About THE DAY BOB GREELEY DIED
It's August, 1952 in the small town of Sweetwater, Missouri, where a deadly drought has the residents begging for rain, and with it, mercy. But on this particular day, just another in a long line of dry days with three-digit temperatures, mercy will not be given. As the mercury rises and the power fails, gossip runs rampant and tempers flare, causing a handful of the most prestigious members of the community to point their fingers at Bob Greeley. Until today, Bob has lived among them as a friend and neighbor, but with his fate in their hands, that's about to change.
REVIEWS
"...this novel is spot on. It is the story of what gossip and crowd mentality can do, and it's not very pretty. This novel will make you think twice before you judge others..." -- Independent Review
"...I felt like I was there." -- Independent Review
THE DAY BOB GREELEY DIED
KIMBERLY A. BETTES
Table of Contents
About The Day Bob Greeley Died / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20 / Chapter 21 / Chapter 22 / Chapter 23 / Chapter 24 / Afterword / Excerpt from Before the Harvest / About the Author / Bibliography /
Chapter 1
Grace Greeley stepped out the front door of her little rundown house onto the small porch, letting the screen door slam shut behind her. Though it was cooler outside than it was in the house, the temperature was already close to 100°. And it wasn’t even nine a.m.
Taking the first breath of thick, soupy air, she felt as if she was drowning. Inhaling again, she still felt as though she couldn’t get enough air, like only the top half of her lungs were working. It was true what they said. It really was the humidity that would get you. And if humidity was what you were after, Sweetwater, Missouri was just the place to find it. The landscape consisted of rolling tree-covered hills with rivers and creeks and lakes scattered throughout, the perfect formula for a humid climate.
With her right hand, calloused and scarred from years of work, she wiped the sweat from her upper lip and walked over to the rocking chair. She sat and leaned back, worn floor boards creaking beneath her.
Sighing, she looked out across the yard, which was nothing more now than dirt and a few clumps of dead grass here and there, and she wondered when the drought would end. When the heat wave would end. When her misery would end.
It hadn’t rained in two months. Not a single drop of water had fallen, and it showed. The grass and flowers were dead, having given up their fight for life weeks earlier. The leaves had begun to wilt and turn brown, some of them having already fallen off the limbs of the trees months earlier than they should have. Even the dirt had turned to no more than dust. No longer dark, damp soil, the light brown dirt kicked up in little plumes of dust underfoot whenever anyone dared walk on it.
If it had just been the drought, it might not have been so terrible. But in addition to the oppressive heat, the blaze of the sun and the lack of water were difficult to endure.
And the humidity. Lord, the humidity was unbearable.
From inside the house came a crash, followed by indistinguishable shouts.
Grace closed her eyes and rocked slowly, praying for rain, just as she did every day. She felt beads of sweat form under her arms, felt them run in slow streams down her sides.
Moments later, she opened her eyes to the creak of the screen door. Without lifting her head from the back of the rocking chair, she turned and looked at her husband, who stood glaring at her with one hand on the screen door and sweat stains under each armpit.
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
“Just sitting.”
“Don’t you have something to do?”
“I have plenty to do, Bob.”
“Why aren’t you doing it then?”
“It’s hot.”
“Well it isn’t going to get any cooler. I need my laundry done and it won’t do itself.”
“I know, but—”
“Don’t but me. Get your ass up and get something done.” With that, Bob Greeley walked back into the house, the screen door slamming behind him.
Grace jumped at the sound even though she’d been expecting it.
She sighed, feeling worn down. And not just from the heat.
Bob didn’t understand that because of the drought, the water supply was low. Grace had been conserving water for a long time, fearful that the well would run dry. Her husband didn’t understand that because he hadn’t been conserving anything.
He made it seem as though he had no clean clothes, as if he was forced to roam the house nude. He was already dressed for the day, wearing his favorite black trousers and green short sleeved button down shirt. It’s not as if he needed his clothes washed at that very moment, but he certainly acted as if he did. That was his way.
Reluctantly, Grace rose from the rocking chair and pulled the skirt of her worn dress away from her hot skin, where it clung tightly to her damp back and legs. She didn’t want to go in the house. She also didn’t want to stay on the porch. What she wanted, what she really wanted was be somewhere else. Anywhere else, where snow was falling and the temperatures weren’t in the hundreds. It wouldn’t even have to be somewhere cold and snowy. She’d happily settle for a place with no humidity, and perhaps a cloudy day with temperatures in the 70s. Just anywhere but Sweetwater, Missouri in the middle of August, 1952. The hottest summer she could remember.
She stepped into the house, held her hand behind her to catch the screen door so it would fall closed quietly instead of slamming shut. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust from the bright sunlight to the darkness of the house. When they did, she saw Bob sitting on the couch drinking a beer, feet propped up on the coffee table.
“Little early for that, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Mind your business, woman.” He raised the can to his lips and drank as condensation fell from the can to his shirt, adding another wet spot to the collection.
Grace wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand as she headed into the kitchen.
Bob called out, “Make me some breakfast.”
“There’s bacon and gravy left from when I cooked earlier,” she answered. She wanted to add that if he’d gotten out of bed when she had, he could’ve eaten breakfast with her. But she kept her mouth shut and left it alone.
“I don’t want your leftover shit. Make it for me fresh. With eggs. I want eggs.”
“Of course you do,” she mumbled to herself. “You want anything that’ll dirty up a bunch of dishes that I’ll have to wash.”
As much as she didn’t want to stand over a hot stove in a hot kitchen on a hot day, she cooked eggs and a fresh batch of gravy for her husband. She considered reheating the leftover gravy and fooling him into believing it was fresh, but she remembered the last time she tried that. The one and only time. That was all it took for her to learn her lesson.
After fixing her husband a plate, she called him into the kitchen to eat, eager for him to be done and out of her way. He didn’t have to work because it was Saturday, but she hoped he had plans that would take him out of the house. He usually did, and she certainly hoped today was no different. She was too hot and miserable to have to put up with him all day.
Without speaking, he walked into the kitchen, yanked the chair away from the table, plopped down, and began shoveling food into his face.
Grace started out of the room, planning to gather Bob’s dirty laundry and get started on the wash before it got any hotter, but he called her back.
“Where yo
u goin’?” he asked with a mouthful of egg.
“I was going to do your laundry. Since it won’t do itself,” she added.
Bob used his foot to push a chair away from the table. With his fork, he pointed to it. “Sit. Keep me company.”
Grace sighed and slowly walked to the table where she sat and folded her arms across her chest. It wasn’t that he didn’t know that the longer she waited to do his laundry, the hotter it was going to be. That she had to stand out in the sun, in the heat, to do the wash. He knew all those things. He just didn’t care.
Bob looked at Grace. “These eggs taste like shit,” he said as he shoveled another forkful into his mouth.
“Sorry,” she said, though what she wanted to say was make your own damn eggs, then.
He nodded. “You should be. I don’t enjoy shit for breakfast.”
Grace wanted to tell him where he could shove those eggs, but she kept her mouth shut. Another lesson learned long ago.
“Get me a beer.”
Standing, Grace once again pulled her dress away from her wet skin. From the ice box, she retrieved another beer for Bob. With her back to him, she put the can against her forehead, then her neck. The cold metal felt good against her skin. It wasn’t much in the way of relief, but it was better than nothing.
“What the hell’s taking you so long?” he barked.
Quickly, she turned and walked over to the table, where she set the can in front of him and returned to her chair. Once seated, she noticed he was looking at her. When her eyes met his, he looked down at the can, and she realized he expected her to open it. He’d left the can opener in the living room, so she got up and went to fetch it. When she came back, she opened the can, placed the can opener on the table for when he inevitably ordered her to get him another, and then she sat again.
“How many beers I got left?” Bob asked.
Grace watched a glob of egg drop from his mouth as he spoke. Her eyes followed the yellow goop from his lips to the plate, where it lay amongst the rest of the shitty eggs. Without looking away from the fallen food, she answered, “Three.”
After stuffing his mouth with more food, Bob said, “That ain’t gonna cut it. I’m gonna need some more.”
“Well, what are your plans for the day?”
Bob stopped chewing and glared at Grace. “What difference does it make what my plans are?”
“I was just thinking that if you were going out, you could stop at the market and buy some more beer. That way I won’t have to go out.”
Bob shook his head. “You can go. It won’t kill you.”
As she watched him, Grace struggled to recall why she’d ever married him. It was something she found herself thinking about more and more often these days. Looking at him now, she could barely remember the strapping young man that had courted her in 1940. Though it was only twelve years earlier, she really had to think hard to see him the way he used to be, with his hair styled, his face shaved, his suits crisp, and his shoes shined. She’d long ago forgotten the way he used to smell, which had always been something she thought she’d never forget.
All the things she used to love about him were gone, and it was more than just his appearance. He didn’t open the door for her the way he had in the beginning. Never pulled out a chair for her. Didn’t compliment her appearance, but sure was quick to point out anything he found wrong with the way she looked. He didn’t talk to her anymore. He talked at her, usually down to her as if she was stupid. He spent no real time with her. When he was home, he was sitting in the living room drinking beer and listening to the radio. Most of his time was spent away from home, either at work or with his friends. He didn’t tell her what he was doing when he was out, and she didn’t ask. She had stopped caring a long time ago.
Now this was her life, staring at her husband in quiet disgust, waiting for it all to end.
When they were dating, she had imagined a great life together, and Bob had made it easy to do so. They had spent a lot of time talking about the nice home, the big family, and the great relationship they would have together. Now here she sat, twelve years later, and she had none of those things.
They had a house, not a home. And it was far from nice. It was small and the worse for wear, much like Grace. And much like Grace’s life, it was at the end of a long, rough road.
Her dreams of a big family died many years before, when she realized she would never have a child. They’d tried in the beginning, but after years of failed attempts, Bob had given up. Shortly thereafter, so did Grace. They never had a child. They never even had a dog, which left Grace with a lot of love to give but no one to give it to.
And as for their relationship, well that was pretty rotten too. Grace woke up every morning hoping Bob would leave quickly so she could go about her day without him in the way, looking over her shoulder and barking out orders.
Sure, it was a miserable life. She cooked and cleaned all day every day. She rarely went out of the house, and when she did it was to the market. She didn’t mind so much the silence of her days, where the only sounds she heard were those of clanking dishes or fabric scraped across the washboard. When it all became too much, she turned on the radio and was comforted by the songs of Hank Williams, Hank Snow, Fats Domino, and all her other favorites.
She could stay to herself in the little house at the end of the road. She could bury herself in the menial tasks of cooking and cleaning. She could sing along with the radio and talk to herself in order to hear a human voice, but there was one thing that Grace couldn’t do. She couldn’t deny that she was lonely.
Looking at her husband now made her feel even lonelier. Though they were only a few feet apart, a chasm lay between them.
After downing the last of his beer, Bob slammed the can on the table and gruffly said, “Get me another.”
Grace did as she was told, eager to get him out of the house. She stood and didn’t even bother to pull the thin fabric away from her damp skin this time. With her dress clinging to her back, butt, and legs, she went to the ice box once more. She reached for a beer with one hand and wiped the tear from her eye with the other. She took the cold can straight to Bob without pressing it to her hot cheeks or forehead. She didn’t care this time. In fact, she hoped for the heat to take her, for her body to burst into flames and consume her soul, for the suffocating humidity to fill her lungs and steal her breath, for her misery to end.
Grace set the beer down in front of Bob and walked away, though she didn’t leave the room. He would’ve just called her back. Instead, she walked over to the window that faced the back yard and folded her arms across her chest.
She looked at the wash bucket setting amidst the brittle, yellowed grass, right where she’d left it. It contained the same water she’d used the last time she’d done laundry. At least what was left of it. It very well may have all evaporated by now. A drought this severe would do that. It would dry the water right out of a person’s eyeballs if they weren’t careful.
“When are you going to the market?” Bob asked.
Closing her eyes, Grace replied in a defeated tone. “Later. After I do your wash.”
“Thought you didn’t want to go.”
She hated when he provoked her like that, but she didn’t let it show. “I don’t want to go. But we need another block of ice for the icebox, and I think I’m going to buy some Coca-Cola.”
“We can’t afford Coca-Cola, woman. Have you lost your mind?” He chuckled.
Grace glanced over her shoulder at him. He sat there, drinking his beer, telling her she couldn’t afford some soda pop. It was horribly unfair, and it made her feel as though she meant nothing at all to Bob. At this point in their marriage, she didn’t figure she did. If he cared anything at all about her or her happiness, he not only wouldn’t make her walk all the way to town in the heat, but he would allow her a soda. She didn’t ask for much, and Lord knows she didn’t get it, but she sure would like a Coke.
From where she stood near the window
, she watched as he tilted his head back and gulped down the beer before slamming the can on the table and standing. He stood too quickly, sending his chair falling over behind him, causing him to lose his balance and wobble on his feet. He got tripped up in the legs of the overturned chair and nearly fell. Had he not grabbed the wall behind him, he would’ve gone down hard. But he braced himself and remained upright, though he certainly looked awkward.
Grace giggled. She couldn’t help it. He looked so silly trying to stay on his feet.
The moment Bob realized he wasn’t going to fall was the same moment he realized his wife was laughing at him. His cheeks turned red and he stepped over the chair, rushing toward Grace. Before she knew what was happening, he swung at her.
The back of his hand connected solidly with her cheek, the force of it knocking her face against the window. As Grace pulled away, shocked, she saw the bloody smear on the glass.
She didn’t look at Bob. She didn’t want to, and she certainly didn’t need to. She knew what he was doing. It was the same thing he always did when he drew blood from her. He was looking at her, then at the mess, and then back at her. A few seconds later, he said the same thing he always said.
Without a note of remorse, a trace of guilt, or a smidgen of regret, he said, “Clean this up.” He then walked away, leaving Grace to fight back tears with a quivering chin and to clean her blood from the window with a wash cloth.
She listened to Bob’s retreating footsteps, felt the drops of blood spilling from her nose and plopping onto her hand, and she hated him. She hated that she had to lie beside him in bed each night. Hated that she had to clean up after him. Hated that she was tied to him, to this house, to this life. Hated how he made her feel. Hated the things he said and did to her. And she hated that she hated him. When she spoke her vows, she took them seriously. She never wanted to hate her husband. Never wanted to cringe at his touch. To fear him. To despise him. But she did.
The Day Bob Greeley Died Page 1