Lester closed the bedroom door behind him, and Ruth Ann wondered had it really been that long since she and Lester had had sex. Seven weeks? No, seven weeks and five days. She tried to remember the last time… couldn’t. Even if she could, what was there to remember, Lester hopping on and hopping off? Hello! Still, seven weeks and five days was far too long: a sex-starved Lester might get suspicious; even worse, if Eric blabbed his mouth, a sex-starved Lester might click.
A few hours later she awoke with a scream, “Noooo!” Looking about the room she realized she was safe in her bed. Shirley wasn’t chasing her down an alleyway, swinging an ax at her head.
A nightmare.
It had seemed so real. She put her hand to her chest and felt her heart beating arrhythmically. A silly nightmare, she told herself, because no way in hell would Eric tell Shirley; he’d be putting his own life at risk.
What if Shirley found out anyway?
Shirley would click, go absolutely ass-kicking berserk. She remembered when Shirley and she were waiting in the ER with six-year-old Paul, who’d broken his arm in a fall out of a tree, sitting on Shirley’s lap, whimpering.
As a nurse periodically called other patients to a room, people who looked in far better shape than Paul, Ruth Ann tried to make small talk, sensing Shirley was getting hotter by the minute. After the nurse called a man exhibiting no visible ailment whatsoever, Shirley stood up, gently put Paul in the adjoining seat… and exploded!
“You sumbitches!” she shouted. “My boy has been out here in pain for more than an hour!”
That said, the television was snatched off a stanchion and hurled across the room, landing with a thunderous crash near the entrance. A metal chair flew into the receptionist’s cubicle—the woman had fled before the television landed. The three people, a man and two women who were also waiting, ran out through a side exit… and Ruth Ann ran behind them.
In the parking lot she heard another thunderous crash and sprinted faster to her car. Three days later she saw Shirley and Paul, his arm in a cast, at Wal-Mart. Of course, she wanted to know what had transpired at the hospital, but didn’t think it wise to ask someone who’d clicked, and who in all likelihood would click again, “What happened?”
Ruth Ann sat up in bed. “Lord, what have I done? What have I done?”
There was a knock at the door. “Ruthie?” Lester said.
“Yes.”
“Someone here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Sheriff Bledsoe.”
Chapter 13
A special report interrupted the soap opera. Shirley lowered the volume by remote control. A short, fossil-looking man dressed in an ill-fitting suit, thick glasses, and thin silver hair above a wide forehead, flanked by a stone-faced Air Force general, talked for a few minutes.
The general pointed to a black-and-white video screen depicting a bomb destroying a row of buildings.
“Turn it up,” Eric said. “I want to hear it.”
“Eric, there were people in those buildings. People, human beings. All they give a damn is the bomb hit the target. The people don’t mean nothing. Go in the bedroom and watch.”
Her very voice pissed him off, something in the timbre that irritated him. The special report ended and the soap opera resumed. Shirley increased the volume and stared raptly at the television.
“I’m hungry,” Eric said.
“Hush!” Shirley snapped. “I’m trying to hear this.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Go to work and buy something to eat.”
“The truck broke. Can’t work till I get it fixed. You want me to push the lawnmower house to house like a bum?”
Shirley nodded.
“Why don’t you put some clothes on?”
“Why don’t you get the air conditioner fixed?”
“You still intend to buy that rich redneck woman a car?”
“Mrs. Avery, her name. She’s not rich anymore, and yes I do.”
“Woman fired you and you wanna buy her a car?”
“She didn’t fire me. She couldn’t afford to keep me on.”
“Same difference. Tell her buy her own damn car!”
“She has to walk to work.”
“I do, too! Give her some orthopedic shoes. Why you gotta be the one buy her a car?”
Shirley didn’t answer.
He stared at her sitting on the couch, chunky legs propped up on the coffee table, attired only in a large pair of pink panties.
She reminded him of the cartoon who pitched tires on the TV commercial. Tires for a belly, chest and legs. Yeah, she looks just like him. Only he doesn’t have stretch marks.
“Shirley, what if the boy comes in? You want him to see you naked, do you?”
“The door is locked,” not taking her eyes off the soap opera.
Not able to stomach the sight of her any longer, he got up, crossed into the kitchen and looked into the fridge. Nothing but diet food.
Damn! She’s getting bigger and I’m starving to death.
He slammed the door shut and picked up a box of Corn Flakes and a box of low-fat powdered milk. He rinsed out a bowl and spoon, shook out a cupful of powder, added water from the tap, and then, without stirring the lumpy concoction, poured in the flakes. He sighed and sat down at the table.
“Look, Eric! Come here, hurry up!” Shirley said. “Come quick, Count Monie just gave Lila a diamond ring.”
Eric remained in his seat. “I sure hate to miss that.”
“C’mon, hurry up!”
“Naw. My gourmet dinner might get cold.”
“Count Monie sure knows how to treat a woman. You could learn a thing or two watching him, Eric.” She paused, and then asked the question Eric knew was coming next: “How come you never romance me?”
Eric, a spoonful a few inches from his mouth, froze. Slowly he turned and gave her a hard, long look, starting first at her feet, talon-like toenails, to her linebacker-size calves, to her stomach, a series of rolls and folds. Above a double chin were thin lips, a small nose, brown marble-size eyes. Her short light-brown hair sprouted in different directions, a style Eric secretly dubbed Electric Buckwheat.
“Why you looking at me like that?” Shirley asked. He put the spoonful in his mouth and returned his attention to the bowl. “When are we getting married, Eric? When?”
He swallowed a lump of powdered milk. “Whenever you want.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m serious, too,” and forced down another spoonful.
She stepped into the kitchen and stood behind him. He focused intently on the bowl. “Eric, why won’t you marry me?”
“Good grief, woman, I’m trying to eat here! I said I would.” She caressed his neck. “Shirley, please, you’re disturbing my digestion!”
“I need stability in my life. Daddy’s death, you know what I’m saying? I’m almost thirty-six-years old.” She kissed the top of his head. “Paul will be ten next year. He knows we’re not married.”
“When we get the money we’ll get married. Then we can have a decent wedding and honeymoon.”
Shirley pulled out a chair and sat beside him. In his periphery he could see her large breasts spilling onto the table like two water balloons.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” she said. “If we wait till we get the money to get married, my family will think you only married me for the money. They’ll say you’re using me for the money. They’ll say you wouldna married me if not for the money. You see what I’m saying?”
“I don’t care what your family thinks. They don’t pay our bills—who cares what they think?”
“I do! I care a lot. We’ve been together the last thirteen years, then—Pow!—when I get some money we’re walking down the aisle. You see how that looks?”
“When I get some money? I thought we were in this together.”
“When we get some money. It doesn’t matter, it’ll still look the same. It’ll look like you married me for the money.”
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Eric put on his tough face and looked her in the eye. “Why you always worried what your family think? Huh? Who the hell are they? One’s a punk, one’s a hoe and one’s a nut.”
Shirley winced, lips pursing into a thin line. “Who’s the hoe?”
“Huh?”
“Who in my family you calling a hoe?”
“Robert Earl.”
She stared at him so intensely he looked away. “You know, there’s a lot of stuff you’ve done I’ve overlooked. A lot of stuff made me question my own self-esteem. You know—and you definitely should know by now!—I don’t take kindly to anyone talking down my family, especially my sister.”
Eric considered an apology, but feared another word out of his mouth would tip the stick on her broad shoulders. So he sat there staring at soggy flakes floating in lumpy low-fat powdered milk.
“And,” Shirley said, “now with my daddy gone… you know I’m not putting up with your bullshit!”
He noted the sharp emphasis on your bullshit. This wasn’t good. He could hear Shirley breathing, tense and raspy. He well knew not to say anything about her stupid family.
If he had known Shirley was the type of woman who would wig out, go spastic, fight and continue fighting long after her adversary had lost interest and energy, he would not have gotten involved with her. The air inside turned stifling hot. His armpits were dripping sweat.
Shirley said, “I know you were talking about Ruth Ann. Yes, she’s had a few boyfriends—she’s not a hoe.” He could see the shadow of her head on the table, rocking side to side. “She’s not a hoe! With your history you should never fix your lips to call anyone a hoe. Never!”
He wished she wasn’t sitting so close. A roundhouse to the side of his head, and lights out. He stood up. “I’m going outside, check on Paul.”
Shirley stood with him. “A damn good idea, ‘cause I’m itching to play double jeopardy with your ass!”
She moved past him, and an impulse suggested he sucker punch the back of her head. Do it!
Hell no!
If he hit her and didn’t knock her out, there would be hell to pay. She resumed her seat on the couch as he crossed to the front door. The air outside, though baking hot, felt cooler than inside.
“Shirley, I apologize. I don’t know anything about Ruth Ann. She ain’t a hoe—she just loves sucking dicks.”
He quickly stepped out onto the porch, slamming the door behind him… but it didn’t slam, didn’t go Blam!
He hurried down the steps, looking over his shoulder, thinking she wouldn’t come after him… Wrong!… She was right behind him… He yelped and cranked up to run… Too late!… A forearm wrapped under his chin and he was pulled up the steps.
She’s outside naked!
He couldn’t believe it.
He hooked his right foot into the balustrade. Now his body was suspended. “Cut it out, woman!” he said through clenched teeth. “Stop it, Shirley, fo’ the neighbors see us! Cut it out!” She pulled harder and his foot fell free. She almost had him inside the house when he grabbed either side of the doorframe.
“Stop it, Shirley! The neighbors watchin’! You hurtin’ my neck!” Hurt hell, if she kept pulling she’d break it.
Darlene appeared at the foot of the steps. “Shirley, is something wrong?”
“No shit!” Eric grunted.
“Help me… get him… inside,” Shirley said, panting. “Pry… his… fingers loose.”
If you do, Eric thought, I’ll burn your damned house down. Then, save his soul, he felt his legs being pulled in the opposite direction.
“Let him go!” Shirley demanded.
“No, Momma!” A child’s voice. Paul, his beloved son, here to rescue his father. Pull, boy, pull!
Shirley said, “Oh my God!” and let him go. He fell flat on his back with Paul still holding his legs.
“Let me go, boy!” Eric shouted, thinking he wasn’t out of danger just yet. Paul released his legs and he felt a jolt when his heels hit the porch.
“Daddy,” Paul said, “why you and Momma fighting?”
Eric looked over his shoulder. Shirley was nowhere in sight, the door closed.
“Why you fighting Momma, Daddy?”
He got to his feet. “Stop asking stupid questions, boy. Your momma wigged out again. I didn’t want to hurt her.”
“Hmmph!” Darlene snorted. “Looked to me you were about to get your ass whooped.”
“Go home, Darlene!” Eric said. “This family business. You can get hurt sticking your nose in family business.”
Darlene snorted again and walked up the steps. Shirley’s loud sobs drifted out when she opened the door.
“You hurt Momma!” Paul said.
“No, I didn’t. You saw her choking the shit outta me.” Paul poked out his mouth and balled up his fist. “You want some of me too, boy? Huh, do you?”
Paul moved around him, keeping close to the green aluminum siding to avoid coming within a few feet of his father, and then ran inside the house and slammed the door.
Eric walked down the sidewalk. Mr. Joyner, shirtless, sagging chest covered with gray hairs, was sitting on his porch. Eric waved at him. Mr. Joyner shook his head, didn’t wave back.
Thirty minutes later, Eric made his third pass in front of Ruth Ann’s house.
Two choices: either work up the courage to signal Ruth Ann or go home and deal with Shirley and that wayward boy. He walked to the end of the block, then turned and walked back.
Fuck this, before someone gets suspicious and calls the police.
But he had to see Ruth Ann, just had to.
Knock on the door and ask Hot Lips to go get Ruth Ann.
Lester wouldn’t think much of him visiting Ruth Ann, would he? Maybe, maybe not.
If Lester took offense, he might want to fight. Could he take Lester? Lester was taller and more muscular than he, yet Eric doubted Lester was quicker with his jabs.
What if he was bumping Lester’s head and Ruth Ann stepped in and helped her husband. Then what? And what if their psychotic son, Shane, decided to throw in a couple licks?
On his fourth pass in front of the house, the front door opened and Lester stepped out and sat on the porch swing. Eric lowered his head and picked up his pace. At the end of the block he wasn’t quite sure what to do.
Wait! Rewind the tape!
If Lester was outside trying to get a sunburn to match the skin around his lips, then Ruth Ann was inside, alone. All he had to do was sneak round back and signal her. Bold, but doable. He turned the corner.
He’d expected an asphalt alley; instead discovered a rancid creek streaming parallel to fenced and unfenced back yards. A large polka-dotted dog, untethered in an open yard, barked at him. He hoped it wouldn’t give chase.
A white woman came out and yelled at the dog to shut up, and her presence incited the dog to react more viciously. The woman gave him a wary look. He waved at her and kept walking. Will she call the police? He hoped not. At the back of Ruth Ann’s house he casually walked up the steps to the deck and tapped on the patio door.
“Ruth Ann?” attempting to whisper loudly. “Ruth Ann?” Something stank. Did they have a dog? “Ruth Ann?” He raised his right leg and inspected the bottom of his sandal. Nothing. He then noticed bones scattered on the deck. Neck bones! Why would they throw them here? Why not in the yard? A box lay near the neck bones. He picked it up. Juggernaut Gopher Bait.
What’s wrong with this picture?
“Freeze!” a man shouted.
Eric raised both hands and froze.
“Eric?”
The voice was familiar, though it wasn’t Lester’s. He turned and focused on the .357 Magnum the man beamed at his head.
Chapter 14
Reverend Rob Dollar preached on the television. Dressed in an Italian suit, gold cuff links, a Rolex on his wrist, diamond studded earrings in both lobes, he was holding a revival somewhere in Africa.
Each time he paused in his sermon titled Jesus
is Lord Over Your Finances, the crowd of Africans, most wearing rags too big for their thin, emaciated bodies, took to their feet and cheered raucously.
Someone’s holding up a cue card off camera, Leonard thought, signaling them to applaud. I’d bet not a one speaks English.
“I’m sorry,” Victor said. “I can’t go. Honestly, Leonard, you shouldn’t go, either.”
“You can just wait in the car.”
Victor, naked, extracted himself from Leonard’s embrace and moved to the window.
“Someone will see you,” Leonard said, “and we’ll get kicked out of this motel. This isn’t Chicago. You need to remember that.”
“You mean I’ll get kicked out, don’t you? I’ve been here alone all night. I don’t know where you’ve been.”
“You know I’ve been with my family.”
Victor drew the curtains open wider. Sunlight flooded the room. Leonard covered himself with a sheet.
“Victor, would you please close the curtain? Come back to bed. Please! If someone sees you, you might get arrested.”
“If only I’d be so lucky.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Guess! You asked—no, you begged me to come here and meet your family. Now I’m here you keep me hidden in this room while you’re off doing… whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Don’t be silly. If you’re insinuating I’m cheating, you’re wrong, dead wrong. There’s been a tragedy in my family. My mother needs me right now.”
“I need you, too.”
Victor could be such a… a bitch at times. “Right now my mother really needs me. It’s not fair you ask me to choose between you and my family during a crisis.”
“It’s fair you ask me to go track a psycho in the jungle?”
Leonard got up, hurried to the window and snatched the curtains closed. “He’s not a psycho, he just has emotional problems. I asked you because I thought you might want to get out for a minute.”
“Gosh, I’m so sorry. I misunderstood. All these years I didn’t know searching the jungle for a psycho was a source of entertainment. Pardon my ignorance.”
“The sarcasm not helping here. Southeastern Arkansas is not a jungle.”
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