Raveled

by McAneny, Anne

  “Hey, Mom, let me do that.”

  She placed both hands flat against the cutting board, the knife hanging over the edge, her fingers still clutching it tightly enough that her knuckles turned white.

  “It’s just, it was just… I mean, the Bobby Kettrick thing was bad enough, but the Shelby Anderson case. That’s what did it, you know. That’s what sent everyone over the edge.”

  “Do you think—”

  She twirled fast towards me, the knife spinning with her until its tip caught my arm. She jerked it back when she saw the razor-thin line of blood. It was the shallowest of cuts, but she screamed as if she’d impaled me.

  “It’s okay, Mom. It’s nothing.”

  “I’ve cut your arm!” she shrieked. “Oh my God! You see how this stuff happens?” Her eyes turned desperate and distant. “Someone has a weapon. They don’t realize what they’re doing. It’s in their hand and—bam! Your life is never the same. Never. And, and…”

  She noticed my arm again, as if for the first time. “You’re bleeding.”

  Clarity-Justine had taken her leave for the evening. Still, the maternal instincts kicked in. She dabbed at the cut with a piece of gauze that she grabbed from a drawer. The blood had already clotted, leaving little trace of the previous minute’s drama. She produced a small tube of antibiotic ointment, and, like my father’s deft movements under a car hood, she disinfected and sealed my wound before most people could have acknowledged it.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  She patted my arm and smiled beneath a blank stare, as if thanking a stranger who’d dropped a quarter in her beggar’s cup. As she shuffled away to her room, the fish started to stink on the counter.

  Chapter 12

  Artie… sixteen years ago

  Artie tightened the final screw to make sure Bobby Kettrick’s transmission wouldn’t end up lying in the middle of Marshall Street. He shook his head as he heard Enzo cursing the oil he’d just spilled all over himself. It was like Artie couldn’t dumb the tasks down enough for that kid. A simple thing like changing oil—hell, people could do that clean and fast with their cars sprawled over a ditch on the side of the road—but Enzo still managed to make a mess of it.

  “Kevin,” Artie said to his son who was looking more like Justine’s side of the family every day, “go down under the first bay and see if Enzo needs help. Sounds like he made a damn mess again.”

  Kevin smiled at his dad in a show of camaraderie. The two of them bailed Enzo out of messes on a weekly basis, but neither ever suggested getting rid of him. Enzo had promise—just not as a mechanic. He never complained about staying late, usually arrived within five minutes of his starting time, and had a playful, fun attitude that the shop desperately needed.

  Artie let the hood on Bobby’s car drop back into place, his face squeezing itself together like a pinched wrinkle of fabric when the slam penetrated his brain. He lumbered over to a nearby shelf, reached behind a box of rags, and grabbed a bottle of prescription pills. He poured two into his hand, then another two, and tossed them in his mouth. He swallowed them down with a swig of water from an open bottle nearby. Then he leaned forward on Bobby’s hood, waiting for the pounding to subside, as he stared through the windshield, out the back window, and at the trunk of the car. He squinted his eyes and tilted his neck to slant the pain in his head, giving the right side a spot of relief. It also gave him an opportunity to toy with scenarios involving the trunk of Bobby’s car.

  “I wonder if he’s that stupid,” Artie muttered to himself while allowing a guarded grin to traverse his thin face. Nodding, he opened Bobby’s front door and pulled the latch to pop the trunk. He sauntered ‘round the back and looked into the cavernous, damp-smelling trunk. He shoved aside a big, burlap sack and there, lying right out in the open for anyone to see… Artie’s tools.

  “That son of a bitch,” Artie muttered. “That stupid, punk-ass son of a bitch.”

  Enzo’s voice startled him. “You writin’ a love song to Bobby, Mr. Artie? Or preparing his eulogy?”

  Artie turned around and watched Enzo peel the grey jumpsuit from his skin where the oil had saturated it.

  “Christ, Enzo,” he said. “You get any oil in the car?”

  “This was the dirty stuff, Mr. Artie. I never waste the good stuff.”

  That was true. Enzo wore his streak of frugality like a badge of honor. He knew the costs of all the items in the garage, and had even helped make simple changes in the business to improve the bottom line. Hooked Artie up with new suppliers, encouraged him to order in bulk, and brought the service charges more in line with what the market would bear.

  Enzo glanced at the expensive tools in Artie’s hand. “Don’t tell me you found those in Bobby’s car.”

  Artie slapped the heavy pieces of metal against his palm. “Sure as heck did.”

  “What an idiot.” Enzo walked over to the Chevy. “He left them right there in the open?”

  “Under that sack,” Artie said.

  Enzo lifted the sack to check for more stolen bounty. Nothing there but fast food trash and an old pair of jumper cables. He looked in the sack. Nothing that would get Bobby thirty days in the slammer. Disappointed, he closed the trunk.

  Kevin came up from the underground bay. “Where’s that jumper you were wearing, Enzo? Gonna need to burn it out back.”

  “It’ll wash,” Artie said. “Justine’s good with that stuff.”

  Kevin allowed something akin to approval to show on his face. His father had been trying real hard in the last year or two to improve things at home. He and his dad had always been sort of okay, and Artie usually just let Allison be. But things used to get pretty hairy between his parents. Twice, Kevin remembered Artie hitting his mom. Both times in the kitchen over some problem with the meal. Both times, Kevin, with his own temper brewing just below the surface, had launched himself at his dad, his skinny limbs flailing about as he screamed in protest. He’d only been spared a paternal slug to the face by his mom’s swift intervention. Maybe that history was part of Artie’s motivation to get himself under control. He knew Kevin couldn’t be held off anymore. Kevin dwarfed his dad by at least five inches and thirty pounds of chiseled muscle, every fiber earned in the hot sun, on roads and in fields. Cables, pins, barbells, machines—that stuff was for wusses… and guys who lived in towns that had such facilities.

  “Look what I found in Bobby’s trunk.” Artie held up the tools like a prize as Kevin came over to get a closer look.

  “Guess being the mayor’s son comes with advantages and disadvantages,” Kevin said. “The advantage being you can do stupid shit and get away with it.”

  “And the disadvantages?” Enzo said on cue.

  “You yourself are stupid as shit.”

  They laughed. Kevin took the tools while Artie went to the other end of the garage to put his own jumper into the sack he usually brought home for Justine. Kevin’s brows met in an arch as he turned the recovered tools over in his hands.

  “Hmp,” he said, scraping a hardened, reddish clump from the end of the heavy-gauge wrench.

  “What is it?” Enzo said.

  “Dunno.” He held the wrench out to show Enzo. “Could be nothing. Could be—”

  “That’s blood.” Enzo’s tone—and bevy of colorful life experiences—left no doubt. “And look here.” He pinched at the clump and came up with four or five coarse, ginger-colored hairs, no longer than a pinky nail. He pressed them against his palm to be sure Kevin could appreciate their particular shade and texture.

  Kevin’s nostrils flared beneath a darkening patch of fractious lines on his forehead as he and Enzo exchanged a knowing glance.

  “Rusty,” Kevin murmured.

  Enzo merely shook his head as if this sordid discovery seemed inevitable. At the sound of Artie’s light footsteps crossing the garage floor, Enzo’s expression turned urgent. He whispered to Kevin, “Not a word, man. Not a word. Nothing good can come of it.”

  Kevin laid the tools on
the shelf near the window just as his dad clapped him on the back. “So you’re legal now, right son?” Artie knew full well that Kevin had turned eighteen the month before because they had all celebrated the hell out of it with a pig roast at the house, followed by a huge bonfire that had allowed Artie to dispose of a lot of junk lying around the garage. Kevin would be heading to East Carolina University in the fall to study engineering and it looked like things would turn out okay for the kid.

  “I ain’t legal enough to drink in town,” Kevin said, forcing a grin, “but since when do we lower ourselves to Lavitte standards?”

  Artie didn’t usually encourage minors to break the law, but he knew Kevin had imbibed on more than one occasion, and heck, it was late on a Friday and still hot enough to fry an egg on the hoods of the cars.

  “You thinking about those beers in the mini-fridge?” Kevin asked, the grin beginning to feel sincere.

  “It’s been a long afternoon,” Artie said.

  “Afternoon?” Kevin said. “That passed by three hours ago.” He glanced outside at the remnants of the late August sunset. “Heck, even Happy Hour is old news.”

  “You in, Enzo?” Artie said.

  “Matter of fact, my uncle—”

  “Here we go with the uncles,” Artie muttered to Kevin with a grin.

  “…. he brewed something up last week,” Enzo continued. “It’ll rip your stomach out, but it tastes sweet as pure nectar and smooth as a centerfold’s legs going down. Just gotta get past the first sip.”

  “No, thanks, Enzo,” Artie said. “I’ll stick with Bud. Not even supposed to drink once I take those pills for my head.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Kevin said. “How often do you get a chance to sample from one of the most notorious moonshiners in the county?”

  “Well, maybe just a taste,” Artie said.

  Enzo’s uncles had been near-arrested more than anyone else in the county, earning them the status of near-celebrities. Everyone knew they bribed their way out of trouble by producing and supplying the law with the best moonshine for a hundred miles in any direction, along with a hunk of the profits. As long as the Feds stayed out of the way, Moonshine Rodriguez and company were as golden as the elixir they produced.

  Enzo returned from his truck with an unmarked bottle of clear liquid. He walked over to the messy, metal desk in the corner and emptied some screws, nuts, and bolts from their respective tin cans. He poured a liberal shot of liquor for each of them. Whatever germs had taken residence in the cans couldn’t touch the ingredients in his uncle’s illicit brew.

  Enzo swirled his can, gave it a loud sniff and declared, “A good year. A bit fruity with essence of rust, alcohol, eau de rat tail, and more alcohol.” He indulged in a disciplined sip, nodded approvingly, then delivered the Fennimores their cans.

  Kevin lifted his can for a toast. “To Artie’s Autos, and to customers who drive pieces of shit!”

  Artie offered his own amendment. “To my tools! May justice be served one day against that golden-haired piece of shit.”

  Kevin and Enzo swapped the subtlest of confidential glances before Enzo offered his amendment to the toast. “To you guys, for putting up with this lazy Meh-hee-can-o boy piece of shit.”

  They laughed and drank. Enzo knew enough to take it slowly but Kevin swigged his down like cheap tequila. The burning sensation took a moment to work its way to the shriek in his mouth. “Holy mother! You ain’t kidding ‘bout the burn.” He coughed and spit.

  “It’ll be worth it,” Enzo said.

  An hour and a half later, Artie had forgotten about those pills he took. He and the boys were arguing over who had the better night vision and who could shoot better blindfolded. At one point, they got to laughing so hard, they wouldn’t even have heard an intruder sneak up behind them.

  Chapter 13

  Allison… present

  Kevin e-mailed me to say he’d confirmed Jasper Shifflett’s location, not an easy task given the innumerable Shiffletts in Virginia and North Carolina. Most Shiffletts liked to play around with the number of f’s and t’s in the name. Heck, there were families where the cousins spelled it differently because somewhere along the way, a Shifflett had married a Shiflet. At least Jasper was an uncommon name—fitting for an uncommon guy. Although my money would have been on Jasper staying off the grid with an aluminum hat deep in the West Virginia woods, his new address fit him even better. They say many mental illnesses manifest themselves in people’s early twenties. If that was the case with Jasper, he’d already been suffering a good eight to ten years, if not his whole life. Didn’t look like he’d be making the reunion, but he’d definitely be the subject of malicious group gossip when the cheap cocktails spurred the queen bees on. They’d share a quiet, derisive snicker when someone mentioned his current residence: Ravine Psychiatric Clinic in Roanoke, Virginia.

  In Jasper’s defense, he’d checked himself into Ravine. A little me time, he must have thought. Or me, myself, and I, depending on how many voices he was hearing at the time. Almost nobody in high school would have outright pinpointed Jasper as a future psychiatric ward occupant, but when they later heard about it, they’d say, “Yeah, that makes sense. Not a shocker.”

  Despite our two-year age difference, I knew Jasper in high school. Actually liked him quite a bit, and he wasn’t entirely unattractive. His thin face set the tone for the rest of his reedy body but he had skin that made the girls envious and a smile that could carry a room yet feel confidential when he flashed it your way. In keeping with the requisite genius appearance, he wore a tangled, bristly knot of light brown hair that sprung out three inches on all sides. He was a verbal spaz, but a clever one. After spewing out a series of tangentially related thoughts, usually about himself, he’d gaze at his audience of one as if fascinated by his or her contribution to the conversation. Their contribution usually consisted of discrediting his theories that an underground network of students ran a devious sub-school or that Ukrainians were plotting to blow up the place. But Jasper was convincing. And funny. A humorous undertone never failed to accompany his paranoid fantasies, and surely more than one classmate had told him he’d make a great science fiction writer.

  His IQ topped the charts and he knew it, but he couldn’t get over the futility of the more mundane classes in school so he failed them via disregard. If and when he wanted to, though, he could ace any test. Once, a rumor had spread that he’d kicked the SAT’s ass. A week later, in assembly, I’d watched his friends teasing him about his all grade and no laid perfect scores. Jasper had looked aghast and said he’d never opened the envelope with the scores because he didn’t see the point; besides, others might learn about it and take advantage of him. We’d all known, without clarification, that by others, he meant non-carbon-based beings.

  My brother included a quick bio in the e-mail. Jasper had completed two years at Monroe Community College, transferred to UNC with a scholarship, and dropped out four credits shy of a degree. He’d drifted for a few mystery years, then landed a consulting job with a security firm called ARO. No details on that nondescript acronym. To me, it sounded just vague enough to be shady. Whatever. For all I cared, Jasper could be light years off the reservation, as long as his memory remained intact. I needed him to focus on a single night when Lavitte’s homicide rate increased 200% over the previous five years combined.

  I took my phone into the living room where Selena usually dozed and called the number Kevin had provided. A direct line to Jasper’s room, apparently. The phone rang at least twenty times while I made myself comfortable in the nest of blankets Selena kept on the far end of the sofa. The rhythmic ringing lulled my tired brain into a hypnotized state, so much so that when a male voice answered in a muffled whisper, I almost dropped the phone.

  “You are hearing the voice of Jasper Shifflett.”

  Was it an answering machine? No. I could hear nasal breathing with the faintest whistle.

  “Hi,” I said, lowering my voice in a natural reflex to h
is. “This is Allison Fennimore.”

  “Is it?”

  Damn if he didn’t have me doubting my existence already.

  “Pretty sure,” I said.

  Silence. More silence. Breathing.

  “Jasper, is that you? We went to high school together.” I don’t know why I used that lame prompt when the Fennimore name usually did the trick. And he surely wouldn’t remember me from chemistry class.

  “Allison Fennimore,” he whispered, “Allison Fennimore.” It sounded like he was talking to himself so I didn’t interrupt. I heard pages flipping in the background. Was it possible he kept the old Lavitte High School yearbook right next to the phone? I couldn’t imagine that any other classmates were calling. Suddenly, I got an image of a skinny, wild-haired Jasper surrounded by tower-like piles of yearbooks from every high school in the country so he could distinguish between real callers, aliens, and secret enemies. “Regular reunion going on lately,” he mumbled to himself. Then his voice perked up. “You were two years behind me. Dark hair, oval face, excessively large eyes.”

  Was it freakier if he remembered that on his own, or if he was analyzing my actual photo? Toss-up.

  He continued in the fast patter he used in high school, minus the humorous undertone. “I can summon you up quite well. We were lab partners in Dr. Duncan’s class, in a foursome with two subpar students who delighted in smacking their gum. You were smart, young, quick-witted.”

  None of that was in the yearbook. His mind had to be somewhat unbroken.

  “That’s one way to go,” I said. “Most Lavitte natives remember me as the daughter of Artie Fennimore, the man who shot Bobby Kettrick.” What was the point of beating around the bush? The guy needed to be reeled in, and fast, before he began reciting the flavors of gum Rosie Lawrence had chewed each day of the week. Always Tooty-Fruity on Fridays.