by Steph Post
Levi rested his forearms on the edge of the bar and leaned forward, looking away from Judah as if suddenly interested in who was occupying the empty seat beside him.
“Sounds like you already know everything, so why you asking?”
Judah kept his voice steady.
“Levi, have you ever met Sukey? Ever talked to her in person? Do you know anything about her?”
“Nah. I don’t really go in for spending time with old hags.”
“Just teenagers, huh? Couldn’t even find someone your own size?”
Levi twisted around on his barstool to face Judah fully.
“You mad ’cause I whooped some mouthy kid’s ass? Honking his horn, wanting me to come out to him, ’stead of the other way around. So I come out to his car, all right. And shown him how things work in this business. What? You want me to send him flowers? Say I’m sorry?”
Levi’s lips curled back.
“I think that’s more your line of work, little brother. Or your girl’s. Ramey can send the punk a get-well card and sign my name all fancy if it’ll make her happy. If it will make both of you grow a pair and get off my back.”
Judah was doing everything he could to keep from saying what he really wanted to say, telling Levi what he really thought of him. He kept reminding himself, over and over, that he needed Levi. He could manage Levi. He could make it all work. Goddamn, how had his father done it?
“I’m mad because Sukey Lewis brings in money for us. And has more men across Red Creek right now than the Cannons have ever had on this side of the county.”
“What, you scared?”
Judah ran one finger around the rim of his glass. He kept his eyes on the liquor.
“I ain’t stupid, I can tell you that. Sukey’s daughter is most likely going to be elected sheriff this November. Whether you want to admit it or not, we’re going to need Sukey and her kin a lot more than she’ll needs us. And you stealing from her is putting us on the verge of an all-out war with people we don’t want to be at war with and with odds that ain’t in our favor. With people we like. Who make us lots of money and whose protection we’re going to need.”
Judah stopped himself just short of asking Levi if he needed him to whip out a bar napkin and some crayons and draw him a picture. Judah felt like he was just repeating himself, and from the blank look on Levi’s face, nothing was sinking in. For a moment, he wished he’d brought Ramey along. She could’ve explained it better. Though, on second thought, she wouldn’t have even tried. Given the opportunity, Ramey wouldn’t have stopped at one right hook. Judah leaned back, stretching his arms out and bracing himself against the edge of the bar.
“You do get it, right? I mean, you do understand the position you put us in, right?”
Levi reached for his glass and drained it in one long swallow. He dropped it on the bar with a clink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before standing up.
“I get it. I just don’t care. Now, can you get that?”
Judah jumped to his feet.
“Fine. Just give me the money you stole from Sukey. I’ll give it back, I’ll smooth things over, I’ll take care of everything. You can just keep on being the muscle, like you were with Sherwood. Keep breaking heads when it suits you, like you know how to do, and I’ll keep cleaning up after you. Like Sherwood knew how to do. You want to be a tool? Fine, I’ll use you. If that’s all you want to be good for.”
Levi snorted.
“Don’t kid yourself. You ain’t nothing like Sherwood was. Not even close.”
Judah could feel it; he needed to get away from Levi before he did something stupid. Something he would regret. He rammed his hands into his pockets to keep them from forming fists again.
“Just give me the money, Levi.”
Levi slapped the edge of the bar with his palm and leered at Judah.
“No can do. The cash is gone. Put to good use, better use. You go back across the creek and explain that to the old bag pulling your apron strings.”
Judah’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean, it’s gone?”
Levi dragged out each word.
“I mean, it’s gone.”
“Get it back.”
Levi hitched up his jeans and tugged his T-shirt down over his belt. He was eyeing the door.
“Can’t. It’s done been spent down in Daytona Beach. Spread among the kinds of folks we want to be talking to now. That crone can howl all she likes, but what’s she really going to do? Shove us off a roof like she did her husband? If you’re so worried about Sukey Lewis, you can pay her back yourself.”
Levi leaned forward.
“But let me tell you something else, Judey-boy. There’s more than one way to skin a cat ’round here.”
His voice dropped into a menacing growl.
“And if you think you’re the only one got plans for this family, you might be in for a big surprise.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Levi lifted his hands up and backed away, smirking.
“Wait and see. This little chat is over. I got shit to do.”
He turned.
“Without you.”
Levi shoved a stool out of his way and lumbered out the front door, swinging his arms lazily at his sides and whistling tunelessly. Judah turned back to his whiskey. He picked up the shot of Jack, downed it, and slung the glass as hard as he could to the floor. At least the shatter was satisfying.
“Goddamn Levi.”
*
Sister Tulah firmly planted her white Reeboks on the rubber welcome mat and glanced up and down the short length of Sunset Avenue, curving around the cesspool that passed for a pond in the Happy Daze Retirement Park. The paved road was lit up by a string of plastic lampposts, each crowned with an electric green bulb and mounted in front of every tin can contraption these folks liked to call a home. Tulah’s mouth curdled. The trailers may have been decked out with striped awnings and clusters of spider plants drooping from wicker baskets, they may have had geraniums in the windows and gazing balls next to the mailbox, little motorized ceramic fountains where a trickle of water spouted from one manically grinning frog to another, but they couldn’t fool her. Once trash, always trash. The chicken-necked retirees—squabbling over the use of the park’s lone golf cart and the scummy foam noodles in the tepid, shallow pool, competing over who got to sit next to the rattling air conditioner in the clubhouse during Bingo night, and arguing about who brought the best meatloaf to Potluck Sunday—should have just drowned themselves down in Lake Crosby before they let themselves be reduced to this. Sister Tulah couldn’t imagine a more pathetic way to eke out one’s final years.
She stepped closer to the trailer’s sliding glass door, letting the anticipation amplify. The TV was on inside, bathing the otherwise dark, cramped living area in a haunting blue light occasionally punctuated by bursts of searing brightness. Tulah leaned forward and rested her fingertips on the cool glass. She did not own a television. Sister Tulah vehemently punished those of her followers who’d ever dared to watch one. The black box was evil, was filth, was the spawn of Satan himself and the mouthpiece of his army and, even worse, it gave people ideas. Sister Tulah squinted at the television program blaring in the corner of the camper. Two men and a woman were standing aimlessly around the inside of an apartment when the front door opened and another man with crazy hair and a face like a horse burst into the room. Sister Tulah could barely hear the show, only a muted mumbling, until the laugh track reached her ears though the glass. Tulah watched as the man sitting in front of the television bobbed his spindly shoulders in response. In the eerie glow, Sister Tulah could see the man’s face in profile. His shoulders may have moved, but his face was an anchor, his eyes almost lidded and his mouth resting in a drawn line, as if he’d seen the joke played out on the screen a million times before. Tulah’s eye darted from the man’s craggy face to the television and back again. She�
��d been standing outside the glass door, only a few feet away from the corduroy recliner, watching, for over two minutes now. Sister Tulah wasn’t usually one to wait, but at times like these, when she was about to bring a man’s life crashing down to broken bricks at her feet, she preferred to savor the moment.
The light inside the trailer changed again as a bright, white ad for toothpaste flashed onto the screen. The old man shifted in his recliner, glanced down at the sticky remnants of a TV dinner on the foldout tray beside him, and stood up. Tulah was sure she’d be seen, but he only shuffled around the recliner and into the kitchen, still without noticing her towering figure at the glass. Tulah watched as the man took a vitamin bottle out of the cabinet above the microwave and shook out a tablet into his palm. Realizing that this could go on for hours, Sister Tulah rapped a sharp, staccato beat on the glass with her knuckles, smiling to herself as the old man dropped the plastic bottle in his hand. It bounced on the checkered linoleum and a shower of chalky pink pills sprayed out across the floor. Satisfied, Tulah smoothed her hands down over her hips while she waited for the door to open. The evening was starting off even better than she’d hoped.
August Chesserman, his chest heaving, eyes bugged with shock, crunched over the spilled pills as he shambled up to the glass, popped the lock with a shaking finger, and warily slid the door open. Sister Tulah was surprised, though, and disappointed, in the steadiness of his croaking voice when he greeted her.
“I was wondering if it would be you. Or if you’d send one of your hounds for me instead.”
Tulah stared into the man’s watery blue eyes. He had aged rapidly since she’d last seen him. A few wisps of brittle, colorless hair were combed over his age-spotted skull and the crepe skin at his throat sagged like a turkey’s wattle. There was a splotch of something, maybe pudding, in the corner of his desiccated, gray lips. Tulah grinned, showing her teeth.
“Brother August.”
The old man nodded and it seemed that he had completely regained his composure, a fact that Tulah did not appreciate.
“Sister Tulah. Won’t you come in? If I’m going to die, I’d rather not do it right out here in the open where it could disturb the neighbors.”
August backed away and Sister Tulah swiftly stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind her. August gestured vaguely toward his recliner, but Tulah was already making a beeline for it. She settled herself, pulling out a crumpled TV Guide trapped beneath her and flinging it down onto the braided rag rug, while she waited for August to drag a chair in from the kitchen. Slowly and deliberately, he switched off the television. Blotches of color mottled August’s pale, bristly cheeks as he sat down across from Tulah and nodded to indicate the patch over her eye.
“It suits you. I always thought you’d look better with a pirate’s eyepatch or a long mustache you could twirl while standing behind the pulpit.”
Sister Tulah folded her hands in her lap. Now that she thought about it, she liked that August was starting off with this attitude. The higher he flew, the harder he would fall. Tulah nodded.
“You know why I’m here, then.”
August crossed one foot over the other, his bedroom slipper shaking, though the tremors didn’t seem to be from nerves. He picked at a piece of fuzz on his flannel pajama pants and rubbed his papery fingers together.
“I assume you’re here to kill me, but I’m not sure how. If you were planning on stabbing or strangling me, you probably would have sent your Elders, so that can’t be it. I’m glad you came yourself, by the way. I’ve heard those men are useless when it comes to conversation.”
Tulah only grinned. August was looking off into space, at a point just above Tulah’s head.
“So maybe you’re going to shoot me? Maybe electrocution? Fire? Are you going to lock me in here and burn the place to the ground? I once overheard a rumor you put a rattlesnake in a man’s bed when he threatened to double-cross you. Is that it? Something to do with snakes?”
Tulah’s grin stretched like taffy.
“Brother August. It’s been fifteen years since I put a rattlesnake in a man’s bed. Times have changed, and so have I.”
August began to look slightly unsure of himself.
“You should know I’ve thought all of this through. I’m not doing it for personal gain or to get on the evening news.”
He paused, but Tulah said nothing, letting him continue. Letting him rattle his sabre one last time before she buried him.
“Nor even for spite. Though we both know I have every reason to hate you. And I do hate you. With every fiber of my being. With every breath left in this weak, old man’s chest.”
“Your wife was a sinner.”
“My wife was sick.”
“Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
Tulah sniffed. August Chesserman might be claiming his threats didn’t stem from their past history, but he clearly hadn’t forgotten the sermon that had caused him to stand up and walk out in the middle of a Sunday service all those years ago. Even in retrospect, after Virginia had died, cursing her ventilator, begging for it to be over, leaving her son motherless, her heretic of a husband alone, Sister Tulah felt no remorse. Virginia had tried to treat the cancer with forbidden tools. Radiation, chemotherapy, and experimental trials. Acupuncture and hypnosis and new age hoo-doo. She had not believed in the laying on of hands. She had not believed in Tulah’s absolute power and connection to God. This was the truth. Sister Tulah had merely made a point of publicly informing the rest of the congregation.
August’s eyes were red-rimmed.
“They tore her clothes when she ran out of the church. When you proclaimed her corrupted. She was dying and your followers grabbed her, tried to trip her, spat in her hair. She was terrified.”
Sister Tulah shrugged.
“She didn’t believe. And you stood up and walked out after her. And, if I recall, that was a long time ago. I didn’t come here to rehash ancient history.”
The folds of his neck rippled as August swallowed thickly.
“No. You just came here to put me in my place. To keep me from going public about your sham subdivision. Oh, I found out about you. Saw your website for Deer Park Reserve on the internet. Selling my land to families and folks all across the country. They think they’re buying prime real estate and really you’re pedaling the dregs of a swamp. Shame on you. That’s why I’m doing this. Not because of what you did to me. You ruined me long ago. But because of those innocent people you’re taking advantage of.”
Tulah tilted her head.
“Your land? You mean, the land you gave to your son, your faithful son, who, in turn, sold it to me last year. So, you mean my land. And I’ll do with it as I please.”
August clenched his hands into frail, quaking fists.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to every news channel I can find. I know you have the authorities in your pocket, but you don’t own everyone. I’ll put it all over the internet. I’ll make you notorious. At the very least, Deer Park Reserve will collapse and those poor folks will get their money back. They’ll be able to go on with their lives without being tainted by you.”
Despite Tulah’s impassive face, August kept going, his voice rising higher and higher, the words tumbling from his dry, chaffed mouth.
“And don’t think that killing me will shut me up. I know you, you old bat. There is money and instructions for my lawyer in a safety deposit box. You kill me, my lawyer opens up my will, reads my wishes, goes to the box, and has everything he needs. He’ll raise the biggest racket this side of the Mississippi. And he’ll do it, too. I’ll bring you down from the grave, Sister Tulah, so help me God.”
Tulah shook her head. As if God would help this man. She knew whose side God was on. Tulah coughed out a laugh, leaned as far over as she could, and unleashed the full, paralyzing effect of her single, spectral eye.
“You think you know me, Brother August? Oh, you know nothing. Now, let me ex
plain how this is going to work. I’m not going to kill you. But you will be living with what I’m about to say for the rest of your miserable, pathetic, short excuse for a life.”
Tulah drew herself up, though she maintained unbroken eye contact with August, even as he shrank farther back into his chair.
“It’s been a while since you’ve seen your grandson, Matthew, yes? You’re not estranged from him as you are his father, but he is a young man, busy finding his way. He has a young, pretty wife. Matthew helped to put the new roof on our church last month and Fiona came by every day to bring him and the other men sandwiches and lemonade. They are, as some would say, good people. Blissfully ignorant of how treacherous the world can be. Matthew and Fiona are expecting their first child in February, did you know? They’re certain it will be a girl. Fiona favors the name Grace.”
The last dregs of color fled August’s face.
“I know about my great-grandchild. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, Brother August, Grace will only be born by the grace of your silence and contrition. If you tell anyone the truth about Deer Park, anyone at all, Fiona will find herself having a miscarriage and this little girl child will cease to exist.”
August’s whole body was shaking now.
“You can’t—”
“Oh, I can. I can make things happen anywhere. I can get into homes, into hospitals. I could poison Fiona in church tomorrow morning if I wanted to. I can do anything. And, I assure you, I will. If you go against me now, the child will not be born. If you go against me later, the child will not survive. You see, I have marked Grace. I will follow her all her days. If you, or your lawyer once you are dead and in the ground, ever try to challenge me, Grace will pay the price. Do you understand?”
August’s eyes had grown enormous.
“I’ll tell them. If anything happens to the baby, they’ll know it was you. They’ll turn on you. We…they…you can’t…”
Tulah braced herself and stood as August’s voice trailed away into nothing. She looked down with contempt at the blubbering old man in front of her.