Head in a Haymow

by Chris Seaton

“I know. There was still snow on the ground.”

  Bernice released him and gathered the afghan around her as she walked back to her original position. Roger didn't appreciate losing her from his embrace or the new scrutiny he was receiving.

  “Don't look at me like that, Bernice. I'm no fucking saint.” He turned away from her gaze before he continued. “I had quite the hot piece of ass here not two weeks ago. I showed her that very cognac breathing in the kitchen. You know what she said?” Bernice just looked at him. “She asked me if that was the same stuff Kanye West drinks.” He shook his head at his own foolishness. “I tell ya, it sucks getting old.”

  She gathered the afghan closer in her discomfort and met his gaze with one of concern and confusion. “I don't know what to say,” she mumbled.

  “Well, how about you?” He asked. “Anybody else since...last time?”

  Bernice mutely shook her head.

  “But you were thinking about someone else...tonight, I mean.”

  The way her head jerked back answered his question for him.

  “I could tell, that's all,” Roger confessed in the darkness. “There was a...determination there, almost anger.”

  She turned away with a hurt look that cut him to the quick.

  “Oh, Honey, don't be like that,” he pleaded. “I'm not upset. It wasn't like I didn't enjoy it.”

  Roger could tell his comment was in no way comforting. He gathered her back into his arms. His voice was soothing. “Why don't we go back in. We'll enjoy that overpriced hooch and talk about these demons that brought you back to my bed.”

  “Herb's dead, ha? Well, that's too bad.” Roger swirled his cognac thoughtfully.

  “So you were friends with him?” Bernice asked.

  He stopped swirling and sent Bernice a dirty look. “Hell no, the jackass owed me money.”

  A miniature wagon wheel clock resided on the wall. It displayed ten minutes past one in the morning. Both were dressed again in a vain attempt at propriety. They sat at opposite ends of an old sofa as they drank and talked.

  Bernice twisted her mouth into an amused smirk. “Seems like this guy owed a lot of people money.”

  “Yah, Herb was all big promises and mediocre returns. The consummate salesman, you could say.”

  Bernice was confused. “If that's the case,” she reasoned, “I'm surprised anyone, especially you, would lend him money.”

  “Well, toward the end there, it looked like old Herb had finally made good.”

  Despite herself, she was intrigued. “Darlene figures he left town about five years ago. That sound about right to you?”

  Roger let the warm liquid lay in his mouth for a moment. He swallowed slowly and thoughtfully. He answered, “Yah, around then was the last time he came into the Den.”

  Bernice started to sound like a professional questioner. “So what do you remember about that night?” she asked offhandedly.

  “Well,” he began. “I remember Herb poppin' into the Den all grins and grand gestures. He bought the whole bar a round of drinks. Then he interrupted my poker game by slapping a wad of twenties on the table and demanding to be in on the next hand.”

  The slightly interrogative tone continued. “Was Jarvis in on that game?”

  Roger registered surprise at Bernice's accuracy but answered, “Jarvis was a regular back then. He stopped coming after they got Jason's kids.”

  Bernice nodded. “Go on.”

  “The thing you got to know about Herb was he loved to gamble but he wasn't good at it. He was down-right horseshit at poker. He burned through that first couple hundred in no time flat. We all figured he was done, but he just went up to the ATM and took out another hundred.”

  “And that didn't raise any suspicion?” Bernice responded with disbelief.

  “Of course it did.” he corrected her. “We were cooking up all kinds of theories during the game and giving him plenty of grief for it. 'Did you knock off a bank today?' we asked him. 'Make friends with a Prince from Nigeria?' That kind of thing.”

  “What was his explanation?” she prodded.

  Roger shifted his butt on the well worn sofa. “He claimed a friend of his gave him some good advice on an investment, and it was finally paying off.”

  “Did he tell you who that friend or investment was?”

  Roger assessed Bernice warily. “You know, Hon, what started out as me consoling you is turning into you interrogating me. What gives?”

  Bernice downed the last sip of her cognac, swallowing painfully. “If the cops find the rest of Herb in my back forty,” she stated, “I want to have some perspective as to why.” She shut her eyes to absorb the burning sensation before starting again. “If Herb was flush with money that night, why did he end up owing you guys anything?”

  “That's the problem with bad gamblers. They don't know when to quit. Herb injected so much cash into the game, we inherited more players, and the game went on longer. So his three hundred soon turned into five, then a grand. Herb drained the limit on his ATM card and had to start asking for markers.”

  Roger set his empty glass on the coffee table. “He left at closing owing a lot of guys money.” He sat up and addressed his knees. “We all thought he skipped town and squelched on his debt.”

  Bernice felt her back starting to dislike her spot on the couch as well. She sat up and arched it, speculating, “So what do you think brought him back after five years?”

  Roger stood up and cleared the glasses. He spoke to her on his short walk to the kitchen. “Hard to say. You leave your whole life behind like that, you usually don't come back without a damn good reason.”

  She recognized the bitterness that ended his statement and knew he was no longer referring to Herb. She gingerly entered the kitchen.

  Roger was washing the glasses with a sponge. He rinsed them and set them on a waiting towel to dry. He stood over the sink and looked out the window into the darkness. “You staying the night?”

  Bernice approached him and wrapped her arms around his middle. She rested her head on his back. “You want me to?”

  Roger chuckled at the sink. He pulled her hands to his lips and kissed them before answering, “Well, not really. You hog the covers.”

  She playfully bit his back through his shirt. “You hog the bed.”

  He turned around, corrected their embrace and sighed. “Then I guess it's hopeless.”

  Bernice gathered his handsome face into her hands. There was significance in her gaze. “I hope not,” she replied.

  Chapter 4

  “We're still rolling, Bernice.” Cameron's deep disembodied voice seemed to echo like distant thunder.

  Bernice found herself in a small patch of woods. She tiptoed cautiously. She was careful not to get her high heels stuck in the tree roots as she avoided the mine fields of carelessly tossed garbage. She scanned her surroundings with desperation.

  “Still rolling,” Cameron repeated in the fading daylight. The trees took on sinister forms with their increasing shadows. The garbage piles were getting bigger. The edge of the woods was disappearing. Bernice searched with increased intensity. Her gut was feeling heavy. Hope was starting to fade.

  “I need more time,” she pleaded. Her silk jacket got caught on a branch. She pulled it free. Another branch snatched at her perfect hair.

  Branches seemed to be encroaching on her from everywhere. She batted at them helplessly. She became frantic and started to run, still looking around her in vain.

  “Where's the story, Bernice?” Cameron asked in a far away sing-song voice.

  “I can't find her!” Bernice whispered back harshly. She lost one shoe as she ran then tripped on the increasing amount of roots and lost the other. She fell to the ground.

  The branches started to cover her. She kicked her tight linen skirt out of her way and began to crawl through the leaf litter and garbage. Beer cans, candy wrappers, and chip bags buried her hands and her progress. The dim light ahead of her was almost completely obscured by t
he trees.

  “Where is she, Ms. Hordstrom?” demanded a different voice. It was authoritative and harsh in its judgment.

  Bernice started to sink into the ground. Her crawling turned into clawing. Her panic increased with the black greasy dirt working into her manicured fingernails.

  As her line of sight became level with the garbage, she was forced to stare into a familiar face. The eyes were clouded over in a hideous gray, and flies protruded from the nostrils. It was the last thing she saw before her final descent into the ground. Her scream filled with dirt...

  Bernice flinched sharply in her bed. She stared around her with stunned disbelief that she was in her own room. There was no dirt, no garbage, just soothing cream colored walls and lovingly reupholstered furniture.

  Having not quite adjusted to reality, she jumped instinctively at the sudden screeching coming from her alarm clock. It displayed 8am sharp. The sun sneaked a shaft of bright light through a sliver in her curtains.

  Bernice shook herself to regain her senses and shut off the alarm. She rubbed her tired eyes and stepped into her slippers before she padded off into the hallway.

  After a quick check to see if the coast was clear, she shuffled over to the house's solitary bathroom but only after tossing a passing glance into the guest room. The vintage quilt was still immaculately made.

  “Hmm,” Bernice commented to herself. “I'm guessing Darlene'll be in a better mood today.” She shut the bathroom door behind her.

  Making her way down the stairs into the kitchen, Bernice inhaled the sweet heavy aromas of a high calorie breakfast. The sight she beheld upon entering the kitchen caused her to pause. “Oh my,” she breathed with amusement.

  That Cameron was working his magic at the stove was in itself a spectacle to witness. Watching him do so in Darlene's spare apron brought it up to a whole new level.

  Darlene swished back in from the front porch, carrying a new batch of eggs in her own apron. She grinned at Cameron's back side then noticed Bernice on the stairs and stopped. She walked past her with an aloofness that was poorly staged.

  “'Bout time you pulled your sorry ass out of bed. Poor Cameron's been slaving over the stove all morning.” Darlene gently laid the eggs in a waiting water bath in the kitchen sink and proceeded to grab the carafe from the coffee maker. She topped off Cameron's coffee with flourish as the two exchanged covert glances.

  Cameron looked over his shoulder at Bernice and gave her a hearty grin. “Glad to see you're up and about, Kid. Hope you're hungry.” He ladled out more batter from the glass mixing bowl and stated rather shyly, “Darlene was kind enough to let me mess with her cakes this morning.”

  “No comment,” was Bernice's response. She made a beeline for the coffee.

  Darlene almost elbowed the cup out of her hand, whispering harshly, “Don't think I don't know what you were up to last night.”

  Bernice let her gaze wander over to Cameron. “Don't be throwing stones at me, Miss Self Righteous. I can see your glass house from here.”

  Darlene huffed as her face flushed with blood and she walked away. Somehow, she managed to force a backhanded compliment in her departure. “Well! At least you look clean for a change.”

  Bernice smiled into her coffee and took her usual spot at the table. Her threadbare jeans and faded Guns N Roses t-shirt were anything but fancy. She wore her still-damp hair up in a favorite clip, deemed so because it was worn so often half of the teeth were gone. Her face was moisturized, but makeup was still not on her to-do list for the day. And her feet were bare. The Birkenstocks waited on the porch for the morning's escapades.

  “So when are the cops showing up?” Cameron plopped a hot pancake on her plate.

  Bernice slathered butter on the top and stabbed a sausage link off a nearby serving platter. She glanced up at the clock as she measured out a generous helping of syrup. “About any time now, I'd say.” She sucked in some coffee and butchered the cake up into an edible pie chart.

  Darlene joined Bernice at the table. Cameron smiled sweetly at her, adding two cakes to her plate. Darlene smiled sweetly back. Bernice ignored them both and concentrated on her assembly line of cake, sausage, and syrup.

  Darlene stabbed a sausage and asked Bernice, “Aren't you worried about what they might find?”

  Bernice shrugged. “Not really,” she mumbled through her chewing. She took another swallow of coffee to wash it down then made her point. “If Agent Wyatt feels the need to justify his pay grade by tramping around our pastures looking for the rest of Herb, far be it for me to tell him otherwise.”

  The mention of his name brought forth the unfortunate events of the previous evening. She waved away a second pancake and washed the regret back with another swig of hot coffee. “In fact,” she added, “if he actually shows up today with a search warrant like he promised, he can get one of those big ol' gloves and search Phyllis' nether-regions for all I care.”

  “See, I knew I forgot something,” announced the deep crisp voice that Bernice was learning to hate.

  She looked up to see Agent Wyatt on the porch again. This time he was fanning a standard size envelope in front of him. His self-satisfied smirk only enhanced his good looks. Bernice's good mood was turning south fast.

  She wiped the embarrassment and syrup from her mouth and rose to greet him. She opened the door to let him in, stating bluntly, “You solidify out of thin air? I didn't hear your car pull in.”

  “Bernice!” scolded Darlene. “That is no way to greet a guest in our home.”

  Bernice was already out on the porch, viciously pulling on her shoes. “When a guest shows up with a search warrant, I tend to forgo the pleasantries.”

  Darlene hostilely glared at Bernice through the screen door then smiled angelically up at Agent Wyatt. “Can we offer you anything to eat or drink this morning?”

  Agent Wyatt eyed the freshly cooked pancakes beginning to pile on a platter on the table but reluctantly passed. “I would love to,” he politely admitted, “but I'm afraid I have already indulged in an egg-white omelet at Judge Conner's house this morning.”

  Cameron made an unappealing face as he finally sat to enjoy his labors. “Lucky you,” he grumbled and proceeded to flop several pancakes on his waiting plate.

  Darlene squealed with delight and inquired, “You were at Judge Conner's house? I heard they have marble statues in the foyer. Is that true?”

  Agent Wyatt smiled indulgently. “Well, Ma'am, I didn't see any statues per se, but I did notice some lovely marble flooring by the front door.”

  “I knew it!” Darlene announced victoriously. “Wait 'til I tell Marsha.”

  There was an obnoxious clearing of the throat coming from the vicinity of the front porch. “We're burnin' daylight here!” Bernice griped.

  Agent Wyatt acknowledged the couple at the table, saying, “Enjoy your breakfast.”

  Bernice waited for him in the driveway. “So where's your car?” She repeated.

  “I came from Mr. Lutz's farm through the back end of your two properties,” he answered. “I tried to retrace the dog's steps.” He wrinkled his nose at a wood tick he found crawling up his arm. He pulled it off and flicked it out onto the ground. Pointing north he continued, “The deputy is waiting for us in your field back there.”

  Bernice nodded and started to walk in that direction. Agent Wyatt took up pace next to her. He commented, “You look nice today.”

  She sent him a sideways dirty look but politely answered, “Thanks.”

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  Bernice shrugged indifferently. "You can try."

  "Well, you can't be more than, what? Thirty-six?"

  Bernice bristled a little as he overshot her actual age by a couple of years. "Is that your question?" she asked with little amusement.

  "I'm just wondering how someone so young get's a crazy old lady's name like Bernice." Agent Wyatt tilted his head at her in curiosity.

  Bernice raised her eyebrows at the bizarre que
stion. "She gets named after a crazy old lady, I guess." Shaking her head, she let out a breath. "And just to clarify for your records or something, I'm thirty-four."

  Agent Wyatt grinned at the ground. "Good to know. I'm thirty-seven."

  "Uh huh," Bernice mumbled and acknowledgement back.

  They had rounded the pond at this point. Bernice's mood perked up slightly with the breeze that blew in the smell of fresh cut hay from a neighbor's field. She also took quiet delight in the lovely irises that were swaying on slender green spikes at the edge of the water. Maybe it was her contented smile that prompted Agent Wyatt to make a second attempt at what he seemed to think was small talk.

  "So, I complimented your appearance like a gentlemen. How do you think I look?"

  Bernice glanced over at him with annoyance and answered, “Like a shiny new penny.”

  Agent Wyatt's regulation blue suit was replaced with a dapper polo shirt and khaki slacks. Bernice thought to herself that he actually looked like someone who would be at home eating egg-whites with a judge. Then she smiled again. Whatever web of attraction he had her in the night before was gone. Her mood was heading back north for the moment.

  He caught her smile and ran with it. “So this casual look appeals more to you than what I had on yesterday?”

  Bernice couldn't help herself. The sarcasm just came out. “Well, I suppose if I were into butt-kissing cops with obvious political intentions, you would do in a pinch.” Bernice walked ahead of him almost feeling bad about her comment but not quite.

  Agent Wyatt soon caught up with her again. He observed her with silent interest for a moment before inquiring bluntly, “Is this because you've been in lock-up?”

  Bernice stopped and faced him, more intrigued than angry. “You had me checked out last night, didn't you?”

  Agent Wyatt could have put Harlan and Harlo to shame with his poker face.

  Bernice just looked at him and started to chuckle. She shook her head at the absurdity of the situation and continued walking, her laughter increasing.

  He followed behind her carefully, watching her as if she were somehow unstable. “Did I say something funny?”