SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque

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SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque Page 23

by Rumours of the Grotesque (v1. 0) [lit]


  He unfolds the morning paper and scans the headlines. He smiles as he reads the first paragraph. He's made the paper again.

  * * * *

  He is used to sleeping during the day. Even though the trailer park is full of kids, he's learned to ignore all of it—all of it except the neighbors. They are new to the trailer park. As he awakens, he sees the evening sun through the blinds. He dreamt about her baby, though he'd never laid eyes on the child.

  He crawls from the bed. He has been on vacation for two weeks, and it's almost time to return to work. He thinks about the new people in the lot next door. They have been there about two weeks. They bought the trailer and moved in just as his vacation started, just as everything started.

  By the window facing the neighbors’ lot, he sits at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Even though the air conditioner is on, the window is cranked open and he hears them across the lawn. Jessie scratches to go out. Angrily, he gets up to let the dog outside. Scratching on the door is the only bad thing Jessie does, but a whipping will fix that. He vows to spank Jessie later.

  He opens the trailer door for the dog and catches parts of their argument. Her husband curses her for the baby, then gets in his car and leaves. She cries like bluegrass.

  Her husband's voice sounds so much like his father's. The anger swells in him, helpless to memory. His eyes wash red like the highway. Before he realizes it, he is in the monster-wheeled truck.

  The bluegrass music plays and the highway sings. Night has fallen and bugs commit suicide on his high beams. Tonight, he picks a different highway. Tonight he travels far from I-40 near Jackson, to highway 412 that goes to Dyersburg.

  He remembers things about his neighbors. She has yellow hair, not blonde. Her husband yells so much it makes his head burn. She has blue eyes, but they are also usually pink and swollen from crying. Her husband's knuckles are bruised and discolored from hitting her. He can't recall her name, but does remember that she hangs clothes on the line.

  Highway 412 is deserted. Everyone thinks he will be cruising I-40; that is where everything else has taken place. I-40 is a long, long stretch of black top, and there's not enough cops to patrol it.

  He drives for hours until he feels it is safe to hunt. Along the road, he sees something moving. It could be a deer, but he notices as he gets closer it is a human. He can't see if it is a woman or man. He accelerates, and his high beams catch the form.

  With an outstretched thumb, the form turns, and he sees it is a woman. The high beams mesmerize her like a deer. She freezes in the light. He accelerates until the tires wail like craven hags. Like a bullet, the monster-wheeled truck slams into her mercilessly. Her head crashes into the truck's hood, and the metal buckles from the impact. She falls away while the truck drives past. It is many moments before he consciously slows down. He U-turns and searches for the fallen woman on the highway. It is oppressively hot, and the bugs fly in curtains.

  The woman is strewn across the pavement. He stops and slips from behind the wheel. His linesman's boots walk toward her. She is lying on the hot black top. Her yellow hair is splattered, stained red. He takes the latex gloves from his pocket, puts them on, and kneels beside her.

  Her large backpack has been ripped open by the hard surface. He pulls at her shoulder in an attempt to turn her over. Suddenly, she extends a hand to him, her voice too weak to make an audible plea. She is able to turn herself over, and she stares at him. He looks down at her face, part of it is missing. The bones are exposed and shattered, and blood soaks the pavement. She must have been dragged over the black top, and the backpack prevented her death.

  He leaps away from her outstretched hand and runs back to the monster-wheeled truck. He didn't expect her to be alive. The bluegrass is playing. He throws the truck into low gear and creeps up on the fallen hitchhiker. He knows she is trying to crawl away. He can see parts of the purple canvas backpack littering the highway from the impact point to where she now crawls.

  He envisions her head crushing like an overripe pumpkin as he thrusts the monster-wheeled truck into a chorus of death angels. The tires squeal and burn as they grip the pavement. He drives and doesn't look back.

  * * * *

  His sleep is restless—he can't get the woman out of his mind. Did she see him, and is she still alive? He was almost certain he crushed her to death. He's frustrated because she still has her ID; he was unable to take it. He looks at the digital clock, then at the afternoon sun as it turns soft and orange. He hears a crackling noise like a CB radio.

  He gets out of bed and peeps through the blinds, and outside sees a parked police car. Their radio crackles. She must have lived.

  He calls Jessie to the door. Jessie doesn't have to potty, but he makes the dog go into the yard anyway. As he opens the door, he realizes the cops are in the neighbors’ lot. His neighbor holds her baby while her little boy stands at her side. Her husband is against the cruiser—hands in cuffs. One officer is talking to him; however, they are not reading him his rights. He watches as they remove the cuffs. He notices the wife has a large red mark across her face. They ask her if she wants to press charges. She hangs her head and shakes it from side to side.

  He doesn't notice the little boy has pulled away from her and come into his yard. He plays with Jessie by the monster-wheeled truck. The little boy and the dog run around the vehicle in dizzying circles. He notices a large dent in the front fender of the truck and a piece of the purple backpack wedged in the front bumper.

  He walks to the boy and smiles. “Do you like my puppy?"

  "I love ‘im. My daddy won't let me have one.” The boy leans close to Jessie who licks his face.

  He walks over to the dent in the truck and swiftly works the piece of cloth from the bumper.

  "Hi.” He is startled as he hears her voice from behind. He turns to look at the little boy's mother. “I'm sorry about my little boy comin’ over and botherin’ you."

  He looks at her face and realizes her shame as she looks down. He knows she can't hide the red mark and that makes it worse.

  "Don't worry about it. He's a nice boy.” He smiles.

  They both look at the police who are getting in their car. “This is the hardest part, when the cops leave,” she says.

  He looks at her; she hasn't noticed the dent in the truck. He looks down at the boy and comments how much he was like him at that age.

  Suddenly, she cringes at the sound of her husband calling her. He has only seen that degree of fear on one other person: his mother. Mamma feared daddy just like she fears her husband. He looks at her sympathetically.

  "You know,” he says, suddenly remembering her name, “it will all be over someday, Alicia."

  Without a good-bye, she grabs the boy and heads home.

  * * * *

  He waits for the newscast. The morning newspaper didn't mention the girl at all. Perhaps no one found her yet. Or maybe she's still alive, in the hospital, in protective custody? In a live mini-cam report, he watches as the newsman comes onto the screen. The reporter says just over an hour ago, a motorist discovered the body of a young woman from Dyersburg, Tennessee, killed on highway 412, another victim of the Interstate killer.

  He smiles; she died. He hears yelling coming from the neighbors’ trailer and turns off the television. He calls Jessie and goes to the trailer door. As he opens it, Jessie flops outside. He walks out on the small porch and looks across the lawn.

  He hears her shouting back and the sound of crashing dishes. Then, there is silence. He watches intently as she rushes out of the trailer with her baby, the little boy clinging to her torn dress. She makes it into the yard, but her husband follows her out. Her husband is drunk. His words slur, and he tries to grab the little baby, cursing the child.

  The bluegrass plays and the highway sings as he sits in the back seat, so small against the maroon leather seats of the enormous 1966 Buick Electra. Every time his father hits a bump, he flies around uncontrollably.

  His mother sits in
the passenger seat, clinging to a baby wrapped in a blanket. She cries and talks to the child in her arms. His father is angry and blames her for the baby. He slaps her with his right hand as he drives along the dark, deserted highway.

  From the back seat, he cries, too, and is answered by his father's hand. He has a large, nugget ring on his finger that leaves a mark every time he strikes him.

  The night is so hot; heat lightning scrawls in the sky. He leans up over the passenger seat to look at the baby. His father calls it a freak, a curse. He likes to look at his little brother, the freak with no arms. That isn't the only thing “freaky” about the baby, he thinks. His baby brother's face is disfigured, too. Dad calls it “the elephant baby."

  His mother cries, begging. His father accelerates along the deserted highway, his window rolled down. Lightning licks the night sky. His mother cries and screams as his father wrenches the baby away from her. She tries to pull the baby back, but he punches her hard in the mouth to silence her. She cringes as the highway sings. He helplessly watches his father hold his mother back as he drops the baby out the window. They drive on.

  He watches from the trailer porch as she, and her children, start walking. Her husband holds the car keys up and laughs. She begins walking toward the trailer park entrance on the highway. He calls Jessie back inside and shuts the door. He looks out the window and watches the blood red sun sinking over the highway. He turns off the television and turns on the radio. Bluegrass chimes on the AM station.

  He hears the neighbor's door again. He peers through the window and sees her husband stumble drunkenly into their car. As her husband peels out of the driveway, music echoes in the trailer. Picking up his keys, he goes out to the truck.

  He climbs behind the wheel, and the monster roars to life. Twilight paints the sky; he drives off in the direction of the car. He can see the lights swerving across both lanes of empty highway. The bluegrass plays and the highway sings. He accelerates and turns on his lights.

  He catches up to the car and follows until there are no houses, traffic, or witnesses. He flashes his hi-beams on and off until the car's brake lights illuminate, and he pulls over on the shoulder. He stops behind the car and waits with his brights on. After several minutes, her husband gets out and walks toward the truck with a baseball bat in his hand. He swears, swinging the bat threateningly.

  The man gets within five feet of the raging truck; he slowly depresses the accelerator until the engine howls with power. The front-end begins to vibrate. The man stops, takes the bat, winds up, and prepares to smash the headlights.

  "C'mon, asshole!” her husband yells. “Get out of the damn truck!"

  He stomps the brake to the floor, slams the truck into drive, lets up on the brake, and unleashes the pent up energy of the beast. Propelled by the engine, the truck pops violently forward and smashes into the man, sending the bat flying across the highway. The truck burns rubber as it wastes him, grinding him into the pavement.

  He is barely able to control the truck, but brings it to a stop. He U-turns and looks at the lifeless form on the broken black top. He cautiously glides to a stop near his victim, gets out of the truck, and walks toward the pulp spread across the highway. He's amazed at how much mess the victim made. He pulls out the latex gloves and fishes for the wallet from the man's bloody pants. This time, he takes the money along with the license.

  He returns to the truck, then drives off in search of his neighbor and her children. He drives for nearly an hour, just listening to the radio and thinking of her. He remembers the sweet white linen dried in the sun.

  Finally, in the distance, he sees her walking on the shoulder of the road. Her oldest boy clings to her—he was like that little boy once. On the radio, a bluegrass song with mandolins plays, and the highway starts to sing. He catches up to them and opens the passenger door.

  "It's dangerous out here; you shouldn't be walking alone."

  She smiles. “I don't know about that. It's pretty dangerous back there. I can't let anything happen to my kids."

  "Get in. I'll take you to my place."

  Reluctantly, she tells the boy to climb in. “What about my husband?"

  He looks at her. “What about him?"

  She closes the door, and quietly they drive back to his trailer. She looks at her empty driveway as they pull in. He sees concern in her face.

  "He's gone. I saw him pull out just after you left. That's when I came to get you,” he says smiling.

  She's moved by his kindness. “You didn't have to do that.” She softly touches him. “Thank you."

  They go into the trailer, and the boy plays with Jessie. She holds the baby close; he's asleep. “Would you like to see him? He's so precious when he sleeps.” She unwraps the infant's head.

  Nervously, he pulls the blanket away to get a better view. “He's beautiful.” He remembers his own brother, and a sense of justice comes over him. “He is just beautiful."

  "Nothing is more precious than a sleeping baby.” She gently kisses the infant. “I've gotta thank you for bein’ so kind.” Alicia leans close and kisses him. “I wish there were more men like you in the world."

  The Message

  "You are coming with us, aren't you Paulo?” Rita asked her son who sulked in the cold black leather chair near the window. “She was your wife."

  "My wife is dead, if you don't remember.” He stared out the window past the frosted grass of early winter. “Why don't you let her rest in peace? I've moved on."

  "Moving on is hardly what I'd call it. You didn't even mourn her properly. Only six weeks since the plane crash, and you're out with that slut Doris."

  "Mama, she's not a slut.” The words pulled Paulo back to reality. “Just because I've been able to let go and move on doesn't mean I didn't grieve. I grieved. She's gone."

  "How did I raise such a cold boy?” Rita touched his face. “If your father could hear you talking about your wife like that, he'd bust your butt."

  "How long did it take you to get over dad's death?” Paulo asked.

  "I've never gotten over it. It will be four years this January. I don't think I'll ever get over him, either. I don't think I want to."

  Paulo got up, turned from his mother, and moved about the darkly-decorated home he shared with her. Rita had moved in with her son and daughter-in-law right after Richie died of a heart attack while shoveling snow.

  Rita broke the silent moment: “Please come with your Aunt Sophie and me to see Francis. It'll put your mind at ease."

  "I'm not going with you two to see Francis. She's a fake. No one can contact the dead."

  "She talked to your father for me and your grandfather."

  "She made it up, Mama. She knew you and knew just what to say."

  "I'm getting your coat. You're coming with us. Sophie's going to be there with your cousin Bruce. You two can pout while Francis contacts Tina. Poor Tina, I loved her like a daughter, you know."

  "I know, Mama.” Paulo sighed, realizing it was useless to resist his mother. “Okay I'll go."

  They arrived at the house of Francis just moments before Aunt Sophie and Bruce. Bruce and Paulo shook hands and exchanged genuine smiles of friendship as their mothers gossiped. All four walked the narrow concrete path leading to Francis’ small covered porch. Rita rang the bell, and they all stood silently and waited.

  This was the last place Paulo wanted to be. He glanced at the faded wooden picture of a giant eyeball that rested in Francis’ window. Sure, he had heard about Francis and her powers to contact the dead. He couldn't believe it, though. Tina was dead. He'd moved on. No one knew why she was on the plane to Los Angeles, and he was content to let that part of their rocky marriage die in the East River with her. It would have killed Rita to know her son and her perfect daughter-in-law were about to separate.

  Suddenly, the yellowed lace curtains parted and a sour, shriveled face popped within view. Her bright green eye burned as she stared at the group; then she smiled when she recognized Rita.


  "Come in, come in,” Francis said while pulling the door open.

  She looked broken in half. The old woman stooped over her own feet in the throes of osteoporosis, and wrinkled skin cascaded down her face and neck. But that green eye found its way to Paulo once again, burning him.

  "Is this your little son?” She looked up and patted his behind playfully. “He grew up big and strong, eh?"

  Paulo accepted the teasing with a nervous smile. “And this is my cousin Bruce."

  "I don't think I've ever seen you, Bruce.” She took his hand. “You're an honest man, I can tell. Long fingers and small palms; you work hard at fine crafts."

  "I'm a jeweler,” Bruce replied with pleasant surprise.

  Francis turned to Paulo again. “Let me have your hand.” Before he could reject the offer, she had his hand in hers. “Hmmm.” She rolled his knuckles with her fingers, kneaded the flesh of his palms, and examined the lines all around. “Hmmm."

 

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