I could see Merle, a brief glimpse as he passed in front of that window; he was wearing the red flannel shirt that he had worn to school the last day before vacation. Now strand by strand, the lights of the carnival house were unplugged; it looked as if the house were disappearing section by section as it gave in to darkness and then there was only the glow of the baby Jesus, the light softened by the blue blanket draped there. It seemed that, instead of bringing quiet, the darkness was a signal for my parents to begin as they had for several days, their voices mumbled like a mouthful of marbles. Angela was planning to come for Christmas after all; her romance was not working out as planned and she needed to be with her family. I had heard enough to know that it was the same old discussion. The only time she comes around is when her life isn’t working. Just once I wish there wasn’t a catch. Just once I wish she would give me more than a day’s notice.
Now the bare bulb in Merle’s house was the only light as I looked out over our backyard. There was just a sliver of a moon that night, a fairy tale moon like the pin Angela had given to my mother; it was too thin to give much light, so even after several minutes of concentrated staring, the shadows of the trees and the gates of the cemetery were hard to distinguish. My mother opened the door, her movement startling me.
“We’re going to bed,” she whispered. “I think you better come on in now. It’s freezing.”
“I’m coming,” I told her. “But I might go downstairs and watch TV awhile.”
“Don’t sit up too late,” she said, and stepped back inside. “We’ve got lots to do tomorrow.” She paused. “Rumor has it we might be having company.” I waited until I heard her bedroom door close, and then I went downstairs. The nightlight in the hallway was on so I didn’t turn on any lamps, just went to the kitchen, where I could look and still see that bare bulb hanging. There were several motorcycles parked in the driveway, and I could see people passing back and forth in front of the window, the blacks and blues of their clothing, an occasional bit of red which I assigned to Merle. I sat on the kitchen counter, my feet in the sink, and got as close to the window as I could without causing it to fog over. The house was dark except for that one bulb.
The idea came suddenly, Misty’s voice urging that we should sneak over and spy, sneak over and see what it looked like inside of that house. Sneak to the far end of the cemetery there near the Wilkins plot, climb the huge magnolia tree. If I had been watching myself in a movie, I would have said, Don’t do it, don’t do it, but I acted without thinking, grabbed my jacket off the kitchen chair and tiptoed out onto the back porch, easing the door to behind me. Oliver was there in a second, weaving in and out between my legs and purring loudly. Everything seemed so loud, the squeak of my sneakers on the cement step and then the rustle of the dry grass. It was colder than I’d realized while sheltered on the porch with a blanket, but I didn’t go back inside; my heart raced as I breathed the freezing air.
I was halfway across our yard before I even looked back. The sleeping porch was so dark that if my mother or father had been there, I wouldn’t have been able to see them. Our yard had grown with the darkness, lengthening towards the bare bulb as I made my way through the shrubs along our drive and into the cemetery. Somehow the calming sense of peace, which I could conjure while in my bed or while looking at the tombstones from my window, disappeared and I was left with a sudden sense of panic, the same as when I crept through the gates that other night, the night Buddy was born. I moved quickly down the path, limbs brushing against my jacket. I never glanced to either side, but focused on my destination, faster and faster. I felt as if there could suddenly appear behind me something hideous and destructive. Everything looked different in the darkness; the trees were taller, the weeds higher, the monuments like a cold gray city in the distance; with every step, the weeds seemed to spring back with a rustling sound, pinpointing my every move and breath for whoever could be watching.
Once I got within reach of the tree, carefully stepping around and over the rolls of chicken wire and discarded planks, I crouched down. I heard the creak of a door, voices, and so I quickly crawled under the thick branches of the tree. The large waxy leaves shielded me from sight as I felt for the smooth trunk and as quietly as possible began to climb. When I was at a safe height, I stopped, my legs straddling a thick branch, my back against the trunk. If I pulled the branch above me to one side I could see Merle’s house, that bulb still shining; I could see a picture of a rooster, the kind fashioned from glued kernels of colored popcorn, hanging on the wall.
Again I heard voices, laughter. There were two people coming down the back steps and moving across the yard. They stopped near the clothesline, a concrete post, and again I heard whispers and laughter as the two pressed together, kissed. I leaned my head back against the trunk and looked straight up, the moon visible between two branches.
Somewhere there was a fire engine, the siren, loud and then faint, and there was movement beneath the clothesline; there was the sound of tires on pavement, a distant hum from the highway. I turned back to the yard and the rustling sounds. It was like I was paralyzed and couldn’t turn away; now they were near the faint glow of the streetlight. I strained to get a better look and then I recognized my car coat, that faded blue quilted jacket, slick from wear, the white fur around the hood dingy, gray in the dim light. There was the flash of a cigarette lighter, and I saw Perry Loomis stretched out on the grass, her hair loose and falling over one shoulder as she beckoned to whoever was standing in the darkness. I held my breath, heart pounding. I focused on the window, the red oilcloth on the kitchen table, the dirty dishes stacked on the counter, empty plates and beer bottles. Then Merle was there, in the window, hands cupped up to his face as he peered out into the yard. I had expected to see him step from the darkness, but it was Dexter with Perry; he was rubbing his hand around her eyes, caressing her temples, pressing in so hard I could feel it. He stretched out on top of her and she laughed, locked her small white hands behind his neck. Her hands then moved up and down the back of his denim jacket, over the skull and crossbones painted there. “It’s too cold out here,” she said, and giggled, her voice just as I remembered it. “I mean it now, Dexter. Let’s go inside.”
I knew something was about to hit; I knew it. It was like seeing the headlights round the curve or hearing the loud roar of a freight train in the split second before a tornado touches down and inhales a portion of the world.
Out of nowhere, engines revved and three bikes came around the corner of the house, the bright white headlights scanning the yard like beacons. Merle was no longer in the window but at the back door. They cut the engines, leaving one headlight glaring. Perry sat up, her hand shielding the bright light, and then within seconds, R.W. Quincy was there, his large hands catching her ankles and pinning them down as if she were a trapped animal held for observation. Dexter had her arms and his slow caresses were now hard and binding as he held her. Her eyes were wide open, wide and staring, surprised to see R.W. there at her feet, surprised to see the other two who had just stepped up. They took their jackets off and tossed them to one side. “Dexter?” Perry screamed, and then she was struggling to sit up, her lips moving, face frozen in that glaring light. “Dexter, stop it.”
It was as if Dexter didn’t hear her; he didn’t even look at her face, just motioned for one of the guys to hold her arms. Then he pulled a knife from his pocket, flipped out the blade and began circling her. Perry’s face was stark white. Dexter had tossed off his jacket, and his wiry biceps flexed as he slapped the knife from hand to hand. I held my breath, looked at the house next door, the manger in their front yard dark. I heard the door slam shut, running footsteps in the leaves.
Then Merle was there, his eyes on Perry as Dexter unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a white lacy bra with the little pink rosebud in the center, the kind of bra designed to look pure and innocent.
“What’s going on?” They all stopped and turned towards Merle, but his eyes were on Perry, and on the
knife in Dexter’s hand. He stepped into the bright light, fists clenched as he looked away from Perry and focused on his brother.
I could feel panic rising in Perry’s chest as her stomach rose and fell faster and faster with her breath, her limbs thrashing to escape the holds. She turned her head to Dexter, and I knew that she was begging. “I’m cold,” she said, her face turned my way, pale and distorted by fear and sobs. Merle lunged at Dexter, his fist raised. He was stopped by one of the other boys, who grabbed him around the neck and pinned his arm behind his back, pushing higher and higher as if he might break it. The blade of the knife caught the light as Dexter turned it from side to side. “Please. Please.” Perry’s hollow voice rose and then broke as he pressed the flat of the blade against her stomach. “You were begging please just a few minutes ago, too, weren’t you? You wanted it until we had an audience, didn’t you?” He moved the blade back and forth and she nodded. “Well, that’s the whole purpose; just think of it as doing me a favor. I mean, I could be with somebody else right now, you know?” She was silent as he inched the blade under the pale pink rosebud, and in one swift motion lifted the knife, her bra severed as she lay naked and exposed.
“Leave her alone!” Merle’s voice had the high shrill pitch of panic.
“Hey, if he ain’t one of us”—the tall guy holding Perry’s arms nodded towards Merle—“then get him out of here.” He leaned down close, his hair falling onto her cheek as he ran his mouth up and down her neck. Dexter watched, his fist clenched, but he didn’t say anything.
“Let her go, Dexter,” Merle screamed, but his words were cut by the grip on his neck. He was thrown to the ground, and then I heard the punches and groans as the two rolled away from the light. “You’re all crazy,” Merle gasped, and pulled up on his hands and knees.
Dexter pressed the blade against Perry’s stomach while the guy holding her arms ran his tongue along the curve of her breast. “Tell him”—Dexter’s voice was shaking then—“tell my baby brother everything’s okay, this is what you want.” He rubbed his hand gently over her other breast and then up her neck to her mouth. He was whispering then, coaxing, I assumed, his mouth covering hers. “Tell him it’s something I have to do, Perry,” he said. “You don’t want me doing this to somebody else, do you?”
“You’re crazy, Dexter,” Merle screamed, and got to his feet; he ran towards Perry again, only to be caught and held by the throat. “C’mon, R.W., don’t let them do this. What’s happened to you?” R.W. stood and came towards Merle, fist drawn back. I heard Merle clear his throat, struggle to spit towards R.W., and in that second, they slugged him, once in the face, three times in the stomach, and then they pushed him under the magnolia tree, limbs snapping as he fell; when he tried to get up, they kicked him again and again until there was silence below.
Dexter was on top of Perry then, the other boy still holding her down. He moved against her, the knife between them, and then he pushed up, his knees straddling her. I held my breath as I watched, though the ringing in my ears was so loud I felt dizzy. I was afraid to look below, at the quiet darkness where Merle had fallen. When Dexter rolled off her into the grass, R.W. stepped forward. The boy holding her arms leaned forward to cover her mouth with his own just as she started to scream.
I swallowed, stared upwards through the jungle of thick limbs, a height of a hundred years, the dim sky, thin moon; somewhere up there was the Christmas star. I focused my sight on only the limbs; if I had closed my eyes for a second, the dizziness would have caught up with me. I’m not sure how long I stayed that way, motionless, barely breathing, but it was long after they pulled Merle from beneath the tree, long after Perry had covered herself with my coat, my coat there on the frozen grass. It was long after the motorcycles had revved and sputtered and disappeared in the night. I could not shake the picture of Perry, her muffled screams as hands and mouths stifled and probed her, her body held and pinned, naked and helpless, an experiment, a specimen.
I must have clung there an hour after they left, and then I moved suddenly, urgently, down the tree and over and around the chicken wire and busted boards; I could not move fast enough, and I didn’t even remember having acted at all until I was halfway across my yard and heard something rustling behind me. I looked towards Whispering Pines, and I thought I saw a red spark, the winking eye of an animal, or the glow of a cigarette. Again, it sparked and in that quick glow, I glimpsed a flash of dark red, blood red, maybe Merle’s shirt there in the shadows of the cemetery. And again, I moved quickly, panicked, fearful that he would call my name, that he was like the watchman, the pimp who would give a signal—hoot owl cry or a rock against a window or his old cat call—that would send them all out into the yard, over the weeds and wire, through my yard, where they would dive, hands catching my ankles and pulling me down, catching me, flipping me over, pinning me as they traced my birthmark in that bright light; I could feel the cold silver blade of the knife daring me to cry for help, daring me to do anything other than give in to their gropes and slobbers.
I thought of the oddest thing in that moment. I thought of Mo Rhodes and the rainy day right after they moved in when she spread a quilt over the oil spots in their carport and then sat on it cross-legged with Misty and me. We played the old game bear hunt, our hands imitating all of the actions as we swam through the river, climbed a tall tree and then, spotting the bear, we began running faster and faster, hands clapping and slapping knees as we went faster and faster, back over the mountain, back down the tree and back through the river, faster and faster and faster, making us laugh so hard that Misty finally had to scream that we please, please, please take a break because she just couldn’t take it any more. Mo Rhodes was stretched out on her back, her shapely legs up in the air doing a scissor kick while she held her stomach in laughter. “Stop making us laugh,” Misty had screamed. “I’ve got to pee. Now no more laughing!”
“That’ll be the day-ay-ay,” Mo sang. That’s what I was hearing over and over, Mo’s voice, until I eased the door to and turned the lock. As I passed my parents’ door, I paused to listen. Silence. I tiptoed up the stairs and moved slowly down the dark hall. When I touched the cool glass doorknob of my room, it almost seemed like I’d never gone outside, that none of it had happened, that none of it was real. I tried to imagine how I could even begin to tell Misty what I had seen, how would I even describe it, or should I even try? Somehow it seemed that if I didn’t tell it, didn’t think it, that it could all go away, as if I’d never seen it, as if it had never happened.
I undressed in the darkness. The floor was cold to my bare feet, and I felt a sudden shiver down my spine as I stood naked a moment before pulling my flannel gown over my head and down around me. Now the fairy-tale moon had risen high above the cemetery. I knew as I stepped closer to the window that I would see him there, the same place as always. And this time I felt certain that he saw me, too. He knew I had been there, I was sure, and again I felt that deep empty drop of my stomach.
I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes I saw Perry’s eyes wide and frightened, her face frozen in silent terror; I saw the knife on her stomach, the snap of her bra, and those breasts that were the subject of all the adolescent boys’ dreams of womanhood and sexiness, just those of a young girl, pale blue veins underlining pale white skin, breast bone as fragile as that of a chicken ripped and torn apart. I saw Mo Rhodes and the look of horror as she screamed out in that brief second, her hand reaching out for Buddy. I saw Merle begging his brother to stop, and I saw Misty clinging to the carport post and screaming for her mother to come back, her hair wild against the dark sky.
Finally, I went out on the sleeping porch. The air felt sharp as I breathed in. The light was still on, only now Merle’s father’s pickup truck was in the driveway, and I could see Mrs. Hucks bent over the sink, alone in the kitchen. I imagined she was washing that stack of dishes, crumbs and bones scraped in the trash; she was oblivious to how late it was or how her children had spent the eveni
ng as she wiped over the red oilcloth with a worn, grainy rag.
Within minutes, she turned out the light, and when my eyes had time to adjust, the house became only another boxlike shadow like all the others, identical in this light to the one housing baby Jesus. I was finally dozing, my head dropping forward, when I heard the rustling of weeds and looked up in time to see him moving over the chicken wire. He stopped and stood there a minute, the glow of his cigarette making the picture real, letting me know that I had not imagined it all. And then he was gone. When I went back inside, it was long after midnight; it was Christmas Eve.
Twenty
I woke in the morning with a start, and saw the blanket I had wrapped around me as I sat on the sleeping porch. It was all real. Suddenly everything else in my life seemed so minimal, just worthless worries. The memory of Perry’s face sat on my chest like a rock. I got back under the covers, closed my eyes against the light at the window. I think I would have stayed there all day had my mother not been in the doorway calling for me to get up, she needed help, packages to wrap, food to prepare, gifts to deliver to neighbors and the rest home.
Every year she headed up the rest home project for her Junior League, and I hated going there most of all, delivering gifts and food to people who stared blankly from their wheelchairs, halls and doorways, these people at the very end of their lives, their food blended to the consistency of soup, their rooms smelling of urine, workers rummaging through their belongings when no one was looking, some perfume, some candy, a wedding band twisted and pulled over an aged swollen knuckle. Yes, it’s been there since my husband put it there in 1922. Helpless, they were helpless, and yet this was now their home. The most frightening part was the realization that they had adapted, had gotten used to it all, had come to think of the smelly hallways as their homes and the people who stole from them, their families. I hated to think of what we could be reduced to when stripped of our own free will; it was scary to think of what we were capable of doing just to stay alive. It was horrible to even try and think what Perry must have felt when she saw them come for her, and there I sat, doing nothing about it, absolutely nothing.
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