314 wt-1

by A. R. Wise

  This was their beer, and she knew how it was supposed to be poured. As opposed to most brands, this one needed to be hard poured. Instead of daintily tipping a glass to keep the head from exploding, this beer had to be overturned and plunged into the glass. It was a technique that they’d taught a hundred guests, and it had a noticeable effect on the flavor of this beer.

  She took a long drink and then sighed in satisfaction. “I needed this. Thanks.”

  He put the two bottle caps in the garbage, which wouldn’t have surprised anyone but her. In all their time together, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him throw a bottle cap away instead of just tossing it onto the nearest surface.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked. “Or am I going to have to get you drunk first?”

  She sat on a stool on the opposite side of the breakfast counter from him. “My dad showed up.”

  He stiffened and raised his eyebrows. “Oh shit. Really?”

  She nodded and tilted her glass to watch as the foaming brown color of the beer slowly turned black. “Yep. He found me at a restaurant where I was meeting with a reporter.”

  “A reporter? What was that for?”

  She smiled as she recalled the start of her day. “My school surprised me with a new music room, and the local news sent a reporter to cover it. They wanted to interview me, so I met up with them at the China Buffet on Fairmont.”

  “That’s awesome, about the room and the reporter, not the buffet. That place sucks.”

  “I know, right? I hate that place.” She smiled as she looked down at her beer. It was nice to be with Paul. They understood each other, which was a comfort she direly needed. “All in all, I was having a pretty great day until Dad showed up. Turns out the reporter had interviewed him in Pittsburgh…”

  Paul interrupted her, “What? Why?”

  While the two of them had shared a lot, she’d never revealed anything about her history with the Widowsfield incident. “They were, I don’t know, doing a story on the king of assfucks or something. Doesn’t matter. The point is: He followed them to me.”

  Paul drank his beer and stared at her over the rim. She could see by his expression that he sensed she wasn’t telling him the whole story. When he lowered the glass there was foam on his mustache.

  He wiped his mouth on his arm. “Want me to beat his ass?”

  “No. I already had a guy do that for me. Now there’s a Dad-sized dent in the side of my car.”

  Paul frowned and his eyebrows sunk as if he were scowling, but his menace was comedic as he asked, “Who do you have beating up guys for you? That’s my job.”

  “Yeah, well you’ve been busy porking bar sluts.” She thumbed in the direction of the nearby queen bed that Paul had made up in an attempt to hide what had occurred there just hours before.

  “Hey,” he said as if offended, “don’t call my hand a bar slut. She’s a fine lady.” He wiggled his fingers.

  “Gross.”

  He ignored her condemnation. “I know you and your dad have a bad relationship, but is he dangerous?”

  “Uh, yeah,” she said as if he should’ve known.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, you never told me the details. You just said he was a dick, and that you never wanted to see him again.”

  “And I don’t.”

  “Do you have a restraining order or anything like that?”

  She shook her head. “No. My mom moved us back here where she grew up. I moved in with my grandparents after my mom…” She was surprised by the grief that swelled from the mention of her mother’s passing.

  “I gotcha,” said Paul to end the conversation and spare Alma the pain of recounting any more. “Maybe you should think about getting one now.”

  “Could I? I’m not sure I’ve got enough against him to warrant it. Hell, I hurt him more than he hurt me at the restaurant.”

  “Still might be worth looking into.”

  She nodded and took another drink. “Maybe. For now, I just want to stay as far away from him as I can. I’m afraid he’s going to show up at my place or something.”

  “Hey, if you want, I can go round up some of the guys downstairs and we’ll take you home. If the fucker shows up, we’ll make sure he never does again.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said sarcastically. “That’s the answer. We’ll just beat him to death and bury him in a shallow grave. That’s a good idea.”

  He tilted his head to the side as if convinced it was a good idea. Then he laughed and shrugged like he’d meant it as a joke all along. “I didn’t say anything about killing him, just hurting him a little.”

  “I didn’t come here to hire a hitman.”

  “Well, while we’re on the subject, why did you come here?”

  “I guess I just wanted to be somewhere that I felt comfortable,” said Alma. “Although it’s kind of weird here now. It’s all so different. In a good way, but different.” She drank her beer and scanned the apartment.

  “You know my offer still stands, right?”

  “What offer?” she asked.

  His shoulders sunk and he sighed, tired of playing this game. “You know what offer. I’ll always take you back. If you want me, I’ll drop whatever else I’ve got going on for you.” He looked away as if embarrassed, crossed his arms, and leaned against the counter on the other side of the kitchen. “I wish it weren’t true, but it is. No matter how many times you break my heart, you’re still my girl, for as long as you want to be.”

  “Stop it,” said Alma. His confession was everything she wanted to hear, and she felt her ears flush as blood rushed to her face.

  “I’ll always love you like a new favorite song.”

  She loved it when he said that, and he knew it. He grinned at her, and if it weren’t for her conflicted emotions she would’ve hopped over the counter and torn his clothes off right then. Instead she cleared her throat and said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “You know where it is.”

  Alma finished her beer and then headed for the bathroom, a tiny room that was the only private spot in the apartment. It had only a shower, toilet, and sink in it, and all three were jammed as close to one another as possible. She marveled at the cleanliness of the room as she closed the door and stared into the mirror.

  “Don’t do this, Alma,” she whispered to herself. “I can’t believe you’re going to do this.” She set her purse on the counter to search for her lipstick and perfume before doing her best to fix her makeup. “This is stupid.” She repeated the phrase over and over as she went through her routine, applying mascara, foundation, and even a pinch of glitter between her breasts. She winked at herself in the mirror and said, “You’re such a slut.” She was almost giddy, and couldn’t help but smile. The on-again-off-again nature of her relationship with Paul was torture most of the time, except for when they were just about to kick things off again. In these moments it felt like she’d just started dating someone, but without the nervous tension that led up to having sex for the first time.

  She stopped and stared into the mirror. “Do you really want this, Alma? Are you sure?” She thought about it, and then smiled as she nodded. “Yes I do.” She snapped the button closed on her purse, confident in her decision to rekindle her relationship with Paul, if even for just one night.

  Alma lifted the toilet cover to pee.

  There was a used condom floating in the bowl.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Doors

  Widowsfield

  March 14th, 1996

  “Well look at you two,” said the paunchy waitress at the Salt and Pepper Diner. Her red hair was curled and a pair of sunglasses was stuck in it as if she planned to leave work to enjoy the sunny day any moment now.

  “Hi, Grace,” said Desmond.

  “Hi, Mrs. Love,” said Raymond.

  “Hi sweetie,” Grace rubbed the boy’s buzz cut as she walked up to their booth. “Now, isn’t it a school day? What are you doing here now? Did school let o
ut early or are you playing hooky?”

  Desmond chuckled, slow and uncomfortably. He was a simple man, a mechanic at a garage a few miles out of town, and he lacked social graces. He wore all denim, with only a glimpse of the white t-shirt beneath his buttoned top. It was as if his entire identity revolved around his job, and even when not at work he strived to maintain a semblance of the uniform. “Well, Grace, I got Ray out early today. We’re on our way to our cabin in Forsythe for a little fishing over spring break. Ray’s been pretty excited about the trip. He didn’t even want to stop for food, but I told him I wasn’t hitting the road before stopping in to see our favorite waitress.”

  “Is that right?” she looked down at Raymond.

  “Yes ma’am.” Raymond was a sweet boy, but she wasn’t sure if he was simple-minded like his father or not. They looked similar, with thick midsections and squat heads, noses that were pushed in and jowls that jutted forth, but Raymond’s bright blue eyes were a defining attribute that contrasted his father’s beady black ones.

  Grace tapped her order pad with a pencil and smirked at Desmond. “You two aren’t planning on getting into any trouble, are you? You’d better not be cheating on me with some strumpet out there, Desmond.” Grace often chided him as if they were an old married couple. Her husband hated how flirtatious she was with patrons, but he was half a state away at a trade show and she needed the tips.

  Both Desmond and Raymond chuckled in an identical manner. Grace adored these two, and had known them for years. It was easy for Desmond’s mannerisms to make people uneasy when they first met him. His disability wasn’t immediately identifiable, which made people nervous around him. However, given time he always proved to be a caring, kind man. Nothing was more important in his life than his son, and he exemplified that with every waking moment. Grace rarely saw the two separated, and they were frequent customers at the Salt and Pepper Diner.

  Desmond also had a daughter, who was older and had fallen in with a bad crowd. She was often a source of angst for Desmond, and was well known throughout town for her drug habit. Desmond, who had inherited a large sum when his parents passed, had bought his daughter a cabin in town to try and keep her near him, but their relationship had crumbled over recent years. Grace thought that the way Desmond doted on Raymond was as recompense for his lost daughter.

  “Don’t worry,” said Desmond. “There’s no one for me but you, Gracie. Right, Ray?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right,” said Grace as she eyed them both suspiciously. “I’ll take your word for it. But you’d better keep an eye on him for me.” She pointed the eraser side of her pencil at Raymond as she talked about Desmond. “He likes to pretend to be a good boy, but you and I know the truth. Don’t we?”

  Raymond snickered and nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  “What’s it going to be today?” asked Grace, ready to write down their order. “Same as always?”

  Desmond nodded. “I’ll have the Salisbury steak, and Ray will have the BLT.”

  “Actually,” said Raymond, “could I get the grilled chicken sandwich?”

  Grace looked over at Desmond, surprised at Raymond’s order. “Well, heavens to hogs, the boy’s changing things up on us, Dezy.”

  Desmond looked nervous. “I guess so. His taste buds must be changing or something.”

  “No,” said Raymond. “I just want to try something new.”

  “Juan’s going to have to throw the chicken on the grill, so it might take a few extra minutes,” said Grace. “I’m happy to have you around as long as you’ll stay, but I know you’re in a hurry to get fishing.”

  “That’s okay,” said Raymond as he glanced out the window beside their booth. “We’re too late already. It’s past three. I want to try something different this time.”

  “You got it, kiddo,” said Grace. “Want fries with that? Or are you going to throw me for another loop and order coleslaw?”

  Raymond shook his head and chuckled. “No, ma’am. Fries would be fine. Thank you.”

  “Sodas for both of you?” asked Grace.

  They nodded.

  “All right, boys. Back in a minute.” She sauntered off and stuck her pencil behind her ear. Two plates were already set in the ready window between the counter and the kitchen, under the heat lamps. One was a Salisbury steak and the other a BLT. Grace tapped her palm on the shelf and her rings clattered on the metal, alerting the chef.

  “What’s up, Gracie?” asked Juan as he scraped the grill.

  “The kid wants a chicken sandwich, not a BLT.”

  Juan set the metal scraper on the edge of the flat grill and walked to the window. “No shit?”

  Grace stuck her ticket on the clip wheel above the divide and spun it for him. It was the only ticket on the wheel and he snatched it away to look it over. “What do you know about that?”

  “Times they are a changing,” said Grace.

  Juan looked as if he was about to respond, but then stared at something over Grace’s shoulder. “What the heck?”

  Grace turned to see what he was looking at. The street outside had been blanketed by a green fog. It was as thick as smoke and wafted over the street as if made of liquid. “Oh my gosh,” said Grace.

  “Do you know what that is?” asked Juan. “A fire or something?”

  “Not sure, but I saw something like this once. Back when I lived in Gary, Indiana, there was a junkyard that caught fire and all the tires burned up; sent a big cloud of green smoke over the whole damn place. Dollars to donuts the old Sanchez yard caught fire.”

  A blast of green electricity rippled across the air outside, sticking to light poles and dancing along the edge of a UPS truck down the road. The fog billowed and puffed, encompassing more of the view every second.

  Juan cursed and then said, “That’s no tire fire.”

  Dogs barked and small shadows raced through the fog, as if children were running by. “What in the blazes?” asked Grace as she stared out into the thickening mist.

  “Call the cops,” said Desmond as he walked with his son toward the front of the restaurant.

  “Yeah,” said Grace. “Juan, get the police.”

  “I don’t have no phone back here. You call from out there.”

  “God dang it, Juan, the phone’s two feet from you.” Grace walked behind the counter to the white phone beside the door that led to the kitchen. Juan stayed in his window, staring at the bizarre scene on the street. She dialed 911 and then waved at Desmond and Raymond to come stand by her. “Get over here you two, behind the counter.”

  “What do you think’s going on?” asked Desmond as he held his son’s hand and walked around the counter to join Grace. There was a black rubber matt on the ground that was perforated to keep the area behind the counter from getting slippery, but Desmond still slipped on its greasy surface as he walked over it. His palm thudded on the counter as he caught his balance.

  Grace shrugged as she listened to the pre-recorded message from the Widowsfield Emergency Services. “Hell if I know. Probably just some prank or something.”

  “Prank?” Juan’s skepticism came off as rude and demeaning. “Get real, girl. That’s no prank.”

  “Well, darn it Juan, stop just standing around,” said Grace. “Do something to help.”

  “Help with what?” he asked, still standing uselessly behind the window between the kitchen and front end.

  “Lock the damn doors or something.”

  “Shit,” he said as if she were being funny. “I’m not going near that door. Looks like the devil farted pure hell out there.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Desmond.

  Grace grinned at him and then turned to sneer at Juan. “Thanks, Dezy. At least we’ve got one man in here.”

  Desmond let go of his son’s hand to head for the door, but heard Raymond begin to rustle the silverware beneath the counter. He saw his son rummaging through the steak knives.

  “It’s all right, kiddo,” said Desmond. “There�
��s nothing to be scared of.”

  Raymond held two knives, one in each hand, and looked up calmly at his father. “Yes there is.”

  “Darling,” said Grace as she moved beside Raymond. “There’s nothing to be worried about.” She stood behind the boy and held him up against her waist with her hands crossed over his chest as she kept the phone perched between her shoulder and her ear. “I’m sure it’s just a freak storm or something. Nothing to be scared about. Okay? Nothing to be scared about.” She was clearly terrified.

  “Then why lock the doors?” asked Raymond in a near whisper. They all knew there was something worth fearing in the mist. It was as if there was an innate knowledge bubbling to the surface in all of them.

  Desmond spoke over his shoulder as he walked to the door, “Juan, if there’s a back door you should go lock it.”

  “Yeah, Juan,” said Grace. “Stop being a useless turd and go lock the back door.”

  Desmond turned the lock and Raymond pulled out of Grace’s arms as he screamed, “Dad, get down!”

  “What?” Desmond turned, perplexed.

  A brick flew at the front door from out of the fog. The glass shattered and the brick struck Desmond in the back of the head as shards crashed down around him. He staggered as Juan screamed. The cook’s voice was than a man of his girth should possess. Grace dropped the phone and tried to grab Raymond, but the boy was too fast for her. He bounded around the counter, still holding the steak knives, to save his father.

  The brick had broken the upper half of the entrance, and the mist surged in through the hole. Shards of glass broke and fell as the mass moved in, as if the mist carried weight with it. Desmond was on his knees as the crackling green electricity zapped on the metal door behind him. The silhouettes of children in the mist focused on the Salt and Pepper Diner. Dogs barked and growled as the children rushed toward the restaurant.

  “Ray!” Grace cried out for the boy, but didn’t know how else to react. She was dazed, terrified, and frozen in place. The phone at her feet continued to ask for her patience; her call would be answered in the order it was received.