by Beau Johnson
He gunned his truck to the San Bernardino Greyhound station, which had the only Western Union window open at that hour. Tammy had called him from a bus station payphone in El Paso, Texas. She needed to get to California and asked if she could stay with him for a while. He asked her what kind of trouble she was in and she said she had to hang up. A whole line of people waiting the use the phone.
He wired her the money and when she got it, she called him back on the pay phone just like he’d told her to.
“What time does your bus come in?”
“Tomorrow some time. Maybe twenty-four hours they said.”
“What time is it in El Paso?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a watch.”
“Look for a clock on one of the walls.”
“It’s eleven.”
“Ten here in California. Now I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t talk long.”
“How long do you have?”
“Five minutes. Three.”
“Five or three?”
“Five.”
“All right. Then tell me.”
“Mom strangled me with a radio cord.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“She strangled me with the electric cord on the radio.”
Weldon squinted and squeezed the back of his neck. “You call the police?”
“No, no. I was listening to the rock station in my room. I wasn’t supposed to be listening to the radio anyhow.”
Weldon switched the phone from one side of his face to the other. A bus pulled out of the terminal and headlights like two moons crossed the window.
“It’s because of church,” she said. “I’m only supposed to listen to the radio when Mom’s around, and only to the gospel station.”
“When did all this happen, Tammy?”
“Two days ago. She’s crazy. She found all my makeup and took it out to the driveway and broke it all. Just stomped on it. I have to go.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I have to go.”
“Call me as soon as you get in. Doesn’t matter what time. Middle of the night, I don’t care.”
He watched the fires in the hills that night from his kitchen window drinking coffee at the sink. The flames twisted like banners that roared into orbs of yellow light. Out back underneath a patch of brown earth lay King. How many days had it been since he’d taken his last breath? Maybe he didn’t feel anything. Maybe they’d crushed the side of his head in first. He knew it had taken more than one to murder him.
Click here to learn more about A Place for Snakes to Breed by Patrick Michael Finn.
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