by Aaron Saylor
We have to, says his brother.
She stumbles through the bare night woods, her silver hair tied in a ponytail. Her green eyes with the soft wrinkles around them are hidden underneath a black blindfold that is wound tight around her head. Her hands are bound behind her back.
She runs the best she can run, but she is old and her best isn’t good enough. Boone runs behind her. Jimmy runs right alongside him. They have their Daddy’s gun. Daddy died before Boone was born.
They run and they run and they run, and then she falls. Then she cries. Then she begs.
Please don’t she cries.
Please let me go please please let me go, she begs.
They can’t let her go.
Boone watches her, wondering if Ellen Slone could somehow rise up and get away, wondering if they could let her. But they can’t let her. She can’t get away. He knows it. She knows it. She cries and she begs and he hates it but still she cries and still she begs, cries and begs, cries and begs, she wants to live, please let me live, I won’t tell anybody if you let me live.
A gunshot cracks the chilled air.
Another.
Another.
crack crack crack one right after the other. It’s Daddy’s gun. It’s Daddy’s gun. Jimmy always says Boone looks just like their Daddy but Daddy died before Boone was born so Boone doesn’t really know for sure.
Boone collapses backward, falls, sits on the dead ground. The frost crunches beneath his body and cold seeps into his backside but he doesn’t think about it. He stares at the cold dead body in front of him and thinks strange, distant thoughts, thoughts that don’t seem to be really bouncing about inside his own brain. A dead body does not live up to expectation. A dead body is not scary. A dead body is not disgusting. A dead body kind of looks like a person, but it doesn’t really look like a person, either. It just looks like a dead body.
A dead cow lies on Church Street. A damn dead cow right there in the damn middle of the damn town. You would think they would do something about that. You would think.
She digs in the dirt.
He digs in the dirt.
They dig in the dirt.
The funeral was nice.
The orchids were nice.
The people were nice.
They dig in the dirt.
There are worms in the dirt.
Ellen is in the dirt.
Down she goes, down she goes, down she goes. Ellen Slone, down in the dirt.
There is a dead cow on Church Street. Sometimes God needs cows and when he needs them, we have to let them go. It hurts but we have to let them go.
Samantha.
Everything sinks towards the bottom of the valley. Sinking, sinking, sunk. The earth itself crumbles beneath the churches and gas stations, pulling them down into the fiery pit. The tractors and the combines slide down the valley, creeping closer towards the mobile homes. The mobile homes and the tractors and the combines slide down the hillsides together, right on into town. The mobile homes and the tractors and the combines and the whole goddamn town sink deeper into the black steaming pit. The valley falls in on itself. Everyone tumbles into darkness. The combines and the mobile homes and the meth heads and Elmer and Karen and Jimmy and Walt and the sheriff and Mama and Daddy, they all tumble together into darkness, and Boone just stands there and watches them go.
Samantha.
FESTIVAL
The big day arrived in Sewardville, the day of the Orchid Festival, the day anticipated by Sewardvillians at–large more than any other during the year outside of Christmas and Easter Sunday. Maybe Christmas and Easter Sunday. It was the day the community celebrated their unique flower: the Mountain orchid, the flower that grew no place else on Earth but the green hills of Seward County, Kentucky.
Just after one o’clock of the big day, the last Saturday afternoon in April, the sun hung near its pinnacle in the cloudless sky. The temperature registered a stout eighty–five degrees, unseasonably warm.
Hundreds of Orchid Festival attendees filled Sewardville City Park. Having waited another year for the festivities, the masses now poured out of the subdivisions and the rural hollows to enjoy every aspect of the spectacle: the car show, the Miss Orchid Pageant, the bluegrass and gospel concerts, the army of food vendors hawking deep fried sugar and fat. And not just from Sewardville did the patrons come, but also from the surrounding counties and beyond. All the way up to Lexington and down to London, east to Hazard and west to Frankfort, people came to ride the rides and hear the sounds and see the sights. The Orchistradae Mountain counted many fans, indeed.
Members of the local Lions Club guided the steady parade of incoming vehicles into neat rows that soon filled up the fifteen grassy acres that had been designated as the festival’s parking area. Folks got out of their vehicles and filed into the park past a patriotic sign of red, white, and blue that read “ELECT WALT SLONE FOR MAYOR.” The man himself stood next to the sign, and many of them took a moment to shake hands and say hello. Walt smiled at every potential voter he saw. Voters appreciated that, even though everyone in town knew Mayor Slone was in no danger of losing the primary election come May (or the general in November, for that matter). Regardless, he smiled, and they smiled. Everyone smiled. It was the proper thing to do.
“How ya doin’? Appreciate your vote.”
“Hi. How ya doin’? Appreciate your vote.”
“Hi there. Appreciate your vote.”
“Appreciate your vote.”
“How ya doin’?”
“Appreciate your vote.”
Just inside the entrance sat the first row of food vendors, squashed against each other with almost no space in between. Corn dogs, funnel cakes, pork chop sandwiches, gyros. Beyond that sat a bank of craft tables showcasing the finest in local knitting and woodworking, including one table covered in knobby, hand–carved walking sticks that featured different animal shapes on the top end. Mostly raccoons but a few wolves and mallard ducks and elk, too.
Of course there were Mountain orchids everywhere on the grounds. Most were a pale blue color, as nine out of every ten Orchistradae Mountain that broke through the soil flowered the hue of an early spring sky. No one really understood –– or cared – why most Mountain orchids were pale blue, but pale blue they mostly were. The remaining ten percent were white. Festival planners had tucked these blue and white flowers into every available space on the ground; garlands of them wrapped around signposts and table legs and even trees, while bouquets stood on tables and in stand–up flower pots that were dusted with gold paint. Folks could buy them for thirty dollars a dozen. A few people actually did.
So the men, women, and children of Seward County and those other counties surrounding filed into the Orchid Festival. The more people that arrived, the more the air filled with the murmur of chatterboxes and laughter. Children ran through the scene, screaming playfully. Old men and women doddered along, seemingly on a mission to inspect by hand every single art and every single craft in the whole festival.
Through it all, Walt Slone stood cheerful under his star spangled sign.
“How ya doin’? Appreciate your vote.”
“How’s it goin’, chief? Appreciate your vote.”
“Hey buddy. Appreciate your vote.”
“Appreciate your vote.”
“Appreciate your vote.”
“Hi there. Appreciate your vote!”
Walt smiled, shook hands, played his part. The Mayor, the father, the grandfather. The man in the house on the hill.
Out in the parking area, Boone leaned against his truck and avoided going into the festival. Unlike most people in Sewardville, he never enjoyed the hubbub, or the crowds, or the bullshit. He could take the Orchid Festival or leave it, and most of the time he’d just as soon leave it. He went mostly just to satisfy family obligations, but even that was a struggle this year with all the shit that Karen had been piling on top of him.
Thoughts of fleeing the whole crowded scene jittered in his brain
, when John Slone came up and surprised him from behind.
“You look goddamn excited,” said the sheriff.
Boone turned and saw that John Slone was not actually wearing his sheriff’s uniform, the first time in two months Boone had seen him in anything other than those dark paramilitary fatigues. Today, the sheriff wore ragged jeans and a scarlet flannel shirt.
“Should I be?” said Boone.
“You oughtta.” John stepped in closer and slapped Boone on the shoulder much harder than Boone liked. “You oughtta be excited, Boone,” he repeated. “After this festival bullshit’s over with, we’re gonna go find Elmer and Rogers and take care of some things that have been botherin’ us for a while. Gonna be a good day. A real good day.”
Boone looked away, squinted, did his best not to extend the exchange further towards anything that might resemble an honest–to–goodness conversation.
The sheriff continued without invitation. “It meant a lot to the family, what you told us about Elmer and Rogers,” he said. “I got to be honest, we was startin’ to have some doubts about whether you was dedicated to what we got goin’ on here. Now, thanks to you, we can use those two shitheads as something of a… teachable moment, as they say.”
“What about it,” said Boone.
“Well huh,” said John. “What about it.”
They stood there.
“Anyway,” said the sheriff eventually, “the hope is we’ll all be back on better ground soon enough. Right now, I believe I’ll get me a funnel cake. Karen tells me they got chocolate in ‘em this year.” Boone had no response for that.
ELMER
Two hundred and fifty yards away, at the outer reaches of the parking area, up a steep hill and just off the shoulder of Highway 15, sat a white Chevrolet Cavalier. The car looked plain enough, normal enough, not unlike every other Chevrolet Cavalier in Sewardville. The driver slouched behind the wheel, trying to hide behind the steering column so not to be seen by any casual passers–by or more than casual observers within the family Slone. It was Elmer Canifax.
He was there on a mission. That last visit from Sheriff Slone had sent a message alright, though not the one the sheriff intended. John Slone might have wanted to scare Elmer away, but instead he’d just pushed him into the next stage. The shakedown – showing up at Elmer’s house and trying to intimidate the shit out of the situation – had only made clear that the Slone family was only getting more suspicious, and more concerned, by the day. Why else would John have come up there?
Elmer knew: if the sheriff hadn’t yet reached the correct conclusion about the stolen crates, he would soon enough. Same with the role Rogers played in the scheme –– that would come to light eventually, too.
Now, Elmer and the deputy were up to their knees in shit. Pretty soon it would stink down their throats if they weren’t quick about their business. Time to move. If they didn’t, the Slones would.
Elmer reached over to his passenger’s side seat. He lightly traced his fingers along the pistol grip of the .38 snubnose pistol that jutted out from underneath the week’s edition of the Sewardville Times.
Out the windshield, even at this distance, he could see Sheriff Slone and Boone Sumner in deep conversation. He wondered what they might be talking about, doubted it was anything good. Just a little beyond them, Walt Slone stood at the Festival entrance, still in full electioneer mode, shaking hands and smiling at everyone that walked by.
While Elmer watched, Boone finished his discussion with the sheriff, then wandered away alone, towards the park entrance. This presented Elmer the chance he needed.
Now Boone stood at the parking lot’s edge, doing nothing. He watched people move along in front of him, numb to their intentions. He was not like Walt; he felt no need to speak or smile at everyone that strolled by. He waved at Harley Faulkner and Deputy Rogers as they passed separately, but other than that was content to hide in the background.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached in, saw an unfamiliar number on the caller i.d.. The phone buzzed again, and again, and again. He let the voice mail take it.
After a few seconds, the phone started again. Boone checked the caller i.d., saw the same unfamiliar number. The first time might have been a mistake, but the second call from the same whoever–it–was meant this was no mistake at all. This time, he answered.
“Hello?”
“Boone? It’s Elmer.”
Boone stepped away and turned his back from the crowd, an instinct. “How’d you get this number?” he said in a low voice.
“I got ways.”
“What the hell are you calling me for?”
“You gotta help me.”
“Really?”
“The sheriff. Walt. They know about me and Rogers.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I got wind of things.”
Boone exhaled, audibly. “So?”
“So they’ll kill us.”
“They won’t kill you, Elmer. They don’t know anything about you and Rogers. They’ll find out though, if you keep doing stupid shit like calling me.”
“Rogers told me about the deal he made with you. Half? Holy fuck.”
“Careful,” Boone said. “That half’s the only thing stopping me from going right to Walt to tell him what you got hiding in your outbuilding.”
Immediately, Boone regretted the deal he’d made. If this was how things would go – Elmer panicking and putting them all at risk by openly badgering Boone for help – then it was only a matter of time before Walt caught on. It had been just one day since he’d found Rogers in the outbuilding and made his agreement. If Elmer’s nerves were this bad after only just one day, how long could he possibly hold out before he went totally off the reservation?
Elmer snorted in the phone; Boone figured he was snorting back one pill or another. “Why should I trust you won’t go to Walt, anyway?”
Boone paused, measured his words carefully. “You really don’t have a choice but to trust me,” he said firmly.
Elmer laughed, a dry, forced laugh. “That’s all right,” he said. “I got me a little something for Walt and the Sheriff. Maybe if you’re not careful, I could find something for you, too.”
Boone rolled his eyes. It just kept getting worse. “What are you gonna do,” he said, “come after them with guns blazing, cowboy?”
“Maybe. You just watch.”
“I’ll do that, Elmer,” said Boone. “Go right on and do that. You be careful now.” Then he hung up before the conversation got any deeper or more stupid.
Elmer held the phone against his ear, even though he knew that Boone had ended the call. It was as if he thought Boone would call him right back, and they would finish their conversation in a way that made Elmer feel a little better about his situation. When that didn’t happen, he angrily dropped the phone back on the seat, and laid his head on the steering wheel, and started thinking about plan B.
Before his considerations went very far, somebody tapped at the car window. Elmer shot up straight, and covered his distress with a quick plastic smile. He turned his head and saw Rogers, in uniform and on duty, bent down at the waist, with one hand on his holstered gun and the other on his belt loop. The deputy’s nose hovered just a couple of inches from the car window. He stared at Elmer through dark aviator sunglasses that had been out of style for two decades.
“Whatcha doin’?” he asked through the glass. He motioned for Elmer to roll down the window, which Elmer did, just a crack.
“Nothin’,” said Elmer through the crack of fresh air. “What are you doin’?”
“Not a damn thing.” Rogers stood up. He nodded his head with great deliberation, and looked around for anyone who might be watching them. Then he bent back down.
“It’s awful hot to be sittin’ in there with all the windows closed,” he said.
“I like it this way,” said Elmer.
The deputy chuckled. “You look fucked up.” He was right. Elmer’s eyes were
bloodshot. A thin layer of sweat covered his face. “Are you high?”
“Of course I’m high.”
“On what?”
“Does it matter?”
Rogers let it go. Of course it didn’t matter – Elmer was high more often than not, on one thing or another and when you got right down to it, high was high.
“You think it’s a good idea to come here in that kind of shape?” the deputy asked.
“Sure,” Elmer shrugged.
“You don’t give a damn, do you now?”
“Not really.”
“Mmm–hmm,” Rogers nodded again. He continued, “That was a close call the other night, you know, with the sheriff comin’ up to your house and everything. What about it. I don’t know how we got out of that one and if Boone hadn’t been with him, I don’t know if we would have gotten out of it at all.”
Elmer didn’t look like he cared or was even listening. He reached over and opened the glove compartment; there he found a plastic sandwich baggie that was a third full of sticky marijuana, along with a pack of rolling papers. He pinched the marijuana into one of the papers and rolled a joint.
“You want some?” he offered.
“If Walt or John Slone gets word you’re here, it’s liable to be your ass,” said Rogers.
“Yeah, but they don’t know.”
“But if they do. If they know, it’s your ass. That’s all I’m saying.”
Elmer offered up the joint. Rogers shook his head. “I’m on duty.”
“Suit yourself.” Elmer pulled a lighter out of his shirt pocket. He looked at the joint for a second, fired it up, took a deep draw. Then he said, “Fuck Walt. Fuck the sheriff. Fuck everybody.”
The deputy laughed.
Elmer threw open the car door and jumped out, calmly dropped the joint to the ground and rubbed it out with his foot the way other people rubbed out a Marlboro light. When he stepped away, Rogers moved in and kicked some loose dirt over the joint, which he felt the proper thing for a lawman to do.