by Hunter Shea
Abraham patted a stool next to him. “You want to talk? Park it and start yapping.”
Jesus, this isn’t going to be easy. He’s crocked.
There was a dim hope that the booze had dulled his father’s usually caustic personality, though his calling him Esasky didn’t bring much encouragement.
“I think it would be better if we go outside,” he said.
“Here is just fine. Everyone here is my family. You don’t have to keep secrets from them.”
He raised his glass to the dozen old men sitting around the U-shaped bar. A couple of them raised their drinks in return. Most of the others had turned their attention back to the television mounted on the wall. The Phillies were on and already down five runs in the third.
“I think it would be better if we had a little privacy.”
His father smirked at him. “That’s how I feel about my home. You can’t always get what you want. What was the name of that nigger-lipped white guy that sang that song?”
“You can talk in the back if you want,” Johnny, the bartender, offered. He was a big man in his early sixties with a severe buzz cut and deep cleft in his chin. He stared at Matt’s busted nose, his black eyes, obviously taking pity on him.
“Or right here,” his father insisted.
Matt sighed. He pictured punching his father square in the face. It helped to ease the tension that had his insides in a death grip. “Fine. I went to the cemetery this afternoon.”
His father knocked back the whiskey. “It’s about time you saw your mother and sister.”
I wonder when was the last time you dragged your sorry ass to see them, Matt thought.
“Someone spray painted over their graves.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” His bloated tongue had a tough time getting the words out.
“It said, ‘Forever under our watchful gaze.’ I think you know who wrote it.”
Something behind his father’s eyes flared, like the blue flame of a blowtorch.
“Show me,” he said, standing up so fast, the barstool went flying out behind him.
Heads turned from the TV back to them.
“I can’t. The cemetery’s closed.”
“That don’t mean jack.” He stumbled and this time it was Matt keeping the old man on his pegs.
“Actually, it does. Debi, West, and I are staying at the Super 8 tonight. I thought you should know. You know what I want to do and I know what you’re going to say, so there’s no sense wasting time.”
Matt flinched when his father grabbed the beer bottle, flinging it against the wall. Johnny didn’t admonish him for it.
“They think they can do that to Violet and Stella,” he mumbled, leaning on the bar.
“You can come to the Super 8 with me,” Matt said, surprising himself. All of his father’s racist, mean bluster had melted away. He looked old and pitiful and lost.
His father pulled away from him. “I’m not leaving my house. Never. I need another beer.”
Johnny said to Matt, “I can take him home. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Matt looked at his father, the tight set of his lips and the wild look in his eyes. There was no sense trying to change his mind. He looked rattled. Maybe, once he sobered up, he’d finally come to his senses.
“Thanks,” Matt said. His father ignored him, chugging his beer. “Come on James.”
As they left, Matt sensed everyone in the bar staring at their backs.
It felt the exact same way as when they left the farmhouse earlier that night.
Chapter Sixteen
Abraham sat on the bench behind his home. The moonlight bathed the swaying stalks of cattails. Scents of mint and cinnamon coasted on the pre-dawn breeze. He eyed the open bottle of Jack Daniels on the picnic table.
No.
The rifle felt heavy on his lap, as if gravity were trying to claim it for its own and drag it down to the center of the Earth. His vision blurred. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his knuckles, but it only made things worse.
“You there?” he whispered. If they were, they would be close enough to hear him.
Something rustled in the grass to his right. He turned and fired. The rifle’s report was louder than a hydrogen bomb in the cold, dead field.
Abraham’s heart banged so hard in his chest, his breath came out in sharp whistles. Staggering from the bench, he spotted a still shadow just fifteen yards from his position. Swallowing dryly, the alcohol having bled all the moisture from his body, he stepped toward the gray lump.
As he got closer, a chuckle forced its way up his constricted throat.
Fucking cat.
The turn to go back to the bench sent his brain for a loop. He dug the barrel of the rifle into the dirt, using it as a crutch, to keep from falling over.
“Got one of your damn cats,” he said, laughing so hard, he burped acid.
He stared into the open field, knowing that somewhere, eyes were looking back at him.
Let them. I’m not afraid of you. Never was. Not even when you did…
“You know I’m not going anywhere, you sons of bitches,” he said, his voice escalating until it degenerated into a wet cough.
That was the cold, hard truth. Those fucking Guardians could kiss his hairy, wrinkled ass. There was nothing they could do to him that would make him lose one minute of sleep. Nothing.
But he was no longer alone.
Goddammit, Matt, why did everything have to go tits up and shoot you right back here?
Matt and Debi and West desperately wanted to leave, but there was no money to go anywhere. And it’s not like he had any to give. All he had was this crap house and decayed farm. Like him, they were stuck here.
Escaping was an option that was off the table.
The Guardians, when they had their dander up, meant it when they said you couldn’t leave. No, those assholes held true to their promises.
He remembered the Toons who used to live on the tract of land across the way. They left, picking up stakes one night when Mel Toon had had enough. He took his wife and three kids, loaded them in his truck, and left with nothing but a couple of suitcases and his rifle.
Abraham’s father went white when he read the paper a week later. The entire family had been found in Lake George, New York, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning in their cramped motel room.
They all knew that hadn’t happened by chance.
Abraham sure as hell didn’t wish that on Matt and his family. That’s why he’d taken precautions.
The Guardians were pushing his buttons, seeing how far they could drive him before he cracked.
“Tough shit, Fuckhead Faulkner,” he spat.
He wished he knew what it was that drove them; what compelled them to lord over this Podunktown and do all of those horrible things. He didn’t believe the old superstitions. They weren’t supernatural. They didn’t come from rent doorway to hell. Oh, he’d tried to find out, but some things were meant to be a mystery.
They were degenerates and psychopaths, their twisted genes passing down from generation to generation because of…
He thought he heard something moving in the grass. He tensed, finger on the trigger. The crickets hadn’t stopped chirping, so it couldn’t have been one of them.
He took another swig of Jack.
Besides, Abraham didn’t care squat about mysteries. He lived in reality, not speculation. And the reality was that generations of Guardians had made life a living hell for the citizens of Buttermilk Creek.
Equally true was that the Ridleys didn’t cow tow to the Guardians. No sir. It wasn’t going to happen. With Matt gone, Abraham was happy to say he’d fought them to the end. Once he was gone, there would be no one left for them to torture…at least on Ridley ground. He’d willed the house and land to a charity, leaving Matt nothing.
It was the best thing he could ever give him. Total freedom from this cursed land.
“Why couldn’t you at least give me that?” he as
ked the dark sky.
His thoughts devolved to static, fading to black.
Abraham didn’t feel a thing when he passed out, the back of his head bouncing off the hard packed dirt.
***
“You going to work, Mom?”
It was 6 a.m. The room was pitch-black thanks to the heavy drapes, save the subdued light coming from the bathroom. West had a double bed to himself. Even though he’d been jazzed up last night, he’d slept better than he had since they came to Pennsylvania.
His mother, dressed in a maroon skirt and white blouse, spoke softly so as not to wake his father in the next bed. “As much as I don’t want to, I have to bring the car back. Other people might need it. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
West slipped out from under the covers, scratching his head. “I’m wide awake. I must be turning into a farmer.”
She smiled. It was good to see she still could. She’d been so frightened last night. It felt as if a month had passed while they waited for his father to return, even though it had been less than an hour. They’d passed the time in silence, watching TV. West kept stealing glances at his mother, alarmed by the worry lines at the corners of her eyes and forehead.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“Always.”
“Get dressed. I’ll take you for some breakfast before I leave. If I’m late today, I’m late.”
He ordered hot cakes, sausage, scrambled eggs, and a hash brown from McDonald’s. His mother had a coffee. They watched the sunrise, pink rays painting the asphalt of the parking lot.
“You can come to work with me,” she said as they left.
He rolled his eyes. “Only little kids go to work with their mommies. People at your job would think I was slow or something.”
She took his baseball cap off and ruffled his hair. “No they wouldn’t. It’s summer. A lot of the big cheeses are on vacation. I can find an empty office and you can pretend you’re the boss.”
He knew she wanted him close by today. And yes, it would be nice to hang out in an air-conditioned office, maybe see some sights at lunch.
But that would leave his father alone. At least at work, his mother would be surrounded by people. And she would have her friend, Monika.
After everything that had happened, West wondered if James would bother coming back. He couldn’t blame him if he didn’t. That would leave his father all alone, trapped in the room with his thoughts.
“I think I’ll stick around here. Maybe I can talk Dad into reporting everything to the police.”
A strange look passed over his mother’s face. She’d wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
“Okay,” she said. “But you make sure to call me at least twice.”
“I will.”
“We’re going to figure a way out of this mess. I promise.”
She started the car, the leather interior smelling new and expensive and this side of decadent.
Driving back to the Super 8, West wasn’t convinced they could get out of this. Not without doing something drastic.
The Ridleys were not drastic people. At least not the trio from New York. They were the true middle-class, sticking to the middle of the road, the one much traveled.
Which meant, and it was disturbing to realize this, that everything might come down to Grandpa Abraham.
***
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, West.”
His father sat up in bed, his hair matted to one side. Even though he’d just woken up, he looked exhausted.
“What if something happened to Grandpa Abraham?” West couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, but it was true. For some reason, he was worried about the cantankerous old man. Sure, he’d lived with the Guardians all his life, or so he said, but West had the feeling what had happened at the cemetery had changed the age old game. His grandfather may have been a prick, but he was also the only other family they had left. And there were times, fleeting moments, when he was almost nice, just shy of normal.
“He can take care of himself. He’s made that abundantly clear for decades.”
“But what if he can’t this time?”
His father swiveled his feet out from under the covers. “I can’t get us there anyway. A cab would be too expensive.”
“James could take us.”
He swayed a moment when he stood, pinched the bridge of his nose and shuffled into the bathroom. “James did enough for us yesterday.”
The splash of urine echoed in the small bathroom.
“He said he’d call in the morning,” West reminded him.
“Yeah, well, he and I made similar promises twenty-five years ago.”
“Now is different. You’re old men with responsibility.”
He popped his head out of the bathroom. “Old men?”
West smirked. “Well, not old old, but old enough.”
Before his father could answer, his cell phone rang. West checked the screen and saw it was James. “See. Old guys like you stick to your word.”
Sighing, his father asked, “You really want to go? After all the time you bitched about getting away from that place.”
“I do.”
He answered the phone, saying, “Hey James, you free to chauffeur me and West one more time?”
***
Grandpa Abraham’s truck wasn’t in its usual spot. The front door was wide open.
“You think he left in a hurry or something?” West asked.
“His truck is back at the Post,” James said. “I drove by before I picked you up. Maybe the bartender forgot to close the door on the way out.”
James wore a green trucker hat with a picture of a coiled snake with DON’T TREAD ON ME stenciled above it in gold. He most likely wasn’t aware that there were two Cheerios in his beard.
“I’m sure he’s sleeping it off on the couch,” West’s father said.
He noticed both men stuffing their hands in their pants pockets when they got out of the car. Even though it was a hot start to the day, James wore a long windbreaker. They exchanged a knowing look with one another and approached the house. His father was having a good day so far. He wasn’t leaning on his cane so much.
“You stay back while we check the house,” he said. “Trust me, you don’t want to see your grandfather in a compromised position.”
West leaned against the car, watching them cautiously step into the house. They looked more like cops entering a suspect’s lair than two men expecting to find a hungover old man, perhaps covered in vomit or with his pants halfway down.
“Dad?” his father’s voice floated out the front door.
West tentatively walked toward the poor excuse for a front porch. He heard his father and James walking around the house, the creak of the stairs. “He’s not up here,” James reported.
I’ll bet he’s in the basement, West thought. That was Grandpa Abraham’s little hideaway, the place where he went when he’d had a few drinks in him. When they’d first moved in, West had been curious as to what could be in the dingy cellar. Knowing it was his grandfather’s special place dulled his desire to see it. He imagined it as a filthy dungeon, with moldy furniture, empty bottles of booze, urine in mason jars, and generally smelling like impending death.
“Dad?”
West wasn’t about to go inside until his father gave him the all clear. Despite everything, or maybe because of what had happened, a little of his old father had returned. And they were getting along, comrades in arms in a difficult situation. He didn’t want to screw that up, which is why he hadn’t brought up calling the police… yet.
The sun beat down on his head. Thank God we’ll be going back to an air-conditioned room, he thought. It was going to be a scorcher.
He had to get out of the concentrated rays or he’d fry like an ant under a magnifying glass.
He walked along the side of the house and saw the long shadow of the decaying structure stretch all the way to the untended wild growth in back.
Ahh, shade.
He’d just knock on the back door to let his father know where he was.
Scanning the high grass, his heart clenched, knowing that Faith was across the field, locked in her room for the summer like a princess in a tower. If he wanted to be her prince, he’d need to ditch his frog persona, but things like that are never easy when you’re fourteen and in love with the first girl to give you the time of day.
“But you gotta have Faith,” he sang to himself, kicking a rock out of his way.
The rock skittered ahead of him, hitting a divot and making the turn around the corner of the house. It made a hard ping as it hit something. It sounded like it banged into something metallic.
Rounding the corner, West pulled back in horror.
Grandpa Abraham lay on his back, a halo of blood circling his head. His arms were stretched out, as were his legs. His wrists and ankles were held in place with pitchforks, each joint wedged between the rusted tines.
He tried to call for his father but nothing came out. His mouth opened and closed like a fish bobbing for food. It felt like his heart was at the back of his tongue, clamoring away.
There was a note pinned to his chest. A chest that he was relieved to see was moving up and down with each shallow breath.
The note said:
DON’T YOU LEAVE AGAIN. YOU DO THAT, HE DIES, AND WE TEAR DOWN THAT WHICH WE’VE GUARDED FOR SO LONG.
Chapter Seventeen
Matt was beyond frustrated, both with the situation he’d gotten them into and himself. He mentally kicked himself for not finding his father first, practically crucified into the ground like that. The shock at seeing him, and the wild look on West’s face, sent his vertigo into overdrive. The ground swelled, sending him to his knees, his cane skittering away from him.
With James’s help, they pulled the pitchforks free. His father reeked of booze, but he was alive. Lifting up his head, he found a quarter-sized ding that accounted for all the blood. Matt had to pluck a jagged rock from the wound. It looked as if he had fallen down drunk. The bottle of Jack on the picnic table supported the theory.