by Lyla Payne
I consider the question as I finish my tacos and wipe my mouth. “Possibly. It’s kind of a hard thing to gauge when you’re already as far in the hole as he is.”
“True.”
“How was your morning? Did you have it out with your supernatural friends?”
She pauses again, getting up to clean up our trash, then stands at the sink to wash out our glasses. Uncertainty drapes over her shoulders like a shawl, an uncharacteristic thing for Gracie.
“I went to see this medium. Daria. To ask for advice.” She cuts a glance my direction and sighs at whatever she sees on my face. “She offered to let me come with her on some of her jobs. Just to observe.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” I say without thinking, surprising both of us. Gracie’s eyebrows go up and I stand, wrapping my arms around her waist and staring down into her eyes. “You need to figure out what this means for who you are, but you also need to feel confident in handling it. You’re alive. They’re dead. I want it to stay that way.”
I kiss the tip of her nose and smile. She returns it, slowly, and blows out a breath. “Maybe I will. I have to admit I’m quite curious.”
“Yes, you’re definitely that.”
She laughs at my teasing, wriggling loose from my arms to finish cleaning up. The clock on the wall says it’s just a little after three, which means we’ve got a few more hours before we can expect Amelia home—she has her therapy appointments on Fridays after she closes the library at five.
The fact that I didn’t tell her what really went down at my parents’ house, the niggling doubt that maybe what she’s not telling me is going to blow up in our faces tries to surface but I swipe it away. Just for this afternoon.
Instead of delving under the placid surface of the tranquil afternoon, I let her snag my hand and drag me back upstairs, where we dive under thin layers of clothing and soft sheets.
Chapter Six
Clete
“That boy’s on his way out here. The state employee. Be here in ’bout ten minutes.”
Big Ern interrupts a nice puff on a nice cigar—a payoff from one of my many “friends” down in Charleston. It was helpin’ me concentrate on my business plan for the new, legit moonshine contract that’s goin’ into effect in about two months, but all that’s shot to hell now.
My blood fairly boils at that William Gayle marchin’ out here like he owns the place, no appointment or announcement or nuthin’, but then again, the boy’s the one who got me the government contract in the first place so maybe bein’ rash with him ain’t the best course of action.
I nod at Big Ern, who ambles off without a clue that he ’bout took a lashing, but maybe that’s the reason Big Ern and I have had such a long-lasting relationship. The man’s as loyal as the day is long but if he ever had an idea of his own it’d die of loneliness. Then again, I got the brains in this operation. Too many cooks in the kitchen and all that shit.
“Go get Cooter for me, will ya, Ern? I need a favor.”
Cooter owes me, like every other moonshiner in these woods. Most of them pay rent, one way or another, and just because my own business is heading toward legality don’t mean all my operations gonna stick their heads above water. Cooter’s been getting too big for his britches since Glinda left him that godforsaken rat’s nest a ways over, and it’s time for him to pay the piper. So to speak.
Big Ern sticks his head back in the door and nods so’s I know he heard me, then leaves just as a pair of boots clomp up the first steps of my porch. Ern don’t wear shoes, and neither does my lady, so it must be the Gayle kid. I haven’t figured out how he can be of use just yet—he helped with those contracts because half the men in Heron Creek got some kind of boner for my new friend Graciela Crazypants Harper, no other reason—but seems to me I’ve got him over a barrel now that he’s stuck out his neck.
Hell, I got an affinity for her even if she does only have half an oar in the water.
William Gayle’s a good-lookin’ son of a gun. It kind of pisses me off, to be honest, but that won’t get me nowhere as far as usin’ him. Can’t stop my frown, though, or giving him the once-over in his too-fancy-for-the-woods getup.
He tips his head my direction, always polite. “Cletus.”
“William,” I reply in kind, because let no man ever say my momma raised a boy who misplaced his manners. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Thought you’d want to know I got fired for fast-tracking your liquor distribution request.” He holds up a hand before I can interrupt. “They’re not pulling it, so don’t worry about that. But you are going to have to deal with a new inspector.”
The news blackens my mood, which pretty much always stays in that range unless it’s money collectin’ day or I have a particularly good morning of squirrel catching. He annoys me, sure, but William and I have an understanding. He looks the other way more often than not since my infractions are minor and we don’t hurt any precious environments or creatures, not often. The chances of someone new showin’ up with a Howdy Doody attitude don’t sit well with me.
Could be there are people I could talk to about his untimely dismissal, but if the deed’s been done, prolly won’t do much good. I shrug like it don’t matter even though it’s puttin’ a major hitch in my get-along. “Appreciate the heads-up, my good man. If you’re waitin’ on a thank-you, well, we’re about done here.”
He nods, a crease in his forehead that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. The boy looks older since Graciela Harper came back to town, and even Clete’s got enough ears around Heron Creek to know that same event’s been causin’ some upset at home. Wasn’t my business five minutes ago since there wasn’t a clear way to use it in my favor, and it sure ain’t any more now.
The sound of oafish feet crunching leaves and sticks at the edge of my small clearing perks up my ears. Big Ern’s comin’ back with Cooter and I’ve got business to discuss that might still have something to do with young William, so it’s time for my unannounced guest to go.
“Allright, well…” He runs a hand through his blond hair, a conflicted expression in his light eyes that digs discomfort under the top layer of my skin. “I guess I’ll be seeing you.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” I demand, suddenly sure there’s something I need to know. My business with Cooter, who’s standing at the edge of my overgrown clearing twiddling his thumbs and pretending not to listen to my conversation, has to do with recent happenings in Heron Creek. If William Gayle knows something’s goin’ on in town that concerns me, he’d better spit it out. “You and I’ve always had us an arrangement, Gayle. I do my best to take care of the little birdies and snakes you love so much and you look the other way as far as my ’ffairs. Maybe you never knew that my end of this bargain involved lettin’ your life alone besides, but it does.”
He heaves a sigh, one that says he’s very aware that our forced association could have detrimental effects on his happiness at home. “I’ve heard a few things. New sheriff out here is working with Travis, new detective in Heron Creek. They suspect some of your underlings are using abandoned buildings closer to town to brew your shine.”
“That it?” That’s not news. My own eyes and ears told me ’bout that a week or so ago and we’ve been fixin’ to move the operation since. It must be something more, that’s what my gut’s sayin’.
“Yeah.”
I eyeball him to no avail. “Then scoot yer ass down the road. I got better things to do than stare at yer ugly mug.”
He turns, a slight smile on his face as he shakes his head. I make a mental note to call ’round later and see what people are hearin’ in Heron Creek and my other hot spots, then holler at Cooter. “Come here, old buddy!”
Ern takes my cue, disappearing into the woods like a ghost so’s Cooter and I can be alone. His unhappiness at bein’ summoned is clear in the slump of his shoulders and the twist of his thin lips. But he came, because landholder or not, I’m the king in these woods and Cooter knows it.
>
“Clete.”
“Cooter. I was wanting to know what happened in town the other night with that thievery.”
“It went like you said. We doctored the tapes so the new detective will see what you asked.” He pauses, toeing a teeming anthill and then stepping to the side once they boil over in anger. “Don’t know why you think we gotta go around the block this way. If you want to get rid of Travis, there are easier ways.”
“Easier, maybe, but not less incriminating.” And not less fun, I reckon. Besides, involving a fake ghost in the matter will kill two birds with one stone, since the fact that I like Crazypants Harper don’t mean I like the too-even ground we’ve found ourselves on lately. The high ground is always the place to be, which means I’ll be needin’ to find a leg up.
“Whatever you say, boss.” Cooter pulls a thumb drive out of his pocket and tosses it up on the porch. It lands at my feet, winking in the sun. It’s proof that he’s done what I asked. “Anything else?”
“Make sure Otis and Trigger get those operations out of town by the weekend. We ain’t takin’ no chances and our little scheme to get rid of Boy Scout Travis is gonna take a few weeks, at best.”
Cooter tips his shredded John Deere cap and turns to go, looking more than a little uncomfortable about turnin’ his back on the likes of me. Maybe because of the loaded shotgun leaned against my chair, or maybe because Sweetie Pie, my favorite huntin’ dog, been droolin’ at my feet since he showed up. Either way, it’s as it should be.
Once he’s gone, I take a few minutes to enjoy bein’ alone. My lady’s up sellin’ her famous wild blackberry jam at the country store and then she’s takin’ all them damn baby clothes she collected to the family with ten kids livin’ in a shack a few acres over yonder. Ern’s off on a collectin’ run, and the other guys have scattered, desperate to make as much shine as they can by the end of the season. I’ve got plenty to do to get ready for my first honest season, like makin’ some new partnerships to ensure my production will be enough to meet the requirements and watch the video on this here thumb drive, but I take a moment. Breathe in the humid air of the early fall and listen to the birds sing. Wonder when our bright pink camellias are gonna bloom and how many deer hunters gonna traipse through my property like fools in the next few weeks, and how many of them are gonna tear up the weed ain’t been harvested.
It’s nice, to sit a minute. There’s a lot goin’ on in the life of Cletus Raynard and if all goes as planned, he’s gonna have one helluva year.
Chapter Seven
Will
I spend the entire drive back into Heron Creek wondering if going to Clete was the right thing to do. It’s not that I owe him anything—news or otherwise—but staying on the good side of a criminal who could hurt the people I love doesn’t seem like the worst idea in the world. Clete acts as though he thinks my skull is two times too thick but the truth of our interactions has never been lost on me.
The fact that he’s helped Gracie, saved her life, and the hard truth that I lost my job helping her help him means the short list of people important to me is far more entangled with hardened criminals than makes me strictly comfortable. It’s because of Gracie, no doubt. The fact that she doesn’t see or doesn’t want to admit the dangerous line we’re all walking tightens my fingers on the sticky steering wheel, cold anger freezing in my veins.
There’s been so much fury lately that it’s hard to keep track of. Hard to pinpoint where it’s coming from and get control of it before it lands somewhere it shouldn’t. It’s not as though I loved my job—no arguing it couldn’t have been better—and this will hopefully give me the opportunity to find a new one with more pay.
It’s the stress, I think. Of raising a son, and thinking about starting over with all of the expenses for the little girl on the way. Of dealing with Clete and the implications of his businesses.
If I’m being honest, though, most of it started when Gracie came back to town.
She’s turned life in Heron Creek on its head whether she meant to or not. I know she didn’t. Gracie never intends to stir up trouble or make the people around her start thinking about life in a totally different way, or cause her friends to act uncharacteristically. It just happens, and after almost twenty years of breathing the same air as one Graciela Anne Harper, I knew it would be the same way now.
Melanie, bless her heart, thought it would be different. We’re adults now—she’s not wrong about that—but there’s something about Gracie that makes it easy to forget that fact. As though we’re back in middle school, going entire months without wearing shoes, when the worst thing that would happen would have been to disappoint her.
None of my self-reflection or self-awareness does much of anything to relieve my growing fury. I still don’t know where it’s starting, or what’s feeding the monster at the source, but unless I figure it out, and soon, more of my life is going to blow up in my face.
My phone dings. I read the text at the next stop sign and sigh, then pull into the Food Lion to grab Pull-Ups and fruit snacks for Grant. I snag a six-pack of beer for me and a bag of Oreos for Mel and check out, dumping the sack in the passenger seat and praying everything in the sack doesn’t stink like rotten oranges by the time I get home, like the rest of the car. There’s a good chance I smell like rotten oranges, too, which means if there’s any chance of me getting any tonight I’m going to have to take a shower.
For the first time in maybe my entire life, I’m tired enough to weigh the hassle of a ten-minute shower against the potential for sex—and since Mel’s at that sweet spot in her pregnancy, I really do have an above average shot at the moment—and I think sleep might win.
The light bathing the porch with the dusk of early evening, the same one that’s welcomed me home since childhood, does its best to heat my cold, dead insides to human temperatures. The sight of Grant peering out the front window, a huge smile on his little face, so much like mine, pushes me over the line, and by the time I cross the threshold into the blessed air-conditioning and sweep him up in my arms, the world outside these four walls doesn’t seem quite so complicated.
“Daddy!” Grant squirms in my arms, determined to either rub his cheek against mine or knee my testicles clean off. Toss-up.
I hold him a little ways away and devour him with kisses that make him squeal since I forgot to shave this morning. He twists and shimmies his way loose after several seconds and takes off for the kitchen like a streak, yelling for his mother and our golden retriever, Nell, to protect him. I trail after him, drawn by the smell of lasagna and the promise of companionship.
Mel’s standing with her back to me, tearing up lettuce and dumping it into a bowl for salad. There are bell peppers of every color, cucumbers, carrots, and a bag of croutons on the counter beside her, waiting to join the lettuce. The hunch of her shoulders betrays her stress, and the fact that she doesn’t turn to greet me right away gives off a warning surer than any state-mandated siren.
We’ve known each other too long for her to scare me. Even when she’s in a mood, even when I’ve been an asshole or Grant’s been up half the night puking or she’s way behind in her studies, seeing her makes me feel better. Today’s no exception, and as I watch her work, eyes trailing down to the swell of her hips and the nimble movements of her hands over the vegetables, I start to reconsider the benefits of taking a shower before bed. Maybe I could offer to bring Grant in the shower with me and get bonus points for taking him off her hands for twenty minutes.
I can add Showering with a person who stands eye level with my penis to the list of things I never thought I’d do before I was a parent. It’s a long and ever-growing list, one that includes quite a lot of entries containing the word poop.
Even though I wouldn’t call my hesitance fear, I’m not stupid enough not to approach Mel with caution. Instead of wrapping my arms around her waist from behind, an act of affection on my part that drives my wife crazy—not in a good way—when she’s trying to get dinner on t
he table, I pop the top on one of my beers and lean against the counter.
“Hey,” I try, determined to coax her into remembering why she loves me. This day has been full of too much shit for this house to offer only more of the same. “How are you feeling?”
“Great, if you mean the baby. She’s giving me less trouble than Grant did at this stage.” My wife shoots me a smile, the one that drives me wild. It’s a little shy, as though she’s worried about whether I think she’s hot the way I did when we were kids, but it doesn’t match the confidence in her eyes.
“Any luck on the job hunt?”
Her lips press together, giving me my answer. She glances back at Grant, who has gone back to a coloring book on botany, then to me. “No. I have a second interview with Harrington, though.”
“The CPA?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know he was expanding the office.”
“He’s not. Most of the year I would be a glorified secretary, but during tax season he’d use me to help do returns.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’d be doing his personal accounting, too, so I’d be able to use it as diverse work experience in a few years.”
It’s not fair. We’ve been scrimping by for a year and a half while Mel got her master’s, changed from education to accounting so she’d have a chance to make more money, and now here we are. At the point where taking a job as a secretary is the best possible option. At least in Heron Creek.
“We can move, Mel-Belle. We don’t have to stay here. There are jobs in Charleston or Beaufort, maybe Savannah or up in Raleigh.” The suggestion is limp, halfhearted. Not only because I don’t believe it will happen but because, of the two of us, Mel’s the one who feels like leaving Heron Creek would be akin to throwing away every single memory either one of us ever made.
Every one worth saving, anyway.
It’s not that she’s wrong about that. It’s just that I’m still undecided as to whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing for us.