by Alan Lee
“Wow,” he said. “I bet you really were an awful preacher.”
“Unbelievably bad. I went from being a self-destructive cop to the head of the youth outreach at a church in two weeks. I was awful.”
“They must have been desperate.”
“We both were.”
“When is this little guy’s bedtime?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“So am I a heathen?” he asked.
We sat on my dock in canvas folding chairs watching the water. The sun was setting earlier recently and would only be up another thirty minutes. We both wore bug spray. A baby monitor hissed quietly beside me.
“Going to hell?” he asked again.
“I don’t know. I suppose that’s up to you and Him.”
“I’m a pretty good guy,” he said.
“You’re better than that. And a great father. But I don’t know if that’s what matters.”
“I hope it is.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Keep praying for me. Maybe I’ll come around.”
“Hm. Prayer. I should start that.”
“Thanks for saying I’m a good father.”
“Great father. And you’re welcome.”
I was getting ready to fill him in on the Mackenzie Allen murder investigation but I noticed that the jet ski I’d been watching was headed for our dock. The driver came in quickly but killed the engine and floated peacefully up to and nudged the bumper around the sides of the wood.
Taylor Williams stepped off the jet-ski and tossed a rope around the wooden pole, loosely securing her craft. She was dressed in running shoes, no socks that I could see, small black running shorts that showed off her tan athletic legs, and a white, long-sleeved T-shirt that hugged her chest. Her hair was back in a ponytail.
She put her hands on her hips and smiled at my father. I could get a tan from her smile.
“You’re always here when I come around, aren’t you,” she said.
“Lucky me,” my father said and stood.
“I’m Taylor.”
“Hi Taylor. Nice to meet you again. I’m Mack’s father.”
“If the family resemblance continues another generation,” she said, shaking hands, “then Kix will be the third handsome August in a row.”
“I used to worry about Mack,” he said and he sat back down. “He was an ugly baby.”
Taylor somehow managed to perch on the arm of Dad’s chair. Impossible to be comfortable, but she made it look good. She crossed her legs, and her arm went around his shoulders.
“I’m one of the many girls glad it didn’t skip a generation,” she said.
“Even with this new haircut?” he asked, pointing at me.
“Especially with. I’ve come to ask him out on a date with me.”
“Modern woman,” he said.
“No, just impatient. He’s taking his sweet time.”
“Never a bright boy,” he agreed.
“Lucky he’s so pretty.”
I wondered if either of them could see me. I kept quiet, in case they couldn’t. To kill time, I wondered how so many people knew where I lived.
“Is he busy tomorrow?”
“No ma’am. And I’m the babysitter.”
“Brilliant,” she beamed. “I’ll email him directions. He can pick me up at two. We’re going to a local hunt club.”
“Which is what?”
“A few of my friends have a hunt club. Sort of like a building just for boys and their guns. Sometimes they invite us girls, but I’m boyless. So I’m borrowing Mack for the day. Tell him to bring his gun.” She looked at me. “You do have a gun, don’t you?”
“Just little ones.”
“Disappointing. Even I have a pistol. Bring what you have. Maybe one of the other boys will play nice and let you borrow. You won’t let him forget?” she said, and put her hand on Dad’s shoulder.
“Never.”
“Fabulous. Well, I’m off before the sun sets. You two won’t watch while I bend over to unmoor my boat, will you?”
“No ma’am,” he said.
“We’ll probably just try to figure out what moor means.”
“See you tomorrow.” She smiled and skimmed back across the lake. Small waves lapped against the shore in her wake.
“Yowzah,” my father said.
“Yup.”
“Kinda hard to breathe when she’s around.”
“You should see her at work when she’s not dressed so modestly.”
“Going to keep practicing the tenets of your faith tomorrow night?” He grinned.
“I hope.”
28
Taylor lived in a rented guest house that belonged to someone I could only assume was the king of another country, based on the size of the main house. Both sat on the northwest shore of Lake Gaston, opposite mine on the southeast side. The north shore was where all royalty vacationed, apparently.
I had no idea what to wear to a hunting party, so I decided to go rugged rather than regal. Boots, jeans, long-sleeved tee with a casual jacket to hide my shoulder rig. I only brought my Kimber .45. Taylor ducked into my car wearing sandals, white jeans, a blue Henley shirt, diamond earrings, cross necklace and a chunky white bracelet.
She looked at me, lit up the car with a smile, and said, “Hiya stranger.”
“You should never get into cars with strangers.” I smiled back. It felt pathetic next to hers.
“What about if he’s handsome?” she asked.
“Not even if he has candy.”
“You brought candy?” She sat up straighter, smile still going strong.
“It’d have been great if I had,” I said.
“Even greater if you had a nice car.”
“Now it’s personal.”
“I’m just being honest. You drive an old man’s car,” she said.
We sped away from the lake, northwest into Bracey on Blackridge. Our conversation revolved around students in our classes, and comparing horror stories. She complained about my car, complained about her car payments, and complained about our coworkers.
“Turn left here,” she said. “Down this gravel road.” I obeyed. “I think you’ll probably be the only guy here without a truck.”
“You mean the only guy not compensating?”
“You should tell them that.” She arched an eyebrow.
“Sure. I enjoy fighting five guys at once.”
The hunt club appeared to be a glorified shack in an evergreen clearing. Behind it, barely standing, was an even more dilapidated building, which Taylor called a skinning shed. I parked beside several trucks. If I looked way, way up I could see the door handles.
A girl came crunching across the gravel to hug Taylor hello.
“Well, well,” she said, as she hugged Taylor’s arm. “Who is the hunk?”
“He can hear you,” Taylor whispered back.
“I don’t care.”
“This is my hunk. Mack. Mack, this is my best girlfriend from high school, Carla.”
Carla was small and collected and stylish. Her smile seemed sincere and her eyes were warm. All of her clothes were stenciled with name brands.
“Mack, this is my husband Sam,” she said, as a wiry, medium-built man walked up. Sam stood shorter than me. He was loosing some of his light-brown hair, but even with all of his hair he wouldn’t warrant Carla based on appearances. He looked like he was funny. I hoped not funnier than me. We were dressed similar.
He shook my hand.
“Hi Mack.”
“Sam. Carla.”
“You’re, ah,” he said, looking up at me. “You’re a big guy.”
“I pad my shoes.”
“Still though. I’m a little intimidated.”
“You want to feel his muscles?” Taylor asked.
Carla nodded. “Yes please.”
“You may not feel my muscles,” I told Sam.
“Well, now I want to.”
The four of us walked to the shed. Taylor w
rapped her arm around mine. I concentrated on keeping my feet falling one after the other.
Two guys stepped out of the hunt club. Big guys. As tall as me. Both had facial hair. Neither looked funny like Sam. At least I could wrap up second place in the funny contest.
“‘Bout time, girlie,” said the one with short hair and goatee.
Taylor squeaked, left me, ran with her arms up and hugged him. A lot of the eighth-grade girls in my class did the same thing to their boy friends. He hugged her back and shot me a look, like “See, my territory,” before she left him to hug the other tall guy. Now I recognized the second tall guy. Roy, from school. The agriculture teacher. Not my biggest fan.
Tall Guy Number One inspected me. “So who’s the new guy, girlie?”
“You can call me new guy,” I said. “I like it.”
“Funny guy.”
“Even better.”
“Aaron, this is Mack. Mack, Aaron,” she said.
Aaron appeared to be a big, strong, lumbering fellow. He wore a red flannel shirt. Maybe he sold paper towels. He did his best to crush my hand in his. I did my best to hold back tears. He was almost, but not quite, as big as me.
Roy spared me a glance. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Every party needs a pooper.”
Two more girls walked out of the shed. Neither looked particularly thrilled to be there, nor thrilled to see Taylor, nor did they introduce themselves to me.
“Mack, that’s my wife, Pam,” Aaron said. “The mean one.”
“I like her already.”
“And that’s Roy’s wife, Marie. The meaner one.”
This was weird. Everything about it.
Taylor pulled me into the shed. The inside had dingy carpet, photos of deer carcasses hung, and a swinging lightbulb. Great place for a poker night. Odd place to call a club. Guns were collected within an open chest that stood in the corner.
“See? Very manly,” she said.
“Think I should spit? Prove I belong?”
“Please don’t. Isn’t Aaron great? We used to go out.”
“The greatest.”
“Think you could beat him up?”
“I’m positive I can outrun him.”
“Still think your dick is bigger than his?” she asked.
My date was so classy.
Carla walked in and wrinkled her nose at Taylor.
“Looks like Dumb and Dumber are in foul moods,” she whispered.
“What else is new,” Taylor said, and she explained, “The two wicked wives. We hate those bitches.”
“Then why come?” I asked.
“For the boys,” Taylor said. Of course. My uncomfortable meter was beeping faster. “Aaron is a lumberjack. A forester.”
“Definitely can’t beat him up.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“Wuss.”
I agreed.
Aaron and Roy played with their rifles and shot at targets for the next hour. I slowly figured out the scene.
Aaron and Roy invited Taylor to show off. The three of them went to high school together and old habits died hard. They invited their wives to keep them happy. The wives came to keep an eye on them and glare at Taylor. Taylor came to flirt with the boys and make the two wives jealous. Carla came to keep Taylor company and gossip about old friends. Sam came because his loved his wife and appeared to be just as uncomfortable as me. I was invited to…compete, I suppose? Taylor and the other girls sat up straight and applauded when one of the guys shot a can. Everyone except for the two gun-toting giants sat on a few blankets and ate crackers, cheese and chips. I moved away from my date so she’d quit trying to put food in my mouth. At least the sun was out.
I sat near Sam to test my funny skills. I liked him. Good guy. A website designer. He was funnier than me. I wondered how I could accidentally shoot him.
“Hey Mack,” Aaron called. “Want to give this a try?” They had broken out clay pigeons and a hand trap to throw with.
“Oh yes,” Taylor called. “He used to be a cop! Maybe he can shoot as well as you, Aaron.”
“Well,” Aaron chuckled. Clearly the notion was absurd. I didn’t think Aaron’s brain could handle such a ridiculous idea.
“C’mon, city boy,” Roy said. “Got you a shotgun all loaded up.”
I stood.
“Can you shoot?” Sam asked.
“I can probably miss my foot,” I said. “So that’s good.”
The weeds around Aaron and Roy were littered with shells and cartridges. Taylor cheered and clapped as Roy handed me the gun. Double-barreled twelve gauge. I looked for the break release.
“Know how to work that?” Roy asked.
“Golly, I hope so.”
“Loaded it up for you.”
“You ready?” Aaron said. “Here we go.”
He flung the trap forward and the spring-loaded arm launched the red clay disk high and far into the fall air. I raised the shotgun to my shoulder. Before I could zero in, a second pigeon followed.
I thumbed the safety off, which I believe disappointed them. He had thrown fast so I aimed fast, took a breath and held it.
Shotguns do not sound like the pleasant pop heard on television. Nor even the more realistic sounds at the movie theater. The deep-throated explosion scared you if you weren’t used to it. The sound was felt as much as it was heard.
I pulled the trigger and the woods reverberated with the blast. The clay pigeon shattered.
I swung the barrel around onto the second disk. It was acting a little like a Frisbee, rising high and stalling a little. I still held the same breath. Shifted the selector and pulled the second trigger.
Click. Misfire. I wasn’t surprised. Probably loaded a shell he suspected of water damage. Embarrass the new guy.
Before anyone could move I turned sideways, dropped the shotgun into my left hand and pulled out the Kimber .45 with my right. Pushed the safety off. Squinted.
The disc was really too far away for a pistol. And it was moving. My chances weren’t good. One in three. I fired anyway. The pistol kicked slightly in my hand, and the disc broke into two pieces and fell back to earth. A slight breeze blew the heady smell of gunpowder smoke away from us as the gunfire echo faded.
“Beginner’s luck,” I said.
29
If Taylor got her wish, Aaron and I’d end up in a fistfight, and then she and I would wind up back at her place in bed. Unless I was misreading the signals. Which might as well have been painted on billboards.
We sat around two wooden outdoor tables at Kahills, a fun local restaurant off of I-85. Most of the South Hill proletariat saved Kahills for special occasions. Best food for fifty miles, and it had that great glowing polished wood atmosphere.
Candles burned in their stained glass vases and thin smoke collected in the wide canvas umbrella above. Both Aaron and his wife smoked. Roy had drunk himself into an angry silence. Taylor, Carla, Sam and I made small talk when the two girls weren’t at the bar talking with the bartender, another old friend from high school. During that time, Sam and I debated Tony Romo’s throwing motion and the potential difference in his earlier stats if Terrell Owens hadn’t been on the team. Deep stuff.
I was sleepy. The time was approaching ten, for goodness sake, and it’d been a surreal day. Roy’s wife Marie knocked her glasses off the table for the third time, and Roy told her that if she did that again he was going to break them. What a man. He stood.
“C’mon,” he mumbled. “Let’s go. M’tired.”
“Roy,” I said, and stood. “You’ve both had too much. I’ll drive you home.”
“Naw, I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re drunk. I’ll drive.”
He stared at me through heavy eyes, and told me he could drive his own damn truck and I should go to hell. And I should mind my own business and keep my nose out of his ass, which struck me as an uncomfortable metaphor. His language earned looks from the surrounding
tables.
He stumbled away and his wife followed, herself unsteady.
Sam said, “Drunk enough to kill someone.”
“He won’t get far. There’s a patrol car hidden on 85 south.”
“Should we warn him?”
“We’ll visit him in jail.”
A new song came over the speakers. A slow ballad by a girl country artist I didn’t know.
“Come on, stud,” Taylor said, and took my hand. “I picked the next two songs on the jukebox.” We walked onto the makeshift dance floor that’d probably be housed for the winter within a month.
I wasn’t drunk, but I was exhausted. Sometimes the effects are the same. I wasn’t crazy about Taylor. But looking at her made my stomach flip. She was easily the most attractive person wherever she went. And I suspected she’d undone a few buttons on her shirt since we arrived. I demanded that my hand let go of hers but it overruled me. I told myself to quit following her but my body followed hers impulsively.
She walked past another slow-dancing couple, pivoted and pulled me near. I held her hand at my chest. Her other arm was around my waist. She was short compared to me and she fit in easily. My right arm circled her shoulders and my hand entangled itself into the hair at the nape of her neck. She smelled like flowery conditioner and an expensive night-out perfume. Her face nuzzled into the shirt across my chest and she smiled with her eyes closed. Our dance was not the dance of a first date.
We didn’t move much, but rather let the world dance around us. The music droned in the background but the song was irrelevant. It only existed to slow time. She was well known, maybe even notorious, and we were getting a lot of attention. My mind vaguely recorded Aaron and his wife leaving, and then Sam and Carla. I was too tired to care. My list of concerns narrowed to my exhaustion and the girl pressed against me.
I don’t remember when we started kissing. Our faces were touching, her soft lips kissing mine, arms around my neck, mine around her slim waist. My fingers craved her skin.