As an Old Memory

by Vic Kerry

  “But it’s not proper, and my husband isn’t at home,” her mother protested.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll come in alone. Everything will stay peachy keen,” Mrs. Harrington said.

  The boards at the door creaked. The door closed as Mrs. Harrington, fashionably dressed in a green dress with matching hat and handbag, walked into the living room. Charlotte’s mother swept in behind her. She grabbed the TV tray and whisked it into the kitchen. Charlotte didn’t have time to protest about her food being taken away.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Mrs. McAdams,” Mrs. Harrington perched on the edge of one of the wingback chairs that sat to the side of the windows. “I’ve seen people eat sandwiches before, and Charlotte is convalescing. She needs her strength.”

  “She can have it back when you leave,” her mother said, coming back into the room without her apron on. She sat in the chair on the other side of the window.

  “Charlotte, I’ve come to see how you are doing.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. That is very nice of you,” Charlotte said. “As you can tell, I am talking very well.”

  “I had heard that. What about walking?”

  “Not yet. But I’m feeding myself and hope to be up and about soon.”

  “We’re more than pleased with her progress, as is her doctor,” her mother said.

  “It is very wonderful, especially after such horrible circumstances. No lady should have to hear those kind of things, much less see them.” Mrs. Harrington said this with a sound of horror in her thick accent. It sounded somehow genteel and didn’t bother Charlotte any.

  When other people had mentioned the massacre, Charlotte would sometimes swoon. Her mother looked tensed ready to spring into action, but she relaxed when Charlotte kept focused. Mrs. Harrington must have noticed the change in her mother’s body language because she smiled and laughed softly.

  “I may be here for a short spell, but I am awfully parched. Mightn’t I have a glass of water?” she asked.

  Charlotte’s mother jumped to her feet and almost slapped her cheeks as she threw her hands up to her face horrified that she’d forgotten to offer the Harrington woman a drink. She controlled herself.

  “Would you like sweet tea instead?”

  “Tea sounds lovely,” Mrs. Harrington answered.

  “Could you please bring my glass back out when you come?” Charlotte asked.

  She had been around long enough to know that it was rude to let a visitor drink alone. While they waited for her mother to return, Charlotte and Mrs. Harrington stared at each other in awkward silence. The notion dawned on Charlotte that her visitor hadn’t intended on being one. They had never met each other. The only common bond they had was Tobias. Her mother came back into the room, carrying both glasses of tea on the TV tray. She sat the tray in front of Charlotte and took the other glass to Mrs. Harrington, who graciously took it and sipped from it before sitting it on a low table between the chairs.

  “Can I be frank, Mrs. Harrington?” Charlotte asked.

  “That will be fine,” she replied.

  “Why did you come to see me? We’ve never met. Is this some kind of charity like the Daughters of the Confederacy?” Charlotte asked. “Because I might be a little on the crazy side right now, but I’m not a charity case.”

  “Charlotte,” her mother barked at her.

  Mrs. Harrington laughed. It wasn’t a polite high society chuckle, but a real I’m glad the elephant in the room has been addressed laugh. The tension broke with an almost audible crack like thunder.

  “It is okay, Mrs. McAdams. We both know she is absolutely right. I didn’t come to see her. I never intended to set foot in your home, no offense. I came with the Abernathys so they could see her and not be looked at strangely for being in this neighborhood alone.”

  “Tobias’s parents are here?” Charlotte asked.

  “They are waiting in the car outside. Your mother, quite rightly, would not let them in. It is not proper. I should have known better.”

  “Let them in,” Charlotte said.

  She wanted to jump out her skin. What did they want to say to her that would bring them into town? She needed to see them.

  “We can’t do that,” her mother said. “The neighbors would talk. Your daddy would find out.”

  “Daddy wouldn’t mind. You know that. At least let them on the porch and help me to the door.”

  “No,” Mrs. Harrington said. “I think your mother is right.”

  “She’s not. Daddy’s not one of those cross-burning bigots.”

  “But your brother is,” Mrs. Harrington said with a cold tone that chilled Charlotte more than the ice in the tea. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McAdams.”

  Charlotte looked at her mother, who cast her eyes to the floor in shame. “I know what he is.”

  Her mother’s admission shocked Charlotte more than the tone of Mrs. Harrington’s voice. Sim was the golden child who never did a thing wrong. He’d been the yardstick her parents held Charlotte strictly to.

  “I’m surprised they would even want to touch their feet on my lawn, having raised him,” her mother said. “He did such a horrible thing to their boy.”

  “It speaks to the admiration they have for your daughter,” Mrs. Harrington said.

  Charlotte looked out the window. Through the lace curtains, she spied a large Lincoln parked on the street. Two dark figures sat in the front. The man, Mr. Abernathy, wore a fedora. Mrs. Abernathy appeared to be wearing a hat she probably wore to church. They stared straight ahead.

  Something inside her changed. It clicked like the tumblers of a lock. She pressed her hands in the sofa and pushed herself to her feet. Her mother gasped as she gained a wobbly balance on her own for the first time. She took a step forward. It was stiff-legged, and she walked like Frankenstein’s Monster.

  “Momma, come help me.”

  Her mother rushed over to her and took her by the arm to help steady her. They walked stiffly and slowly toward the front door. Mrs. Harrington stood and took her other arm as they passed her.

  “Please, sit back down,” her mother said to Mrs. Harrington.

  “Nonsense,” she replied.

  All three walked to the door. Her mother opened it. The chilly December air hit Charlotte in the face like a motivating slap. Tobias’s parents sat in the car. They noticed her and turned their attention toward her.

  “Charlotte, let’s go back inside,” her mother said. “You’re not dressed for this air.”

  “Hush, Mother.”

  Charlotte took hold of the handrail by the steps and went down them. By this time, she’d shaken off the training wheels that had been her mother and Mrs. Harrington. Her steps became more human. By the time she got to the Lincoln, no one would have ever guessed that she had ever had difficulty walking.

  Mr. Abernathy got out of the car. He took hold of her arm before she stepped off the curb. His wife was quickly around the car to take her other arm.

  “Child, what are you doing?” Mrs. Abernathy asked.

  “Coming to thank you for your visit,” Charlotte said.

  “You should not have done that,” Mr. Abernathy said. “You could have told Mrs. Harrington and that would have been enough.”

  “No, it wouldn’t have,” she replied. “I’m sorry about Tobias.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Abernathy answered.

  “He liked you very much,” Mr. Abernathy said. “He always said you were the only person at the school and maybe the whole town besides the Harringtons who seemed to care about his well-being.”

  “I did.”

  “Here in a little while, I’m driving Mr. Harrington to the sheriff’s office,” Mr. Abernathy said. “We’re going to get Tobias’s car out of impound. The missus and I want you to have it.”

  “I couldn’t take your car.”

  Mrs. Harrington joined them at the curb. “It was his—Tobias’s. My husband bought it for him to drive to school and such because they wouldn’t let him ride t
he bus. He agrees that you should have it.”

  She looked in her friend’s parents’ eyes. Hope and sadness dwelled there. It was a piteous look.

  “Okay.” The words barely came out, and her strength left her.

  Charlotte slumped in the Abernathys’ grip. They helped her back to the porch, and her mother, without saying a word, got her into the house. The car soon pulled away. Her mother closed the door after helping Charlotte back to the couch.

  “That was too much,” her mother said once she came back into the room. “Are you still hungry?”

  Charlotte shook her head. The ability to speak had left her again, as had her appetite. She didn’t want her mother to know this, so she closed her eyes and faked sleep. After a while, she dozed. By suppertime, Mr. Harrington had delivered Tobias’s ’54 Mercury Monterey, with the title already changed over to her name, and would hear no protests from her family.

  That night, Charlotte walked to her bedroom, still stiff like Frankenstein’s monster, and wrote both the Harringtons and the Abernathys five-page long letters in a shaky child-like handwriting, expressing her gratitude and utter regret. Her body healed, but when she slept that night, her mind still showed its injury in the way of nightmares that had plagued her since she’d found all of her friends dead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Josh jumped out of bed, punching at the air. Once standing, he wiped his hand across his face, pushing icy cold water away as he did. Thomas stood over his bed with an empty tea pitcher. His brother laughed with a big burst of pent-up hilarity.

  “What are you doing, jerk?” Josh asked. “Mom said I could sleep in today.”

  “You did,” his brother pointed to the alarm clock on the bedside table.

  The large red numbers showed the time as 9 a.m. Josh looked at the clock and at his brother, who was clearly dressed for school but all the same standing in his bedroom, not realizing how dangerously close he was to getting pounded.

  “Why are you still here?”

  “They canceled school,” Thomas answered. “I was about to walk out the door when Harvey called. I’m surprised the phone didn’t wake you.”

  Josh pushed back his wet hair. “I unplugged mine, in case someone took the notion to call too early.”

  “Principal Chapman called to tell dad school was out, but the teachers needed to come in about lunchtime.”

  “No one said why classes were canceled?” Josh asked.

  “No, and I didn’t ask. I know that Dad wasn’t going in today anyway. Momma wouldn’t say why.”

  His father only missed school unexpectedly when he was sick unto death or when something major came up. School didn’t get canceled this early in the year except for a threat of a tornado. Thomas still grinned a little bit like an idiot. It was fun to get a free day from school, but he’d been having free days for the last two days. After a little while, it lost its luster.

  “Go on,” Josh said. “Quit bouncing up and down like a little kid who’s got to go potty.”

  Thomas flung the few drops of water remaining in the pitcher at him and walked out of the room still smiling. Josh took off his wet T-shirt and pulled out a dry one from the drawer. He’d wait a little while to dress. There was no reason to be uncomfortable. It was his last weekday to be off before having to return to school. His dad slept, so the place would be left to him and Thomas. With his brother there, video games would be played despite his grounding, and probably some TV watched. Perhaps they’d luck up and some R-rated movie with a lot of boobs would be on the premium channels.

  He walked downstairs and into the kitchen to eat breakfast. Thomas sat at the table, gnawing on a biscuit. Their mother had left a few in a pan. They must have been for his breakfast, because there was fried bologna alongside them, and his brother hated the stuff. Josh broke a biscuit in half and shoved some bologna in it, got the mustard and chocolate milk out of the fridge, and closed the door. The mustard squirted out with separated liquid draining first, then the thicker sauce. Josh made a face. He hated the liquid stuff. The mustard squished out of the edges when he topped the biscuit.

  He stuck the biscuit in his mouth, poured himself some milk, and sat down. Thomas grimaced at him as he bit off a chunk of his breakfast. Josh chewed it with great exaggeration, making pleasurable sounds as he did. He slugged down some chocolate milk with his mouth full of bologna biscuit. Thomas acted like he was gagging.

  “How do you eat that stuff with chocolate milk?” Thomas asked.

  “How do eat those disgusting fish on pizza?” Josh answered still chewing. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “That’s as gross as Dad putting mayonnaise on his pinto beans.”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” said their dad as he walked into the room.

  He passed them and made himself a bologna biscuit to match Josh’s, including a glass of chocolate milk. The three of them sat at the table for a moment, gnawing on their too hard, cold canned biscuits.

  “I knew they’d cancel school,” Alan said.

  “You’re not off the hook. Principal Chapman called and said that all teachers had to come in at noon,” Thomas said.

  “What made you think they’d cancel school?” Josh asked.

  “I wish I could have slept longer. I’m wiped out,” Alan answered.

  “Why didn’t you stay in bed?” Thomas asked.

  “How could I with all this noise? The phone ringing. You two carrying on out here.”

  “We haven’t been doing anything but eating,” Josh said.

  “I heard y’all yelling in your room.” He looked at Thomas. “Did you do the cold water thing or the burning paper between the toes?”

  “Cold water,” Thomas answered.

  “Excellent choice, and you don’t set off the fire alarm that way,” Alan said.

  “How did you know they’d cancel classes?” Josh asked. “You dodged the question.”

  Their dad looked very tired, beyond not sleeping well. He looked like a man who had been up for two days. The hollows of his eyes were dark, his cheeks sunken. All of his facial features seemed to be framed in gray tones, a worried face if Josh had ever seen one.

  “Corey Aaron was killed last night,” Alan said.

  Thomas twitched his head in disbelief. “From the hit in football?”

  Their dad shook his head. “Everything was okay from that. After I dropped him off, a car came by, driving way too fast. It passed me going at least 80 miles an hour. It slammed into his Jeep and tore it almost in two. The wreck killed him. I’ll spare you the gorier details.”

  “What did it do to the other driver?” Josh started to feel a little queasy. “Did you know him? Was it someone from school?”

  “It was a hit-and-run.”

  “How?” Thomas asked. “I don’t know that much about cars, but it had to be a tank to split another car and keep going.”

  “I don’t know. It literally cut the Jeep in two,” Alan said

  “That’s impossible,” Josh swallowed back the need to vomit. It was like getting kicked in the nads, a deep queasiness from way down in the gut.

  “I’m pretty sure it was your Aunt Charlotte’s car,” Alan said. “I got enough of a look to recognize it.”

  “I’ve driven it. Can that car even go fast enough to do something like that?” Josh asked.

  “I don’t know,” Alan said.

  “What does all this mean?” Thomas’s voice pitched with fright and concern.

  “I don’t know,” Alan answered.

  “What’s going to happen?” Josh asked.

  His father shook his head and looked older than when he walked into the kitchen. “I don’t know. I went to Charlotte’s house last night, and her car was gone. Then I went to the hospital where she is. They said she was still there and had been since I admitted her.”

  “No wonder you’re exhausted,” Josh said.

  “Does this mean that the game is canceled?” Thomas asked.

  “Of cours
e,” Josh answered, feeling miffed that his brother would ask such a question.

  He didn’t care much for Corey Aaron, but the death of someone you know always hits hard. Josh’s own mortality worried him at the moment, but the cause of Corey’s death bothered him even more. Flashes of the plot of Christine came to him. If the old car had taken a mind of its own and went out on a murderous rampage, he wanted nothing to do with that reality. Charlotte’s Mercury had belonged to the black boy that was killed after the massacre. Corey was one of the students advocating hard for the anniversary dance. He was pretty sure that Corey was related to one of his grandfather’s friends, not the one who killed himself but the other one. The three of them had captured the boy in that very car and hauled him in its trunk to the sheriff.

  “Do you think it might have been a ghost?” Josh asked.

  Thomas blew a raspberry at him. “The other day you were making fun of us for saying we had seen a ghost.”

  “Explain how a car cut a Jeep in two and kept going,” Josh said.

  “I don’t know,” his dad interrupted the argument. “All I know is that I’m sure it was Charlotte’s car.”

  The phone rang. Thomas got up and answered the one on the kitchen wall. He said “Yes” a few times before putting his hand over the mouthpiece and holding it out to his father. Alan took the phone and listened for a moment and said “Yes” himself. A few questions received answers, and then he got to his feet and hung up the phone. The worry lines were etched deeper into his face.

  “I’ve got to get to the hospital,” he said. “It’s your grandfather.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” Thomas asked.

  “They think he’s had a heart attack. They don’t know for sure. You two stay here. I’ll call if I need anything.”

  Their dad hurried back to his bedroom. In a few minutes, he left the house, speeding out of the driveway, scraping the back end of his car as he did. Josh watched through the window. There might be some truth to the curse that he’d read about in the Jeffrey ghost book. Although he was very familiar with the massacre, the tale of Hazel’s curse eluded him. Over time the legend must have faded from retelling, especially after the massacre. Most of the town folklore and ghost stories revolved around it.