as to my whereabouts. I severely underestimated the depth of the wooded area, which could no longer be classified as a “wooded area.” The collection of tall oaks and underbrush transformed into a thick forest. The branches above cradled over, forming a canopy, barely allowing any sunlight to seep through. The lack of light proved difficult to determine the time.

  I scaled the slope of a hill, noticing a clearing to my left. The field was filled with wildflowers, radiating gorgeous shades of pink and purple. I need to take stock of myself first, I thought, slowing my pace to a stop. I examined my arms, checking for cuts, wiggled my fingers and toes for breaks, and lifted my shirt, searching for signs of bruising along my belly. I never found a scratch. I laughed in disbelief to myself, followed immediately by regret. My throat tingled, and I winched at the raw feeling. The scent of heat radiating off the pine needles filled my lungs, woody and crisp. The smell caught in my throat, and I choked on my own breath. Coughing was a horrible sensation, but as soon as the fit began, it ended abruptly.

  Worry crashed in anxious waves across my mind. I estimated I’d spent three hours running around like a headless chicken through the woods, and the afternoon slowly drifted away, with darkness creeping over the thick. Twilight lingered in the air. I allowed myself to rest on the root of a giant oak tree. What was I supposed to do now?

  I was the village idiot. I had no money, no phone, no way of knowing where the heck I was. I did know that I was alone, in the middle of gosh darn nowhere. I was nowhere. I was no one. And I had nobody. Hot tears slid down my cheeks, as I drowned in fear and self-pity.

  The rustling of leaves shook me from my wallowing. I scurried behind the tree and covered my mouth and nose with my hand. Moments passed without further movement. Maybe it was a squirrel, scavenging for a nut. A hungry squirrel. That’s all. I started to leave my hiding spot, but the snap of a twig froze me in place.

  Dang it. They found me. I panicked but didn’t want to turn and face them. They’d surely figure out a way to keep me in Brushy Fork. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let them win.

  I turned to look my future in the face, readying myself for the opportunity of escape. I peered into the darkness, but no one emerged. Confused, I whipped around, checking my sightline for any trace of movement. Out of the night, appeared a black mass. Frightened, I stepped back quickly, my back hitting the tree trunk.

  The black beast that attacked Gideon the night of the bonfire stood in front of me. The beast was the size of a horse, with the build of a saber tooth tiger, muscle rippling down the legs and back. What was it doing here?

  We were having a Mexican standoff, both regarding at each other with intent, but neither of us proceeded forward. I considered how the next five minutes of my life could go: 1. With my leg in the canine’s jaws, being drug into the underbrush and devoured for breakfast, lunch and dinner the following day, or, 2. I could establish my first friendship in my new life — granted, not a human friend, but I’d rather not get hung up on the details. I preferred the latter, although making a friend with the snarling behemoth in front of me seemed unlikely.

  I was the first to make a move. I read about dominant behavior in mammals one time, recalling that the first animal to break eye contact was interpreted as the submissive one, also known as the first to be eaten. Additionally, showing teeth was a sign of aggression, so I mentally noted not to burst into laughter, which I did on occasion when nervous. Instead of inching forward, I squatted down, gritting my teeth to keep myself from making any jerky movements. Maintaining eye contact with the beast meant I roamed the ground with my hands like Helen Keller searching for a single grain of rice. When my fingers brushed the twig, I felt an elated sense of euphoria, knowing that I’d found the solution to my problem.

  Desperate, I half-whispered, “Fetch, little buddy,” in my best speaking-to-animals, high-pitched voice, and tossed the twig no where in particular but far away from me. I must’ve accidentally broken eye contact. The beast stalked toward me, sniffing the air with slobber running down its jowls. Don’t run, I ordered myself. Dogs like to chase things; they get bored with stationary objects. Clenching my fists into tight, anxious balls, I planted my feet, cringing each time the beast poked me with its snout, getting a better whiff of me.

  “N-n-nice B-b-beastie,” I reached to pat a matted coat of coarse, black fur, but retracted my hand when giant teeth clamped down millimeters from my shaky fingers and a deep growl erupted from Beastie’s throat. The animal nudged my rump several times, as if to say “walk the plank.” I couldn’t help but stumble with each forceful nudge, and after several minutes of being pushed around, I decided that the only direction to go was forward.

  We navigated the forest with only moonlight. Every squeak, hoot, or rustle compelled me to jump, but Beastie paid no mind. I got the sense that the animal knew exactly where it was headed. When the sun rose, I was ready for a break. My stomach growled, and I wished that I had paid more attention that one time I attended a girl scout meeting in fifth grade. I stopped next to a honeysuckle bush, which I could smell right off the trail, and plucked a handful of buds, sucking the drops of sweet liquid from the root. Beastie eyed me with an annoyed expression.

  “What?” I asked, discarding a piece of honeysuckle. “I’m starving.”

  Beastie had no empathy and nudged me forward rather forcefully. Blood or maybe something else entirely coursed through my veins, allowing my feet to smack the ground as we sprinted into the morning fog, away from Brushy Fork, away from everything. Beastie pawed several paces behind me, scanning the surrounding tree line, occasionally watching me warily, with its mouth taught and slightly frothy.

  I’d never spent the night outside before. Well, that’s not entirely true. For my tenth birthday party, Grams allowed me to invite a bunch of girlfriends over for a sleepover. The night was warm and crisp. After we finished inhaling a greasy pepperoni pizza and homemade cake, Grandpa announced there was a surprise waiting in the backyard. He led us to an old, tattered tent, erected next to a blaring campfire. I shivered in delight, and some of the other girls squealed with excitement. Sleep
ing outside was a grown-up activity, like drinking coffee or ironing pants.

  That night, we rounded out our healthy dinner with toasted marshmallows. Grandpa stuck around, reciting tales fireside. As darkness closed in, the stories became spookier, and my friends and I huddled close, listening intently, until we could no longer keep our eyes open. Giant quilts and mounds of fluffy pillows adorned the inside of the tent, which, at first glance, didn’t appear large enough to accommodate eight ten-year-old girls. We chatted until our eyelids became heavy. I was about to put away my flashlight as I saw something graze the outside of the tent, causing a dip in the side and a whirring sound against the taut fabric, sending us girls into a fit of screams. Grams ran out in her nightgown, unzipping the tent to find all of us trembling in the corner. She snuggled under the patched quilt next to me and kept all of us safe that night.

  While my body felt invigorated, even though Beastie hadn’t allowed us a moment of rest, my mental state was a different story. My mind reeled with questions of where to go next, and my thoughts lingered on money and how I didn’t have any. I had nothing of value on my person. My other worries surrounded the black beast leading the way and the grumbling in my stomach, but being with a dangerous—perhaps rabid—animal, famished, and in the middle of nowhere, was far favorable than being in Brushy Fork.

  The heat resulted in my shirt sticking to my back and underarms, laden with condensation. The waterfall ahead gushed white water, cool and inviting. Each trickle rushing down to the creek below was tantalizing. I only bothered to remove my shoes. The creek appeared fairly deep, not shallow enough to break my legs from a dive. With one last glance back at Beastie, I pushed off the ledge and dove into the water.

  The creek was much shallower than I anticipated, and once again, I cursed my lack of girl scout tidbits as I hit the muddy bottom with my feet, feeling the smooth rocks and pebbles with my toes. The creek felt nice with the slightest chill, but when I gazed up to the surface, my eyes stung as I tried to keep them open, focusing on the sunlight reflecting off the top of the water, shattering into a million pieces.

  I surfaced to catch a breath and instantly choked on a mouthful of salt water when I glanced back at the waterfall, which was replaced by a sandy shore hundreds of yards away. I breathed in smells of old fish and salty ocean and prodded around the ocean floor with my toes. The brackish water came up just below my nose, barely shallow enough to stand without gurgling water through my nostrils. When I took a step forward, I was immediately reprimanded with pricks to my toes from jagged oyster shells.

  “Beastie?” I yelled mostly at myself, gargling water. I craned my neck to take in the sights behind me. A concrete bridge connecting two islands stood overhead, the sides rimmed with squawking flocks of seagulls and stone piers jutting out of the water. I swam over to one of the piers not too far away, compared to the other option of getting to the shore, which was quite a distance and lined with sharp oyster beds. Warning crossed my mind, as I swam close to the piers, lined with multicolored barnacles and crustaceans. I fought through my fear and hoisted myself up onto the rusty ladder built into the cement, probably originally intended for the folks who built the bridge, but it was my saving grace now. I regretted not stripping down before I jumped into the creek. My wet clothes caused me to be twice as heavy as I climbed to the top of the bridge, panting and groaning along the way.

  I relieved sigh escaped my lips when I lugged myself over the concrete guardrail and onto the road, and granted myself a second to assess my whereabouts. Every few minutes a car sped by, slowing to examine the saturated and barefoot girl wandering towards the connecting town in the distance. I cursed myself for abandoning my shoes with each crunch of oyster shell and rock under my feet every time I stepped forward. When I reached the bottom of the bridge, I hopped down from the guardrail and onto the sandy shore below, tiptoeing across the hot sand like walking on fiery coals, then plopped down beneath the shade of the bridge’s underbelly. I attempted to suppress a cackle, but failed, flinging myself on the ground with excited laughter, for of this I was certain: I was no longer in Brushy Fork, Kentucky.

  5

  Shrimp & Grits

  I awoke from my nap on the beach with a dog licking my face, but this time, the dog wasn’t Beastie. The scraggly yellow lab with a greying face wagged its tail excitedly at its new hobo friend.

  “Nice doggy?” I asked wearily, holding out my hand for the dog to sniff, praying that the lab didn’t have Beastie’s temperament. I was answered with more kisses.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” a cold, feminine voice asked.

  I found the source standing behind me. An impeccably dressed lady with long, dark hair, shinier than I’d ever seen hair be before, with a single patch of grey streaked through her bangs. Despite the splash of grey, the woman appeared youthful, with glowing olive skin and spectacular violet eyes. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, with her crooked nose and square jaw, and though her face was without a trace of emotion, she was beautiful. Truly stunning.

  “Are you asking me or the dog?” I replied, still in a state of elation.

  “Get up,” she ordered, stomping over to me and pulling me up by arms, roughly dusting the sand off of me.

  “Who do you think you are?” I yelled, wiggling out of her grip.

  She scoffed at my question and rolled her eyes, which killed my blissful state of euphoria. I smacked at her hands when she attempted to reach for me again and backed away. The yellow lab took a submissive stance, rolling over on its back in the sand between us.

  “You’re rude and lack gratitude,” the woman placed her perfectly manicured hands on her hips and pursed her lips together. “I arranged for you to evacuate that wretched, Bible-thumping, little town, and what do you do as soon as you reach safety?” Her face crumpled into a disgusted scowl. “Make a spectacle of yourself and nap under the goddamned bridge. What great instincts! It’ll only be a matter of time before those hillbillies nab you again!”

  “You?” I looked her up and down, “You helped me escape from W.H.O.R.E.?” I shook my head, correcting myself, “I mean—Blood of Christ?”

  “Indeed,” she hissed through her impressively straight teeth and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “So you can either go back there and sacrifice sheep for the rest of your miserable life, or you can follow me,” her piercing eyes studied my expression, knowing that my decision had already been made before she ever opened her mouth. “Your family is less than a mile away from where we stand. Would you like to meet them?”

  I nodded and followed her to her brand-spanking-new Audi, petting the yellow lab on the belly and saying good-bye.

  “Don’t you dare get sand in my car!” she barked as I opened the passenger door. I shook out my loose hair, watching grains fall to the ground, then attempted to brush off the rest of my body before taking a seat. “I should’ve made you walk,” she glared at my sandy feet as I joined her in the car.

  “Who are you?” I questioned, ignoring her.

  “I’m not your friend, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she said simply, without even a glance my way.

  “I was aiming for a first or last name…”

  “I’m dropping you off at your aunt’s house,” she interrupted as we zoomed by a row of old shops with brick faces and colorful signs. The town appeared incredibly small and old, with uneven pavement and fading paint. Wooden docks and fishing boats rested beyond the town on all sides. Spanish moss hung from giant oak trees in the front yards of old-fashioned homes with wrap-around porches. My heart raced in my chest as we passed the old homes, and I thought back to the last time I had seen my Aunt June.

  My grandparents and I visited my aunt and uncle every summer. We’d make the drive from Atlanta to the Forgotten Coast, stopping along the highway at the boiled peanut signs and produce stands. The last time I saw Aunt June was two weeks before my Grandparent’s accident.

  “The nastier the place looks, the better the peanu
ts are,” Grandpa joked, passing the Styrofoam cup of salty boiled peanuts to me in the backseat, studying the map as Grams drove.

  “The muddier the peanut water is, the more Grandpa is intrigued,” Grams winked back at me in the rear-view mirror.

  Aunt June recently separated from Uncle Rick, and her sadness was palpable. My cousin, Billie, three years older than me, tried her best to hang out whenever we were together. We walked along the beach while our grandparents and Aunt June barbequed.

  “Mom says she and dad split ‘cause he’s a ‘lying bastard,’” Billie relayed when I asked what was happening with the divorce. She was quick to change the subject whenever conversation lingered on her parents. “Sometimes I find shark teeth where the waves hit,” she pulled me close to the water, and we walked slowly, combing the beach for treasure.

  “Aha!” I heard her exclaim a few yards away from me. “Got one,” she held up a shiny, black triangle the size of my fingernail. She placed the tooth in my hand, allowing me study it closer. “The teeth turn black because they’re old. It’s what happens when something fossilizes,” she explained, delight twinkling in her eyes. Billie was easily the smartest and coolest person I’d ever met.

  “How old do you think this tooth is?” I asked breathlessly, exhilarated by the find.

  “Probably like, a million-years-old.”

  “Woah.”

  “Probably the oldest thing you’ve ever touched,” I tried to hand it back to her, but Billie shook her head. “No, you keep it,” she smiled and skipped off.

  Days later, back in Atlanta, Grams taught me how to craft a necklace, tying wire around the shark tooth and attaching it to a thin piece of leather. I wore it for two weeks, until Joy ripped the necklace from my neck and tossed the tooth in the trash. For months, I wondered how I’d ended up in Brushy Fork. I had family. Why hadn’t they come for me? Did they not want me as their responsibility?