Conceiving (Subdue Book 3)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Bobby stuffed the padded envelope in his back jean pocket. “See you, Mr. Bryant,” he said, starting off toward the locker room. He was exhausted. Physically and now mentally. Beer and sleep were the two things he wanted more than pitiful excuses and goodbyes.

  “Bobby.”

  He stopped.

  “If you ever need anything, give me a call, okay? Anytime, day or night, doesn’t matter.”

  Waving his hand half-heartedly, Bobby went through into the locker room. The day shift had yet to arrive. And he wanted to get his things and leave before they did.

  Splashing cold water from the sink on his greasy face, cold snickering echoed near the front entrance, breaking the otherwise still silence. Looking up, Bobby saw the ginger stubby face of Mackey McGee. The stiff reminded him of some kids in his old neighborhood, before the Army and the war, real mean sons-of-bitches that’d soon as kick a wounded dog then help it. McGee’s goons came in behind him, both Walton and Nick. Luis wasn’t with them.

  Bobby snatched his beaten leather jacket from the spare locker and slung it over his shoulders. He was getting out of there, even if he’d have to linebacker his way through them.

  “Hey, Bobbs. Tough luck, man,” said Mackey, mocking a pout. His eyes gleamed laughter.

  Bobby kept walking.

  Mackey blocked the way.

  Bobby refused to make eye contact…God help him if he did. That old kindling fire rose in his throat. Clinching his fists, keeping the eruption of wanton violence at bay. He stood there, readied himself for whatever verbal abuse the fool sent his way.

  “But I guess you’re used to getting kicked out the door, huh Bobbs?” Mackey hummed.

  Don’t you fucking answer this shitheel. Don’t you play his game.

  “I betcha, you get kicked out of a lot of places, huh Bobbs?”

  Don’t…

  “Why’s that?” Bobby gritted his teeth.

  Shit.

  Mackey’s eyes glowed, vile and toxic. “Well, Bobbs, I’m glad you asked, I’m guessing its cause you’re a fucking worthless piece of trash. A bum, Bobbs. That’s what you are, am I right? Probably got a criminal record too, that’s why you can’t get hired on like us normal hard-working folk. I’m surprised that fat shit Vinny hadn’t canned you’re good-for-nothing homeless ass sooner. Guess he’s got a soft spot for street peddlers like you.”

  The laughter behind Mackey that’d been a low rumbling snicker now erupted into full blown hysterics. Both Walton and Nick were wiping tears from their eyes as they howled and hollard. A few other day shifters had come in, some smiling, others looking between them nervously.

  Bobby drew blood in his fists. “You’re the one who complained?” he whispered.

  “Complained? Bobbs, I set Vinny straight. I told him the truth, someone like you is nothing but trouble. Vinny’s got a soft heart, I’ll give him that, but like I told him, he’s gotta stop bringing in strays or he’ll get in some deep shit with not just the IRS but with the union reps too.” Mackey turned to his buds for confirmation. All nodded in agreement.

  Don’t do it. Walk away. You don’t need this shit today. Walk away.

  Mackey turned back to Bobby. “What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get the fuck out you fucking trash.”

  Bobby blinked, in that very brief moment, Yellow Eyes took control. He lunged. Relishing the look on Mackey’s stubby ginger face, turning from sheer joy to sheer panic, he struck him hard against the chin with his fist. His hand throbbed. Reeling back, ignoring the pain, he struck again and again and again. The goons watched in frozen disbelief with each crimson mist.

  Mackey fell backwards, knocking his head against the grimy tile floor. Nose obviously broken. Spitting out teeth. Puttering.

  Bobby fell on him. One hand clutching Mackey’s now torn button up shirt, the other rushing, pummeling, hammering on the bone and flesh.

  The ginger was beet red and starting to swell. Gore flowed from his shattered nose. Blood, smelling of sweet iron, sputtered from his split lip. Tearing up, Mackey looked at Bobby with one open eye, the other swollen shut, with a look of something between exasperation and horror. He cried out. One hand holding Bobby at bay, the other uselessly fending off the blows.

  Bobby struck again and again before finally stirring the crowd into action. The nameless day shift crewmen pulled him away, leaving Mackey on the floor, blubbering in a pool of piss and blood. His friends stood nearby, motionless; speechless. Perhaps too afraid to incur Bobby’s wrath.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” Vinny Bryant came in through the warehouse door. He stood in the locker room. Looking at Mackey on the floor. Looking at Bobby, now set free by the day crew. He turned back at Mackey on the floor, his face turning white as a ghost.

  “Get the fuck out of here.” With his gaze fixed on Mackey, Bryant pointed his fat finger at Bobby.

  Bobby didn’t move. He looked at Bryant, his shoulder heaving. Heart pumping. Those damn yellow eyes burning behind his blues, burrowing in his thoughts. He glanced down at Mackey, a bloody mess, near whimpering. He knew it was wrong. He shouldn’t have given in, but he did. He gave in and now he could feel that fear, his own fear, pulsing through him like ice, not because of what he did, but because he wanted more. He looked at the ginger fool and wanted to keep going, to bleed the bastard. To wear his head like a hat. To rip out his throat and lap up his insides.

  Jesus H….what’s wrong with me?

  “I said, get the fuck out of here, you fucking maniac. Get out of here before I call the cops. Go!” The veins on Bryant’s fat neck stuck out. His face turned from white to red. He gestured at the exit with a trembling arm.

  Bobby picked up his leather jacket from the floor and without looking back, went out the door. He could hear the story being conjured as he left. ‘Bobby started it, I swear. The bum’s a lunatic, Vinny. You shouldn’t have hired him.’

  Whatever. Let them say whatever they need to say to get them through the night. He didn’t care. He needed to leave. He needed a drink. This was the sum total of all his fears in taking on this job. It was a risk, with more than the thing hiding inside him, waiting for the next full moon. Sure, he certainly was paid less than a normal hire, still, the money was good, and more than that, he felt for the first time in a long while a turn to normalcy. He felt human. He felt like a man, as silly as that might sound to some. He was making a living. Normal, for once. And now all that was ruined.

  Chapter 8

  Texas Bound

  Neville

  Neville and Boris sat gobbling at the kitchen table. Gobbling is such a crude word to use, unless of course you’re a turkey and it happens to be Thanksgiving. But as the case seemed to be, given the emotional roller coaster both had been riding that morning, gobbling couldn’t be more of a perfect word. When Boris had gone to change shirts, Neville headed into the kitchen. Her mother would’ve been proud, she’d always insisted on domestic responsibilities, the wife being aware of her obligations to her husband, and so on. Neville didn’t care much for the way her mother seemed to degrade their sex. The Information Age was well into its adolescence, this wasn’t the 1950s or 1960s or 70s for that matter. Women’s suffrage had been going strong for the past ninety years or so. Still, she had a love of cooking, and she was comfortable taking on the role of housewife. Perhaps too comfortably. Boris, wise for his age, had never insisted one way or the other. He loved her no matter what she choose or choose not to do. She could have worked if she wanted, or, she could manage the household, as she currently was. On some level, despite resigning to everything her mother had drilled in her head since childhood, she hated herself for being so much like her. In the end, if they were going to have a baby, raising a family won the day, she wanted to be at home with her children, just as her mother had been home with her when she was young.

  Jeez, Neville thought morosely, stuffing another pancake into her already overstuffed mouth, what would Delta Sigma Theta think of me with all this white a
pron and pink polka dotted dress career?

  “Wonderful pancakes, babe.” Boris set down his fork and was taking a sip of coffee from his University of Mississippi mug. He grinned as he chewed. Jazz drifted quietly in from the living room stereo, some saxophone heavy jam by Charles Mingus.

  “Not bad,” Neville hummed nonchalantly, secretly pleased with herself. She shrugged, dipping her fork for another chuck of fluffy, syrup covered, golden brown pancake.

  “Not bad?” Boris gazed curiously at his wife.

  She winked.

  “So modest, my wife.”

  Neville closed her eyes, smiling too wide to be natural, mocking, teasing, showcasing bits of partly chewed cake.

  “Real nice.” Boris pretended to gag.

  Neville washed her food down with two gulps of coffee, remembering days long past, of their undergraduate years at the University of Mississippi, first dates at the local grindhouse. What was it, oh yes, The Grind. How droll, yet perfectly tuned with the campus life of late night obsessions and last minute study sessions. Cramming hours into seconds. Discovering for the first time aspects of life previously shielded by parental control.

  Boris was munching on a piece of bacon. Noticing his wife’s sudden attention, he smiled, displaying with pride flecks of bacon bits caught between his teeth.

  Neville glowed, giggling.

  Boris laughed, slowing down to take another sip from his mug.

  Late morning sunlight broke in through the window between the blinds, illuminating the quant kitchen and shared dining space in orange warmth. Neville took another drink, closing her eyes, enjoying the heat on the back of her neck.

  Finishing her plate, Neville wiped the residual droplets of syrup from the corners of her mouth on a napkin. She gazed again at her husband who had started in on his third helping of bacon.

  “So,” Neville started, “what’s this big news you mentioned when you came home?”

  Boris danced in his seat at the table. “Oh! I nearly forgot. The meeting this morning was with the University dean, Charles, you remember?”

  “Yes, dear. I remember, Charles.” Neville smirked, she’d never taken kindly to Charles. To her, there was something off about him. Nothing too obvious, just the way he was, the way he carried himself. A short man with his head always angled back, nose to the sky as if the ground itself was beneath him in more ways than provocation. He always had those ridiculous flowers clipped to his sports coat, typically white rose petals. His hair was parted directly in the middle, like a young Buster Keaton, without the charm or good looks. Charles had what her mother would have called a Napoleon Complex.

  “Charles asked me to stop by this morning,” Boris continued, seemingly unaware, or perhaps fully aware of his wife’s feeling about his boss, but choosing to ignore them at the moment. “I thought the meeting was about moving out of the associate position and into something more permanent. I told you Barnes was talking about retiring, right?”

  “I remember. Old guy, right? So the meeting wasn’t about your promotion?” Neville asked, playing around unintended Boris’ sidestep.

  “Yes. And no.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Well…Charles called me in. A position for full professorship, with track for tenure, has opened up.”

  “That’s great news!” Neville beamed, but looking at her husband’s strange expression, her glow dimmed. “It is great news, right?” she prodded.

  “It is. I have been offered a position.” Boris looked away.

  “So…what’s the problem?”

  “The position is at another university.”

  “Which university?”

  “Baelo.”

  “What the heck is Baelo?”

  “It’s a…huh…in another town. A small town.”

  “A community college?”

  “No. A full- fledged university.”

  “Where?”

  “Jotham.”

  “Where the heck is Jotham?”

  Boris gulped. Cleared his throat. “Texas.”

  Neville stared blankly, letting everything sink in. At first she thought perhaps she’d misheard him. “I’m sorry, did you just say, Texas?” she asked.

  “This is a great opportunity, babe. I know it’s not exactly what we wanted to hear. The University of Mississippi is a fantastic school, I love my students there, and I love the other professors. But I just wasn’t going anywhere because there was nowhere to go.”

  “What about Barnes? You said he was retiring.” Neville felt cold, shuddering with each passing thought. Texas? Jotham? We’d have to move…away from family. Friends. Our home. How far is it from here to Texas? At least 800 miles, give or take. Jesus H….why is it so far? Why?

  “Oh. Yes, Barnes. Well, Barnes changed his mind. He decided it’d be better for him to stay on for another couple years. Stay on the school insurance.”

  “Well that’s just great.” Neville meant every ounce of sarcasm.

  Boris glared. “His wife is sick. What would you expect him to do? Teachers don’t have the best medical benefits, if you’ve forgotten.”

  Neville could feel her cheeks getting red. The frustration seeped out of her like a popped balloon. “Sick?” she whispered.

  “Yes. The word is she’s got the Big C.”

  “Oh gosh, honey. I’m sorry. I’m just…it’s unexpected is all. Texas isn’t like driving down the street. This is a big move for us. All our family and friends live here.”

  Boris’s gaze softened. He looked at his wife with a seemingly remorseful expression.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “This is big news. I didn’t prepare you for it, it all just kinda fell into our laps. I’ll turn down the position, if you want. Stay on as an Associate with Ole Miss and wait for Barnes to leave.”

  “No. You’re right. This is a great opportunity, for both of us. Besides, isn’t this part of the risk of being a teacher, having to move around? So what, Texas isn’t that far away.”

  Boris perked. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Boris jumped from his chair and came to Neville’s side. He knelt and held her, kissing her neck, her cheek, her lips. “I love you,” he said. The stereo in the living room changed over to Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.”

  “I love you too.” Neville struggled to precipitate her husband’s good mood.

  Boris seemed to have bought it. He went back to his seat, gleaming, and nibbled on another helping a bacon.

  “When do you start?” Neville asked, returning to her mug.

  “This fall semester.”

  “Fall? Really? That soon?”

  “Apparently the school board there really needs the position filled. Charles said he’d pick up my classes, give us the summer to make the move.”

  “In the fall…” Neville whispered, more to herself than to Boris.

  “Everything will work out, just wait. You like small towns. From what I’ve heard, Jotham is a very quaint and friendly place.”

  Neville put on her best face. “Yeah, I think you might be right.”

  “I am.”

  “Texas.”

  “The Lone Star State.”

  “Will we need to buy cowboy boots and ten-gallon hats?”

  “Well, we want to fit in, don’t we?” Boris winked.

  Chapter 9

  Soul Food

  Luna

  Her nails would have ripped the steering, had she not already chewed them down to the stumps. The space inside the RAV4 seemed to shrink with each passing mile. Greenwood Family Practice was well behind them, but Luna couldn’t help but keep the clinic in the forefront of her thoughts and fears. Unanswered questions because of her grandmother’s arrogant, nonchalant, careless attitude regarding her own health. When a doctor tells you your time on this world is coming to an abrupt end, wouldn’t you at least want to know how long you have? Or what you could do to prolong what little time you had left? What medicines to help ease the pain? Right? Was sh
e going crazy for thinking ill of her apparently dying grandmother? If only Memaw had asked at least one question, maybe she could relax a little. But no. Memaw didn’t even seem to mind the news. And if that was the case, why in the hell did she summon her out in the middle of nowhere Delta, across stateliness, where in every yard a Confederate flag flies and you have to keep to certain parts of town, at certain times during the day, just to keep the peace? Why?

  Luna snuck a glance at her grandmother, tempted to take a peek, to touch her head and push into her mind, for something, some kind of answer. A horn blared in front. Looking back at the road, she swerved back into her lane.

  Memaw said nothing.

  Growling low, Luna searched for some place to pull over. A yellow-topped Waffle House came into view. Memaw clenched her cane, as if anticipating the sudden turn. The RAV4 jumped the curb, bouncing from side to side before coming to a stop in an otherwise empty parking lot.

  “Something bothering you?” Memaw asked, still holding her cane.

  “I can’t do this.” Luna waved her hands in front of her, as if warding off some sinister spirit.

  “Can’t do what, Lulu? You know the state took my driver’s license away.”

  “Not that.”

  “What then?”

  “This.” Luna made wide circle motions.

  “What on earth does that mean?” Memaw mocked her gesturing.

  Luna growled. “You know what I’m talking about. The doctors. You didn’t even care what he had to say, did you? Stage four metastatic ovarian cancer—”

  “And what about it, Lulu?”

  Luna gazed at her grandmother, her mouth agape, at a loss. “You’re dying. You know that, right?” she finally said, whispering the words as if they carried some kind of horrible power.