Head in a Haymow

by Chris Seaton

  The banging was intended for Phyllis. She came trotting out from her favorite spot under the willow tree, braying with her head held high. However, it also worked in coaxing Helen off of the roof, scattering chickens to and fro in a flurry of feathers. Helen paced impatiently in the chicken pen and bleated like she was starving to death.

  Bernice deliberately ignored her cries and continued to feed all the other goats and the donkey. That was just fine with her until she heard the unmistakable noise of scraping metal.

  She trotted back out of the barn just in time to see Helen find the one weak spot in the chicken wire fence and mercilessly stomp it to the ground. Bernice watched with spiraling dismay, the immediate exodus of the chickens from the coop to the branches of nearby trees in chaos and panic.

  Helen leaped over the remainder of the trampled fence and dashed past her into the barn.

  Bernice picked up a stray rock and hurled it with all her might in Helen's direction, screaming in primal anger. All that succeeded in doing was scaring the chickens even more. It certainly didn't make her feel any better.

  She stood for a moment and breathed. Resigned, she turned and decided to watch the evolving sunset instead. The chickens would settle down soon enough.

  Lollygagger's Acres was one of Bernice's favorite places in the whole world. As a child she would beg and plead with her parents to go visit Grandpa and Grandma Glennwood. The postage stamp patch of lawn outside their town home in St. Paul was abysmal in comparison to acres and acres of grass, woods, and swamps. At the farm a kid could run, get dirty, and climb trees without getting yelled at.

  Unlike the stark trendy home her mother painstakingly maintained with military regimentation, everything at the farm was weathered and repaired. Bernice recognized early in life that her parents were uncomfortable in that old-fashioned existence. So she would pester them to let her stay for short stints during school vacations on her own.

  That seemed to satisfy everyone, except of course Darlene. A budding teenager at the time, Darlene was not at all enthused with having a kid shadow her every move like some midget reporter asking a nauseating amount of questions. Darlene only found it advantageous when Bernice was old enough to do her chores for her.

  And since it was a fully functioning dairy farm at that time, there were always chores to do. Cows were herded into and out of the barn twice a day for milking. The calves were bottle fed until they were weaned, and everyone's stalls had to be scraped clean.

  All that manure had to be rounded up and either piled in some inconspicuous (but not always) place or spread directly on a waiting field. And hay and straw for the coming season needed to be cut, bailed, and stored away. None of that included the constant household chores or the gardening or the canning and freezing.

  As Bernice grew and her priorities changed, she frequented the farm less often. With her grandparents advancing age the farm started to shrink. The number of animals decreased, and fields were rented off.

  Darlene dated frequently and worked at various odd jobs in town, but her loyalty to her parents kept her at home. When first her father, then her mother succumbed to the ailments that tired neglected bodies tend to collect, Darlene lost her choices completely. She took care of them both until they each passed on sometime in their early seventies.

  As far as Bernice knew, Darlene never complained. She never became bitter. Her childhood friends and neighbors became her married friends and neighbors. After her parents had passed, Darlene had more time to come into the Cities and visit Bernice's parents and occasionally Bernice.

  Then it was Bernice's turn to put up with being shadowed constantly and pert-near chattered into insanity, but she tolerated it because it was Darlene. Darlene was family, and in the end she was the one who ended up saving Bernice from herself.

  Presently, Bernice watched the clouds become frosted in obnoxious shades of yellow, pink, and orange as they traveled over the pasture and valley beyond it. Bugs were beginning to gather around the various lights in the yard. A cool breeze streaked past her, beckoning the end of a long stressful day.

  She breathed it all in, smiled to herself and proceeded to finish her chores.

  The feathery ocean breeze drifted through the jalousie windows of his tiny clapboard house and eased the humid conditions of the tropical evening, but it did little to help Nathan sleep. He sprawled out on his bed in restless disappointment.

  She was not coming. The fact ate at his gut like a parasite, gnawing and teasing him with its painful elusiveness; that itch that would not be scratched. It left him feeling haunted and hungry.

  He rolled over, groaning in his frustration, part of him ruing the day they met, part of him silently acknowledging it was the best day of his life. The day she ran to catch his boat for the day trip from Marsh Harbour, and he caught her firm hand and met her laughing eyes and easy smile. The sheer pleasure of her journey was infectious with its innocent curiosity. He found himself drawn to her, seeing the beauty of his home through her eyes.

  Since she was traveling conspicuously alone, he felt compelled to watch over her. He rationalized it was out of pure Christian chivalry, but he knew deep down that there were much less lofty motives at play. She frolicked along the beach with the joy of a child, seemingly unaware of the tempting proportions of her very adult body. Watching her wreaked havoc with his baser instincts. The beautiful memory twisted his insides now.

  It was impulsive and reckless on his part to invite her to dine with him that evening. As they watched the sun settle over the azure waters of the ocean, he found himself compelled to risk inevitable rejection and ask her to stay. She demurred just enough to stir his passions and when she relented to his invitations and eventually his lust, it was heaven on earth.

  Now it was a hell of twisted bed sheets and devastated expectations. The frantic phone call did nothing to ease his mind. The painful apology and desperate reaffirmations of her love for him only made the ache worse.

  He knew their affair was fleeting at best. Perhaps, after all these months he had actually convinced himself it was going to last. He started to believe her when she told him to be patient; that soon she would stay for good. He had started to fantasize with her about their fairy tale existence in his tiny clapboard house.

  Nathan rolled over on his stomach and brutally beat his feather pillow in abject frustration.

  It was going to be a long night without his sweet Jessica.

  Upon opening the door of the Den he was almost taken out by the slovenly drunk covered in his own puke. The drunk was being forcefully helped by Paul, who was obviously not thrilled with the job.

  “I told you to take it outside!” One last shove left the guy passed out on the gravel with some nasty stuff spewing slowly from his mouth.

  Paul spit just past him and sent a stink eye over to Agent Wyatt, stating bluntly, “God damn tourists,” and walked back in.

  Agent Wyatt just made it into the entrance when Paul bellowed, “Closing Time!” Paul cast another suspicious glance in his direction. Agent Wyatt flashed his badge. Paul gave the badge an assessment of repugnance and wandered off to yell, “Closing Time!” at stragglers in the back of the bar.

  Agent Wyatt found who he was looking for turning over chairs and collecting ash trays. The Den looked like it normally would at two in the morning, save for the new air-hockey table that sat in a corner under the telltale stained glass lamp.

  “Can I help you?” A feminine voice chirped behind Agent Wyatt. He turned to witness a beautiful brunette in a skin tight camo tank giving him the once over. He smiled.

  “Brooke, go check the ladies room,” Roger growled, not bothering to look up from his tasks.

  Brooke smirked apologetically at Agent Wyatt and walked off, sticking her tongue out at her father as she went.

  Roger made his way behind the counter and hit a button on the cash register. It spit and sputtered as it coughed up receipt paper in spastic fashion. Roger ignored it and dropped down out of sigh
t. He popped up with a bottle of beer just as Agent Wyatt took a seat at one of the stools.

  Agent Wyatt cocked his head at the bottle and reached inside his jacket to pull out his wallet.

  “Don't bother. I've already settled out the till. This one's on me.” Roger glanced up at him while he finished loading the dishwasher. “You look like you could use one.”

  Agent Wyatt nodded in acknowledgment. “Thanks,” he replied and picked up the bottle.

  Roger pulled out a beer for himself. He took a swig and smiled at it, reflecting, “You're not really here on official business, are you?”

  “I'm wondering about your relationship with Bernice.” Agent Wyatt took a swig and watched Roger, attempting to interpret his amused expression.

  Roger set his bottle down, commenting, “That's kind of the problem. We don't really have one.” Then he leveled a challenging gaze at Agent Wyatt, adding, “yet.”

  Agent Wyatt's face remained passive. He silently drank his beer and waited.

  Roger was in no hurry. He seemed to be working out in his head how to proceed. “You see, sometimes it takes a man time to recognize a good thing when he's got it.” He took another swig and swallowed. “Especially when that good thing is wrapped up in such a stubborn infuriating package.”

  Agent Wyatt looked past him. “After the stunt she pulled today, I'm starting to wonder if she's worth all the trouble.”

  That caused Roger to cast a nasty grin and shake his head. “Don't bother with the details. I don't want to know.” He chuckled a little more. “That one was born for trouble. It's probably why she was such a good reporter.”

  “She ever tell you why she gave it up?”

  Roger came around front and took the bar stool next to him. “To tell you the truth I never asked, you know? We just kind of hooked up. She didn't mess with my baggage. I didn't mess with hers.”

  Brook emerged from the ladies room at that point. “Some lightweight pulled an Exorcist all over the stall.” She struck a pose of rebellion.

  Roger was having none of it. “Well, I didn't do it so tough titty. You know our bargain.”

  She harrumphed and stomped off, slamming an unseen door in the background.

  Roger looked at Agent Wyatt and felt the need to explain. “My daughter gets the ladies room. I get the mens room. She's usually fine with that because generally it's cleaner. Women are more considerate.” He took a swig of beer.

  “And men are pigs,” Wyatt finished for him. Then he smiled to himself, quiet for a moment.

  “What?” Roger asked, taking notice.

  “Pig, slang term for cop,” he mused. “Bernice doesn't like cops.”

  Roger downed the rest of his bottle. Paul walked past with his jacket on and nodded his goodbye, walking out the door. The grating of the lock could be heard from outside.

  Brooke walked back out to the front with a bucket and mop, but she ignored her father completely this time and scowled at the bathroom door instead. Roger addressed Agent Wyatt.

  “You want another?”

  Agent Wyatt shook his head, showing that his bottle was still half full.

  “Fair enough,” Roger remarked. He twirled the empty bottle around the counter for a few moments. “Few years back now one of the locals was having a problem with some older kids down at one of the boat landings.”

  Agent Wyatt nodded and sipped, listening.

  Roger continued. “Bernice had just come into town from the Cities, and she happened to be in earshot when this person was bitching about the problem. Naturally, she asked the obvious question.”

  “Did he call the sheriff?” Agent Wyatt threw in.

  “Precisely, and the local said of course he called the sheriff on five different occasions as a matter of fact. The fifth time came after he confronted the group himself and they threatened to kick his ass. Even then, the sheriff refused to send out a deputy.”

  Agent Wyatt was annoyed. “How come?”

  “That's exactly what Bernice asked the sheriff. He told her that the boat landing was on township property, and the township supervisor should handle it. Then he suggested she mind her own business.”

  “And that was it?” Agent Wyatt was stunned by the total lack of responsibility.

  “Yeah, well that particular sheriff had just gotten elected. He knew he was in for a few years so he could afford to piss a few people off. Not to mention, he had a beef with the supervisor in that township so he wasn't compelled to grant any favors.” Roger grinned in amusement. “Bernice wasn't having any of it, though.”

  Agent Wyatt reflected upon how much he was enjoying himself. He could understand why Bernice frequented this bar and why she struck a friendship up with Mr. Belemy. He could also see that he was in for a fight if he actually wanted her for himself.

  “She went down to meet the hoodlums herself but instead of chewing them out like everyone else did, she just hung out there a while and tried talking to them.”

  “How'd that go over?” he asked.

  “Like a fart in church,” Roger responded, “but Bernice wasn't there to get chummy. She was there to lay a trap.” Roger walked around and tossed his bottle into his recycling, causing a noisy clatter in response.

  Agent Wyatt shook his head. “Oh boy,” he remarked.

  Roger sat back down with a fresh beer. “Yeah, she just reminded them that a local old coot had driven home drunk the previous spring, missed his driveway and sank his truck into that very boat landing.” He gave Agent Wyatt a sly grin. “Then she casually mentioned the truck was pulled out the next morning, but they never found the body.”

  “Was it true?”

  “Kinda.” Roger answered, obviously enjoying himself as well. “The drunk had extricated himself from the truck and walked home, but he didn't bother telling anyone what had happened until he needed to use his truck again a couple of days later.” He waved off that part of the story as trivial. “But Bernice sowed the seed, claiming that some folks thought his body was still somewhere in the lake stuck under a tree root or something.”

  “So she lied?” Agent Wyatt confirmed.

  “Oh she did more than that.” Roger took a gulp from his bottle then stopped and asked, “You want me to keep going? This part's a tad bit illegal.”

  “What the hell. I'm not really surprised.” Agent Wyatt took a sip and let the hoppy beer slide down his throat. “Go on.”

  “After about a week when they came back, Bernice waded into the water after dark with a bull horn and a tape recorder. She made some scary noises, acting like the place was haunted.”

  “Wait.” Agent Wyatt broke in. “That didn't really work, did it? They weren't scared.”

  “Of course not, “Roger returned, “but that wasn't the point. The point was to lure at least one smart ass sucker out into the water to investigate.” He took a sly sip, watching the anticipation build on his listener's face. “She had a trip rope planted there.”

  Agent Wyatt raised himself up on his stool in disbelief. “She didn't.”

  “Oh yah she did.” Randy started chuckling. “Dragged that sorry son-of-a-bitch about thirty feet out into the water before she cut him loose.” Roger addressed his bottle, “Yep, I think that lake stayed deserted for the rest of the season. Kind of funny how it takes outrageous steps to get shit done sometimes.”

  Agent Wyatt turned wary. The entertainment value of the story lost its allure for him. “So you're saying Bernice isn't above taking matters into her own hands?”

  Roger no longer looked entertained either. He still wore his usual amused smirk but there was more meaning behind it. “I just think you need to know what you're getting yourself into.”

  Unlike the previous nights, Bernice slept like a log. She woke up at the crack of nine, did the mandatory animal chores and made herself a huge greasy breakfast. Biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs and a big mug of coffee accompanied her to the kitchen table. There, equipped with her trusty laptop, she searched for Jessica Breck on the
internet while waiting for the first of several loads of laundry to work through the wash cycle.

  What puzzled her was there was very little of Jessica to be found. It was perplexing. It seemed to Bernice like everyone had their share of a web presence. Hell, even Darlene knew about social networking and she could barely work her cell phone, but there was nothing for Jessica. Bernice resorted to searching online directories in the state of Florida, first by county then by city.

  The washer started thumping rhythmically against the wall, signaling it was finishing its spin cycle and would be ready for a new load. Bernice shoveled in another fork full and washed it down as she rose, carrying her mug into the laundry room with her. She finished off her coffee and readied a basket in the final, “Whir, whir, whir, cerchunk!”

  She opened the top of the washer and hauled out the wet clumps of clothes, thinking to herself about Jessica. Only someone who was trying really hard not to be found would not put up a Facebook page. That fact alone made her look guiltier by the minute.

  She really wanted to consult Agent Wyatt on the observation, but the mere thought of calling him made her cringe. After starting another wash load, she hauled the full basket with her out the back door to the clothes line.

  The mid-morning sun was slightly blinding, but it felt nice and dry outside. Wispy cirrus clouds swept across the deep blue sky. Bernice took no notice and watched the ground as she walked, lost in her own intense thoughts.

  Her thoughts were intense because she couldn't clear the four second memory that decided to brand itself on her brain. That's how long she had to take in the very naked Agent Wyatt the previous day. It was a scrumptious four seconds.

  Bernice was no wilting violet when it came to her knowledge of the male anatomy. More than a few spiffy specimens had crossed her path in her thirty odd years, and she was appreciative of every blessed one of them. But this new body in question deserved some extra pondering. She absentmindedly did just that while hanging out the wash.