by Vic Kerry
The door to the house opened, and Charlotte bounced out onto the porch. A smile beamed on her face when she recognized Josh. He held up the bag of medications. She hurried across the porch and opened the screen door.
“Come on in,” she said.
“I can’t. We’ve got to keep going. Dad asked me to drop off your meds. He got caught at work,” Josh said.
“Homecoming is coming up,” Charlotte took the sack of medicines. “Are they having a dance?”
Josh swallowed hard to avoid answering the question. His aunt seemed to be having a lucid day today, but she was still dressed in bobby socks and an outfit that would fit right in on Happy Days. She waited with quiet anticipation.
“I think they are,” he said, “but I’m not going.”
Charlotte looked past him to Jessica. “You telling me you’re going to let that girl go by herself. What kind of gentleman would that make you?”
“Aunt Charlotte, that’s Jessica. She moved here at the beginning of school. We’re friends.”
“How are you, sweetie?” Charlotte waved at her.
“I’m okay. How are you?”
“I’m feeling pretty good. Been thinking about heading down to old man Shannon’s store before he closes for the day.”
“Okay,” Jessica said with a sweet tone.
“Aunt Charlotte, that store closed before I was born,” Josh corrected. His dad told him to always orient his aunt to reality if she slipped into the past. “Remember, it’s 1996, not 1956. You are still in Pinehurst, Alabama, but you aren’t in high school anymore.”
“Don’t treat me like a fool, Joshua McAdams. I meant the dollar store. Old Man Shannon used to own one. Old habits die hard.”
“Just making sure,” Josh fidgeted. “We need to go.”
Charlotte gave him a passing look before waving and letting the screen door slam shut. She hooked the lock. Josh turned and headed down the sidewalk. He pulled on Jessica’s arm as he passed.
They headed for her house a few streets over. He kept waiting for the questions to start, but they walked in silence until arriving at her house, painted bright red with pink shutters.
“So, what was up with your aunt?” she finally asked.
“What’s up with your red house and pink shutters?” Josh came back.
Jessica looked at her house. “We’ve not had time to change that.”
“Aunt Charlotte hasn’t had time to change either.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I wasn’t being mean. Something very serious had to happen for her to dress like that. I’m not going to make fun of her, and I wasn’t doing that when I asked the question.”
“You know how some of the kids at school wanted to have a massacre-themed Homecoming dance?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know why they wanted to have that?”
“We’re going to massacre the other team,” Jessica made a motion with her arms like a cheerleader.
“No, that’s not it at all.”
“I really thought it was because Halloween was coming up. I think a costume ball would have been a better idea, but the principal and teachers shot down that massacre idea anyway.”
“It had nothing to do with Halloween either, and the teachers shot down the idea because of the real reason for that theme. Forty years ago, a bunch of students at our school were murdered while decorating for Homecoming. Aunt Charlotte was the one who found them.” Josh paused to make sure he wasn’t overwhelming Jessica. “Ever since then, she’s come back and forth between now and 1956. Sometimes she gets in both times, remembering people from the present but thinking it’s 1956 and vice versa. They used to say she was schizophrenic. Now they call it PTSD.”
“That’s horrible. Did they ever catch who did it?”
“Aunt Charlotte was a suspect, but she couldn’t have done it. The brutal nature of the whole thing took the spotlights off of her.”
“They never caught the murderer?”
“A black guy, the only one in the whole school, was lynched for it. He never even went to trial.”
“That’s even worse.”
“It was 1956. The school wasn’t even desegregated yet. He got to go there because the closest all-black school was fifty miles away. His parents were domestics for the richest man in town. Most people think that he didn’t do it, but there’s no way to prove differently.”
“I’m sorry about all that.” Jessica touched him on the shoulder. A shock of electricity went through him.
“Well, it’s nothing. I’ve been around the legend my whole life. You get used to it.”
“Still, it’s a sad story. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jessica walked up the sidewalk and into her house. Joshua turned and started his walk home. The sun began to disappear behind the trees, and he wouldn’t make it before the streetlamps flickered on. His backpack weighed heavier. He put the other strap on his shoulder and walked at a brisk pace, deciding to go a little out of his way to avoid Aunt Charlotte’s house.
Alan walked into the kitchen of his childhood home. Everything looked as it did the day he moved out to go to college. Even the table and chairs were the same ones he grew up eating at. Only the refrigerator was new, and that was because the old one had finally passed the point of repair. He sat a pizza box on the table and listened for his father. The toilet flushed on the other side of the house. The sound of heavy footsteps came down the hallway.
“Is that you, Alan?” his father asked.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Simeon “Sim” McAdams walked into the kitchen. He stood slightly hunched over but remained formidable, like a retired bare-knuckle boxer. His hands were thick and meaty. His age-spotted arms looked like tree trunks. The skin on his face showed the ravages of years of working in the elements and of hitting the bottle way too hard. He looked at the table.
“Pizza? You brought that for supper? I said Hardee’s.”
“I didn’t want a hamburger,” Alan said. “Besides, you love pizza. The other day you told the boys that you’d eat it every day if you could afford it.”
“I said no such of a thing. I ain’t got time for I-ty food. You ought to throw it out.”
Alan shook his head and grabbed two plates from the cabinet. He was glad he had come to check on his dad. Apparently, the old man was having a bad day like he’d said. Before Sim could say another word about the meal selection, Alan put two slices on a plate and passed it to him.
“Smells pretty good,” Sim said. “Is it a supreme with extra I-talian sausage?”
“Like you like it, Dad.” Alan got a couple of slices for himself.
Before sitting down, Sim went to the fridge and pulled out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He held it out to Alan to ask if he wanted one too.
“Do you have a Coke?” Alan asked.
“RC be okay?”
“Fine.”
Sim reached in and brought out a can of RC in the same hand that held his can of beer. He passed the soda off to Alan and sat down across from him. They cracked open their cans at the same time. The sound made Alan smile, even though he was concerned about his father’s choice in beverage.
“Dr. Sharp said no drinking.”
“That’s not what he said,” Sim sank a gulp. “He told me to cut back. I only drink two beers a day, one at lunch and one at supper.”
“I’m pretty sure he said none at all. The alcohol interferes with your medications.”
“If I don’t drink at least one a day, I get the shakes.” Sim bit off a large hunk from his slice of pizza. “Besides, that dope he gives me doesn’t work.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re not following his instructions.”
“Maybe it’s because he’s an idiot,” Sim sounded unreasonably agitated.
“What’s been going on today? Why did you call me and tell me you needed to go back to the doctor, who in your opinion is a quack?”
Sim bit off some more pizza and swallowed it down with another g
ulp of PBR. “It’s getting worse.”
“What’s getting worse, the shaking? You have Parkinson’s. It would eventually happen. That’s the nature of the disease.”
“Nah, it ain’t the tremors unless I ain’t drank nothing. It’s the other thing.”
“Your memory? Quit beating around the bush and tell me. I’ve not got all night.”
“Don’t sass me, boy. You ain’t so big that I can’t still tan your hide.”
“Daddy, I’ve got to work tomorrow. I’ve missed my favorite supper of the week with my family to sit here and eat greasy pizza with you. I’m not being sassy. Tell me.”
“I’m seeing things.” Sim looked embarrassed, as if other people could hear him.
“What kinds of things, like dots or shadows?”
The older man shook his head. “Faces, or a face. I see it when I look in a mirror. It’s over my shoulder, fuzzy like. I can’t make out who it is.”
“Dr. Sharp said that sometimes Parkinson’s patients see things, especially faces.”
“It’s been getting closer and clearer.” Sim’s hands visibly shook. He took a long drink from his can of beer. “At first it was a tiny spot of a thing, I thought it was a smudge on the mirror or a fingerprint on my glasses. It got larger and larger until I recognized it as a face.”
“Are you hearing voices? Does it talk to you?” Alan leaned in for what the administrators at school called active listening.
“I ain’t that gone. It does seem to be getting a body though. I don’t know if it’s the Parkinson’s disease I supposedly have, or if I’m going crazy.”
Alan cleared his throat. His father’s disbelief in his diagnosis irritated him. They both had looked at all the test results in Dr. Sharp’s office. He understood that Sim had a touch of dementia along with Parkinson’s. Dr. Sharp said it came from the years of hard drinking.
“Call tomorrow and get an appointment as a soon as you can. In the meantime, make sure you’re taking your medications like you’re supposed to, and cut down to one beer a day.”
Sim looked defeated. “All right.”
“I’m going to go, Daddy. Put the extra pizza in some foil. It’ll be a good lunch for you tomorrow.” Alan stood to go.
“How’s Charlotte? I read about those stupid kids over at the school trying to have a massacre anniversary dance or some hog shit like that. I figured if she heard, it might send her off the tracks again.”
“I was supposed to take her meds to her today, but I sent Josh instead. He’ll tell me tonight, and I’ll let you know.”
Alan walked out the back door. He looked over his shoulder before stepping off the small porch. His father sat eating a third slice of pizza, finishing off his can of beer and Alan’s can of RC.
Josh’s car sat lower to the ground than Alan liked. He felt like he rode inches from the street’s surface. The boys liked it, and the price was right. The front scraped on the pavement as he pulled out of the driveway. If Josh or Thomas, who had his permit, were in the car with him, a lecture would follow. They forgot that he paid the note on the thing and would have to pay for any damage that happened.
Alan loved the car’s power. Twenty-second Street was a long, straight stretch of road, and it was empty. Alan flipped on the high beams and floored the accelerator. The tires squealed, and the smell of rubber filled the air. He never got a lecture from his sons about laying down tracks, because he never did it with his sons in the car. The last thing they needed was for him to give them that bad example.
The car shot down the street. The speed excited Alan like nothing else could. He needed a thrill tonight. He worried about his dad. Although the old man was cantankerous and had been for most of Alan’s life, he was still his father, and Alan cared about him.
The houses along the street blurred. The lights from the windows streaked out into lines, or that’s how Alan imagined it. Driving that car was like traveling faster than the speed of light. The car started down the sloped street. The old gym was on the left. He glanced over at it like he always did, not knowing what he expected to see but still anticipating something. Tonight, he got his wish.
Lights glowed in the high windows. Alan hit the brakes, and the tires squealed again. That would have definitely gotten him a lecture from his sons. As soon as the car came to halt, he looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough the lights were on. When he’d passed by on the way to his dad’s place, it looked as dark and brooding as it always did, like some kind of monster staring down on the town.
“I hope those kids haven’t broken in to decorate for that stupid dance,” he said aloud while making a U-turn.
Alan drove up the maintained driveway to the gym. He parked in front of the main doors. The headlights illuminated the chain and padlock that secured the doors. He got out to check the two side doors. The grassy area on the side of the building closest to the road was freshly mown. Not a single weed or goldenrod sprang from the ground. For the life of him, Alan could not figure why the school system and city kept up the place. They didn’t use it for anything, but the maintenance was better than what was provided for the “new” gym that the school used.
The side door was locked. He shook it twice, hard, to make sure. A glance up found the lights still glowing in the windows. He walked around the building to the door hidden from the street. If students had broken into the place, it would have been there.
That door was sealed tight as well. Now, when he looked up at the high rectangular windows, only the moon reflected in them. Something cold shivered up his spine, raising goose bumps on his skin. Alan listened for any sound of commotion. If the kids had broken in, they might have heard him snooping around. Nothing stirred except a slight wind that rustled a few dead leaves on the sweet gum trees behind him.
Something about the rustling gave him the creeps more than the place itself. It almost sounded like whispers of words he couldn’t comprehend. Alan sprinted back to the front of the gym, just like he had when he was ten years old, and almost dove into the car. Without putting on his seat belt or looking behind him, he turned the car around and hauled it back to the street.
He switched on the radio to help calm his nerves. Even if the dial was on the alternative station that Josh and Alan liked to listen to, Pearl Jam or Bush would be better than his own thoughts with the sound of those rustling leaves that still lingered in his memory. The expectation of “Jeremy” or “Machinehead” slipped away. Alan had picked up the names of those songs through the osmosis of living and working with the teenagers, but it didn’t matter—because one he had definitely known for years played from the radio. The Crew Cuts singing “Sh-Boom” blared from the speakers.
He took long enough to look at the radio setting before punching the closest preset button. The boys had put it on the oldies station for some reason.
“This is 105.9, The X. The best station to hear all the alternative hits in the Birmingham area. Here’s a great one,” said a DJ with a pronounced lisp.
A song started playing that Alan definitely recognized. Josh listened to it all the time because he and most of his friends were born that year. He smiled, because he knew the band name, the Smashing Pumpkins, and the song: “1979”. If the boys had been in the car, he’d have gotten a lecture on how lame he was for pointing out his knowledge of their music. Even though the tune was melancholy, it helped settle Alan’s nerves and definitely cleansed his palate from the Crew Cuts, the rustling leaves, and the lights in the gym window.
Chapter Two
1956
Night of the massacre
Sim sat in an uncomfortable straight-back chair in the sheriff’s office. Bud Johnson, dressed in his street clothes, chomped on his cigar and drank a cup of coffee. Sim watched the sheriff probe him with his eyes. A good fifteen minutes passed without a word being spoken while they waited for a transcriptionist to arrive. No one had even offered him a drink. The sheriff’s coffee smelled disgusting and looked like old motor oil, but anything would help hi
s dry mouth. All the excitement of the evening had left him parched.
“Could I get something to drink? My mouth is very dry,” Sim asked.
Sheriff Johnson rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Spence,” he yelled into the larger common area of the department. “Get this fellow something to drink.”
Jimmy Spence, the night deputy, who everyone made fun of because of his game leg, stood up. “All the coffee’s gone, and the water coming out of the tap is still brown.”
“We’ve got a drink box, don’t we?” Sheriff Johnson asked with a strong tinge of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yeah,” Spence answered.
“Spend a nickel and get this man a Coca-Cola.”
Sim watch Spence fumble in his pocket and disappear into a different part of the building. A few minutes later he limped back, carrying a dripping bottle of Coca-Cola. The cap was already removed. He gave it to Sim. The sweet, syrupy soda burned a little as it went down, not like whisky, but it had good carbonation. Pinehurst’s bottling plant had some of the best Coca-Cola around. Sim had gone up to Jasper trying to get a job as a grease monkey after getting out of the Coast Guard before he got married. He’d drunk a dope up there, and it was nothing compared to his hometown’s Coke.
The sheriff drummed his fingers on his desk and rolled his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth again. “About time you got here,” he said as Mrs. Timmons from the probate office walked in. She looked less prim than she normally did. Sim supposed it was because she’d been called in well after normal business hours. She wore pants, which were unusual to see a woman like her wearing.
The sheriff stood and let her sit behind his green metal desk. He sat in another guest chair that he pulled up next to her. “Miss Timmons,” he said, removing the cigar so that his words weren’t slurred, “take down everything this gentleman says very carefully.”
“I will.” She brought out a top spiral notebook and pen from her large purse. “What exactly are we going to be doing? You were very vague on the telephone.”