Shivaree (19 page)

THIRTY-SEVEN

The lace curtain covering the door’s window did little to prevent a ray of sunshine from piercing the dusky hall. Rather than the light pushing away the dark, the shadows seemed poised to attack the slim ray of brightness. Lucille had walked the length of the hall hundreds, maybe even thousands of times during her employment at the Lowell house. Still, despite the familiarity of the setting, and the light that bisected the center of the hall, Lucille was spooked by the thought of traversing it.

The bell rang a third time. This time it was only a quick buzz, but it was followed by the pounding of a fist against the door. Lucille was embarrassed by her own timidity, but she still scurried past the shadows on her
way to the door. Through the lace-filtered glass Lucille recognized two of
the Judge’s men, Frank Mason and Bayard Bloom. As hard as Lucille tried
to remain ignorant of the Judge’s dealings, she knew these men acted as his muscle. Suddenly the shadows she had skirted seemed benevolent in com
parison to what awaited her on the house’s threshold. Still, she was glad it
had been Frank knocking rather than Bayard. Frank could kill a man, slicing him open without a single pang of conscience, but Bayard Bloom
was nearly legendary in the entire tristate area for his savagery. Sure, Frank would take your life, but he’d do it quickly. The experiences endured by Bayard’s victims formed a canon of cautionary tales for any who’d con
sider
double-crossing the Judge. Lucille braced herself, wonder
ing what could
have sent these two lowlifes to the Judge’s door this early.

Frank leaned in toward the glass, seemingly intent on scanning the hall for signs of life. The brim of his fedora tapped against the pane, and he leaned back upon catching sight of her. A few steps behind him, and off to his side, lumpy, balding redheaded Bloom rocked with impatience like an angry child. Lucille opened the door, but offered no passage wider than her own body could block.

Frank was a tall, lean man. He might have been handsome, perhaps even devastatingly so, if not for the cutthroat look of his deep-set and narrow dark eyes. At the sight of Lucille, he removed his hat, revealing the straight black locks he kept slicked back. The rose scent of his hair oil wafted in on the warm air.

“Yessir?” Lucille slurred the words into one, letting herself slip into the role of the servile and respectful dark-skinned woman who readily acknowledged these white men’s innate superiority. Let no one ever say she didn’t know what was expected of her.

Frank leaned in and angled his face in toward the opening. “Doctor McAvoy sent us. Said the Judge might need a little looking after,” he said, and then pulled his thin lips into a tight smile.

Lucille’s shoulders collapsed under the weight of resignation. If McAvoy wanted these wild dogs here, she didn’t have any choice but to welcome them. “Please come in,” she said and stepped aside.

Frank crossed the threshold and held out his hat to her. She nodded and took it from him, placing it with exaggerated care over a hook on the coat stand. She turned back to see that Frank had stopped cold in his tracks, and was sniffing the air like a hound trying to track a scent.

“You baking?” he asked, his forehead bunching up, his eyes narrowing.

“No, sir,” she replied, “but I’d be glad to fix something for you if you’d like. I was about to cook some breakfast for the Judge’s nurse . . .”

“No,” he said and pushed past her, drawing near the foot of the stairs. “You don’t smell that? Kind of like cinnam
on, but not?” He craned his neck and looked up the stairs. His hand moved beneath his jacket, allowing Lucille a glimpse of his holster.

She took a few paces toward him, drawing in a deep breath. She did catch a faint whiff of something, now that she was looking for it. She struggled to place it. No, not cinnamon. More like a flower. Dianthus? Maybe. No, not really. But what lay beneath the spice was the undeniable scent of decay. How had she not noticed it before? “No, sir,” she lied. “I don’t smell nothing unusual.” Something about the odor frightened Frank, and realizing that scared Lucille out of her wits.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Elijah opened Corinne’s empty suitcase and laid it on the bed. He turned to the chifferobe and yanked the doors wide, collecting her hanging clothes in a single scoop and tossing them on the bed next to the case. At first he made an effort to fold the dresses neatly, but he lost patience quickly and started dropping things in. He turned back and opened the top drawer, both a little excited and a little embarrassed as he reached in and took hold of her undergarments. He ran both hands to the back of the drawer so he could collect them in one go, but stopped cold when he felt the unmistakable shape of a pistol swathed within the softness of his fiancée’s underwear. His hands released the clothes and took hold of the velvet bag containing the firearm.

The sound of the door opening from the kitchen caused him to release the weapon. “What’s going on here?” his mother asked. She stepped out onto the sleeping porch and crossed over to the bed that held Corinne’s case. She paused before it and, without looking at her son, removed the contents, laying Corinne’s belongings next to it. Elijah watched without responding as his mother began to neatly fold the clothing before returning it to the case. “She’ll be staying on with the Judge for a while? Will we be postponing the wedding, then?” she asked, looking back at him without stopping her self-imposed chore.

“Ah, I see it’s more than that,” she said when he stayed silent. She must have read, or misread, the expression in his eyes. “You’ve had a change of heart? Or was it the young lady who did?” He held his tongue, knowing he was in for a scene the moment he told her that he would be packing a case for himself, too. That he was going to leave this place and never lay eyes on his mother again.

When he joined the army, he did it to run from what he believed Ruby had done to him. He knew he was running now, too, but this time he was separating himself from the lies he’d been raised to believe. He didn’t want this farm. He didn’t want these people. Since the TVA was hiring, he’d take Corinne to Tennessee. See if they could start a new life together there.

“Well, doesn’t really matter,” his mother said. “She wasn’t right for you. Nor you for her. You need a wife who knows her place. A wife who knows how to be a woman. The pair of you will be saving yourselves a lifetime of regret. Besides, I think the girl is a bit off . . .”

“Corinne isn’t off. There ain’t nothing wrong with Corinne.” The words broke free from Elijah’s heart. “What’s wrong is with you. And Daddy. And this place.” His voice cracked. “How could you not tell me the truth about Ruby?”

His mother blanched at his words, her face frozen into a cautious mask, her lips a tight straight line, her brow smooth. Only her eyes betrayed the truth he suspected was buried in her soul. He waited, wondering if she would finally, and for the first time, be honest with him. “And just what truth is that, son?”

The screech of the screen door alerted them both to his father’s arrival. Clay stepped onto the sleeping porch, his expression hard. The drink-fueled and gleeful aggression had been replaced by a smoldering hate that was all set to ignite. “You can stop your pretending, Ava. The boy knows he ain’t mine. He knows you spread your legs for the Judge. And he knows you’d’ve rather watched him marry his own blood than admit to your sins.”

She turned and advanced on Clay. “Why? Ruby is dead. Why would you tell him now?”

“Maybe ’cause I’m tired of pretending the spineless bastard is mine. I mean,
look
at him. I tried to make a man out of him, but even the army couldn’t do it.” He smiled, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. He seemed almost happy to be finally spewing his venom.

Elijah pushed his way between them. “We’re leaving. Corinne and me both. Today.”

“Yeah, boy, that’s right. Go on and run.” Clay reached out and pushed him back and into his mother. “You’ve been nothing but a disappointment your whole life. Hell, I’d hoped you’d get yourself killed in Korea, so I could at least boast about ‘my son the hero.’ Maybe even get a few free drinks out of it. But Jesus Christ, you can’t even get yourself shot right. They probably pegged you while you were running anyway.”

His mother tore around him, and advanced on Clay. “You’ve been disappointed? You? Look at what happened to my life. I had no choice but to marry you, an unwashed, uneducated man who reeks of sour mash and dung.” Her face turned red, but the blood drained from her pale hands as they bent into claws. She struck out and scratched long, angry red tracks along her husband’s cheek. He took a step back, then slapped her hard enough to drive her to her knees. She pressed her hand over her reddening cheek and looked up at her husband. “I should have hanged myself,” she said, rising. “I should’ve flung myself in front of a train. I should have pulled him out with a wire hanger before I ever married you.”

Elijah had heard enough. He went to the chifferobe and opened the top drawer, feeling around inside until the texture of soft velvet met his fingers. He retrieved the bag from the drawer, then turned it upside down so that the pistol inside could slide out and into his open hand. A Walther PPK, a model he knew well. He checked the clip and took off the safety, aiming the barrel between his father’s surprised eyes.

The older man laughed. “Go ahead, if you got the balls to do it,” he said.

He faced his father, each moment causing his hand to quiver a bit more, every second weakening his resolve to end the man.

“You put that down now, Elijah,” his mother said, her voice quivering. “We’ll deal with this together. Just hand me the gun.” Elijah caught his breath, then lowered his arm, and let the pistol slip into her waiting hand.

“Little pansy mama’s boy,” his dad said and laughed, not a happy sound, but one filled with anger and disdain. “Worthless bastard.” Elijah felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. He focused on his dad’s lined and weathered face, staring into this stranger’s eyes. Elijah never noticed his mother lifting the gun. A bullet entered through the man’s right eye, and his brains splattered against the window screen like oatmeal being flung against a sieve.

He jolted back and turned toward his mother. She stood there trembling, the knuckles of her hand white as she clutched the weapon. Her eyes were red, tears brimming. “I didn’t mean any of what I said. I’d’ve never hurt you. You forgive your mama, okay?” Before he could move, she swung the pistol up and placed it against her temple. She squeezed the trigger, then she was no more.

THIRTY-NINE

“Yeah,” Bell said to his deputy as they pulled up to Charlie Aaron’s place. “Something sure as hell happened around here.” They’d gone by the funeral parlor where Charlie worked before coming out here. Charlie was due to assist at a burial, but the owner of the funeral home hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him. Charlie’s boss figured Charlie was passed out—again—in a drunken stupor. Asked Bell to pass on the message to the old man that he was fired. For good, this time.

It looked like Charlie might have worse problems than being fired. Even from the car, they could see the broken windows and the dried blood that painted the concrete steps leading up to the porch of the old man’s house.

“His truck ain’t here,” Deputy Rigby said as he put the car in park and killed the engine. Bell looked at him, barely able to hide his disgust. They hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet, and the boy was already turning green around the gills.

“Just stay here,” Bell snarled and flung open his door. Bell’s joints felt stiff and his footfalls were heavy as he plodded toward the steps. The blood had dried, but flies still buzzed around, landing in the sticky residue. Bell squatted as best as his bad knee would let him to examine what he realized was a tooth. He stretched slowly up and placed his right hand over the back of his neck to block the sun’s scorching rays.

He mounted the steps, doing his best to sidestep the blood. The front door was broken into splinters, providing a gaping entryway. He stepped inside, his senses affronted by the vinegary scent of Charlie’s home. And riding over that unpleasant smell was something worse: the stench of coppery blood and decay. He watched his step, moving around the swipe of blood on the wooden floor that led from Charlie’s living room and out to his porch. “Charlie?” he called, although he didn’t know why. The old man was already dead. He felt that in his bones.

The heavy buzzing of horseflies caused him to look up and take a few more steps through the main room to the kitchen’s doorway. Bell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose.

“Shit,” he said, catching sight of the mastiff’s ruined body. What the hell was going on around these parts? Seemed as though the whole goddamned world was going mad. The sheriff backed away without taking his eyes off the dog’s body. No way Charlie would’ve let someone get away with such a thing, which was another tip of the hat to his theory that the old man was dead. He turned and made a beeline for the door, this time not bothering to check whether he was tracking blood, be it Charlie’s or the dog’s. He broke free of the pungent scent that permeated the house and clambered off the porch, avoiding the stairs altogether.

“We got trouble,” he called to Rigby, but no sooner had he said the words than the sound of a gunshot echoed across the fields.

Then a second.

Rigby bounded out of the car and looked over at him. “Hunters?”

He shook his head. “That was no rifle.” He pointed toward what seemed to be the source of the sounds. “What’s over there?”

“I’m pretty sure the Dunne place lies in that direction.”

FORTY

Raylene tapped the hard-boiled egg on the railing of the steps of city hall, then rolled it between both hands until the shell shattered. “Here you go, boy,” she said, holding it out to her son as he came walking up to her.

The boy looked ridiculous. He was swimming in his father’s old coat, and wore his father’s trilby with the brim angled down to shield his eyes. He’d taken a once-white, now gray, dish towel from the diner and wrapped it around his neck like a scarf. He’d forced his hands into much-too-small ladies’ gardening gloves, powder blue with pink roses and daisies. Where he’d found those, she had no idea.

He seemed worried, or maybe just uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, not meeting her eyes. “Naw. Not hungry,” Merle said, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Folk around here had criticized her for letting the boy smoke so young, but she figured it didn’t matter very much one way or another. The angel done told them that the world they knew would soon be ending, and that a new Jerusalem would be built right here on this spot.
“
‘So also is the resurrection of the dead. The body is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.’ That’s First Corinthians, boy,” she said, realizing that Merle wasn’t listening to her. His eyes were fixed on the city hall clock, and she knew he was willing the hours to speed by, until the sun would set, and he could shed the garments he wore to protect himself from its light.

That morning, the boy had been beet red when she cut him loose from the fence. As Ruby told her to, Raylene had covered him with a blanket, then walked him back into the shade of the house. As burned as the boy had been, within minutes of getting him inside, his skin had returned to the same freckled paleness it had always been.

Raylene had to struggle to keep up with him as they made their way into town. The boy pretty much ran, the hat pulled way down and his hands stuffed in the pockets of the coat, his pace not slowing until they stepped into the thick morning fog. For the first time Raylene found herself wondering why an angel of God should burn in the rays of His sun.

No. Her faith was unshakable. She buried the thought as quickly as it had arisen. “What you doin’ here? I thought the angel had work at the diner for you today.” She finished peeling the egg and popped it into her mouth whole.

Merle drew a puff on the cigarette and blew it out. His face pinched in on itself whenever he smoked. “I already did as she told me to.” He paused, and she noticed his hand shook. It sickened her to see her boy’s hand in the feminine glove. “It starts tonight. She told me to be ready. But she wanted me to come talk to you. Pass on a message.” Merle watched her, alternating between biting his lower lip and taking drags. “She said ain’t everybody gonna get changed. Just a few of us. The ones she says are worthy.”

The yolk was dry, making it hard to swallow.
For many are called, but few are chosen.
The words came to her mind, but she didn’t manage to speak them before Merle went on.

“I need to get back to the diner,” he said, throwing his half-smoked cigarette onto the steps. Raylene leaned over and picked it up, sticking the stub behind her ear. When Raylene looked up, Merle’s forehead had scrunched up, his eyes narrowed with hate. “She ain’t changing you. You haven’t been chosen. She says you’re too old.”

A tremor ran through Raylene, and she nearly teetered over. She grabbed the step she sat on with both hands, taking deep breaths while the world spun before her eyes. “Not chosen?” Like Moses on Mount Nebo, she was to die, looking into the promised land, but being denied entry herself. Raylene grabbed ahold of the railing and pulled herself up. She was a servant of the Lord. If this was His will, she would bow to it. She nodded.
“
‘Neither do men put new wine into old bottles: else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish: but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.
’
”

She reached out for her son, but he pushed her hand away. Merle took a couple of steps back, reaching the foot of the stairs. “She says you worship false gods.”

Raylene felt her knees buckle, and she caught the rail to keep from falling.

“From now on, folk around here are to worship her.” He gave his mother a sour look. “Oh, and she said if you don’t quit quoting that Bible crap, she’s gonna rip your tongue out.” A cruel, straight smile came to his lips; then he turned and ran off in the direction of the diner.