Johnny Cakes (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles)

by Paisley Ray

  “I’m sorry Jet was feeling ill,” she said apologetically.

  I nodded.

  “It came on suddenly.”

  Suddenly coincided with the moment Jet retrieved the mail and opened her report card. I didn’t know what her marks were, but it wasn’t too hard to guess that she wasn’t happy with them.

  “You girls put yourselves under a lot of pressure, getting through the semester and all. And you both have been a big help in the store.”

  “It’s been fun.”

  “All the test cramming wears down your immune system. Some rest will set her straight. You know, she has a real sharp eye for targets. Wins all the tournaments in these parts.”

  I had no idea Jet knew how to handle a gun, but it didn’t surprise me. She was a take-charge kind of girl who liked gadgets, and was especially fond of getting to grips with household appliances, garden equipment, engines, and Clay. “So what’s trap shooting all about?” I asked.

  Mrs. J gave me a quick tutorial. “A trap is a clay throwing machine, kind of like a tennis ball shooter, except clays are small plates with a neon orange rim. You and whoever else is shooting the round rotate through five stations from left to right behind the thrower.”

  The machine looked like a snow blower on a wooden platform and I didn’t really get what she was saying.

  “You’ll see.”

  “I’m not sure I can hit a marker.” Although I was game for shooting at Clay targets.

  “You take it slow, block everything around out of your mind, and concentrate. Your index finger will lightly grip the trigger, but you can’t flinch. She stopped and positioned the gun high on my right shoulder on the collarbone. Folding a piece of paper, she laid it near the butt of the gun. “When you aim, press your cheek on this, look straight down the barrel, and don’t let the paper move. You’ll need to make a snap-second decision, no regrets, as though your life depends on it. Tighten the trigger and pull. There’s kickback from the barrel. Don’t fret about it. Your shoulder will take the impact. Once you get accustomed to it, you’ll be hooked. I don’t care what anyone says. There’s nothing like the feeling of splitting a target.

  As we approached I noticed a few of the gator shooter gals sipping from engraved silver flasks.

  “Ladies.”

  “Hey Ina Jean, you break away from the oysters long enough to shoot something?”

  “Wild pigs would have to drag me away from time with y’all.”

  “Who do we have here?” a lady with a gray twist bun asked.

  “This is Rachael O’Brien, one of Jet’s roommates from school. Rachael, this is Flannery, Lula Belle, Iva, and Sarah Ann.”

  We all said our hellos, and I tried to cement each lady’s face and name in my mind. I had a thing for memorizing letters and numbers, but faces were harder to recollect.

  “Where’s Jet? I hope she’s joining us. Could use a few pointers on my timing.”

  “Jet’s under the weather. She’ll come and join us later for refreshments.”

  “You ever shot anything?” Flannery asked me.

  “No. Not unless a buckeye in a slingshot counts.”

  Lula Bell sat in a camp chair and cleared mud out of the grain of her sole with a Swiss army knife blade. “Shooting traps is a lot like making love.”

  “Grip it and rip it?” Flannery suggested, sending the women into fits of laughter.

  Sarah Ann offered me her leather flask, and out of courtesy I accepted her offering. I couldn’t see the color of the liquid that burnt my throat and flared my nostrils.

  She winked. “Bourbon. Relaxes my muscles, improves my performance.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about trap or love making, but didn’t press for clarification. I was going to have to have a word with Jet. She hadn’t given me any inclination about her mom’s girlfriends.

  For the first hour, I tucked my feet under my bottom in a camp chair and watched. Ina Jean Jetteson was clearly the marksman of the group. Flannery was competitive, and I guessed it would have made her holiday if she had out-scored Mrs. J. The last few days had been an unexpected whirlwind. Working at Shucks was more physically tiring than life on campus. Being outdoors and watching the ladies take turns blowing up small saucers with orange rims suited me. As the sun pressed lower, I gave up my chair to Lula Bell. The ladies gave me a mini-lecture in gun safety, loading, pull-back, and trajectory, then shot a few practice targets out of the machine. “The goal is to hit the clays at the top of the arc.”

  We’re shooting Clay. This sounded therapeutic.

  I fired a dozen shots and missed a dozen times. It was frustrating. Ina stood behind me and corrected my arm position.

  “Lean forward and close your left eye,” she coached. “The gun is an extension of you arm. When I tell you ‘now,’ squeeze the trigger.”

  A breeze from the May, sweet and salty clung to my face. I could hear the ladies muffled voices from beyond the earplugs I wore. Clearing my mind, I poised, ready.

  Ina Jean said, “Now,” and I squeezed my trigger finger tight. There was a blast in the distant sky as a corner of the orange on the palm-sized clay plate blew to smithereens and the adrenaline rush pulsed inside my chest. I couldn’t control the smile on my face. The ladies clapped, and Ina Jean asked, “So?”

  “Popped that clock!”

  She rested a hand on my shoulder. “Shooting a gun is a skill that every woman should have. For sport and for self-protection.” Her words caught me off-guard. My heart was still pulsing from nailing the flying target.

  “I’d never wish for you, or Jet, or anyone to be put in a life or death situation to defend yourself, but if you are, you need to have the confidence that you can take care of yourself, your loved ones, and your property.”

  She gathered empty boxes of ammunition

  “Have you ever been in a position where you had to defend yourself?” I asked.

  Our eyes met. Her chin tilted downward and she sighed.

  “Rachael,” a man’s voice shouted.

  Behind my back, someone walked toward us.

  Mrs. J steadied her shotgun. “You know him?”

  I looked in disbelief and waved. “He’s my on-again, off-again.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Trap shooting. Breaking a clay into a bunch of pieces puts a kick in your step.

  Ina Jean Jetteson is a woman of many talents. I’d never have guessed her hobby. Now I know where Jet gets her love of metal and things that make loud noises.

  JANUARY 1989

  CHAPTER 18

  Knock You Into Next Week

  Back in Greensboro, a thin layer of snowfall covered the side streets and the small bit of lawn surrounding The Flamingo House. With parking spaces bountiful, Stone parked his Subaru next to the curb, spitting distance from the front door. My garbage bags of personal belongings that I didn’t want fumigated were in the back of the car. Locked in Stone’s arm, the two of us trotted up the front steps. The late afternoon temperature wrapped us in its bracing layers. My winter break had taken a turn for the better and seeing him more on than off for the past week had uplifted my inner woman immensely. We had done our best to make up for the miles and the time lapse that had separated us. Stone hadn’t ever been one of those crushes or fleeting obsessions. I’d been so wrapped up in the wrong guys that initially he’d slipped off my radar. We started as friends, and had ended up as lovers. Like a slow-cooked meal that gently permeates your house as a Sunday afternoon wears on, he and I had taken our time getting to know one another and now we had staying power.

  From the outside, nothing seemed different about Sheila’s house.

  Steadying the key below the brass lock, I hesitated.

  “Rachael, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re imaging. There’s maybe a few dead palmetto bugs around the carpet edges. If the place was infested with mice or bats, you’d have noticed droppings.”

  “Good to know.”

  Luckily I brought the tree hugging nature g
uru with me. He was used to dissecting formaldehyde-infused specimens and working with taxidermy mammals. A snake in the house, I figured, would be a walk in the park.

  When I stepped inside the entry, the lights were off and the bottom of my duck boots went crunch. I halted and Stone crashed into my back. I heard the bottom of his shoes make the same sound mine had. He turned on the light. “I think we need a broom.”

  The mauve carpet was dotted with small, hard-shelled brown insects, feet up. Bugs didn’t bother me.

  Stone drew his finger over one and placed it in his hand. “Deathwatch beetles.” Most bugs that is.

  The blackish-brown insects had dapples of copper on their back wings. “Why are they called that?”

  “Have you heard a ticking in the night?”

  The air-conditioner had run most nights until October, and then it was replaced with heater vent hum and Francine’s noisy breathing. “No.”

  “They make a clicking sound by bumping their head or jaws against the sides of the tunnels in wood. Their name is superstitious. The sound was believed to forecast an approaching death.”

  We moved inside and I flicked on more lights. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

  “Of course not. Did you bring any antiques to the apartment?”

  “Why?”

  “They prefer old and decaying wood. It’s likely they hitched a ride.”

  “Everything in the place is new. Sheila’s dad paid to gut and remodel the house.”

  “Probably has some untreated wood beams.” Stone started opening kitchen cabinets. Removing a flashlight from his pocket, he peered into the corners behind Tupperware and plates. “What’s the latest on the snake?”

  “Jet spoke to Katie Lee, who spoke to Sheila, and the word is, as of yet, the reptile has not been found.”

  “Help me out here.”

  Together we shimmied the refrigerator into the room. Behind it lay oversized dust bunnies, a magnet of a hurricane cocktail from Pat O’Briens, some dried up grapes, and some unidentifiables. Stone reached down and poked a handful of gunk.

  “Eew. I’d use gloves.”

  After vacuuming, we moved to the family room. “Is that the sofa where she was first spotted?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you said it slithered along the back before it disappeared.”

  “I wasn’t in the room, but that’s the way the story went.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  “The house is missing a lot of things. That’s a new sofa.” It was upholstered in a multi-color tweed of pink, turquoise, yellow, and black. “Sheila’s been shopping.”

  He began removing pillows and seat cushions.

  “And two new lounge chairs. Katie Lee told Jet that all the mattresses have been replaced.”

  Stone shook his head.

  “I can’t say I object. The thought of sitting on a snake to watch TV sent a wave of willies down my spine.”

  “Warmth and water. If it’s here, that’s where we’d find it.” Stone left the black finish kitchen cabinet doors open and moved into the family room.

  Everyone had been in such a rush to vacate, the presents Nash had brought and the wrapping paper were still on the coffee table. “Those eggs I gave you. You’re sure they were bird and not snake?”

  “I’m sure. Damn shame they’re infertile.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They floated when I put them in a bowl of water. Black cockatoos are endangered. I need to have a word with Nash, find out exactly where he got them.”

  “Good luck getting a straight answer.”

  He handed me the flashlight and I pointed it underneath the sofa table. “All clear.” I started removing the crumpled red wrapping paper. Picking up the shiny carved Buddha, I rolled the heavy piece around. Sitting in lotus position its ears were long and its eyes closed. Scantily clad in a draped sheet, the statue’s palms lay open. The figure wore a carved cap that looked like acorns strung together. “Where would you get a cheap Buddha?”

  “How do you know it’s cheap?”

  Good point. I deduced that, since it was a gift to Francine from Nash.

  Stone crouched down and I handed him the flashlight. He checked under the sofa before tipping the pieces backward.

  I put the Buddha back on the coffee table and dragged a finger across the tins of French Oysters. No way they’d be as flavorful as the fresh May River oysters I’d eaten.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  The house was cold and I moved to the thermostat to turn on the heat.

  “Help me pull this out from the wall.”

  Summoning my inner bravery, I stood on one side and helped Stone shift a large sofa section forward. It had to be done. I didn’t want to sleep here until the reptile was found, dead or alive.

  “Where did Nash get the money for these expensive gifts?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Seriously,” he pressed.

  “He says he has his own ‘courier business.’”

  “What’d he get you?”

  “Nothing.”

  Stone handed me the wrapped gift. “I’m not sure it’s safe to open this. Will you do the honors?”

  He rattled the necktie shaped box. “Sure.”

  Under the lid, inside tissue paper was a wooden handle. “A blade?” I asked.

  “Why is Nash gifting you a weapon?”

  “I’d rather have a gun.”

  Stone stiffened. “Is anyone bothering you?”

  “Like who?”

  “I mean you haven’t heard from that Ray character?”

  “Not since last year.”

  After rubbing his hands together, he nodded and I tried to gauge the depth in his eyes. They looked the same as always.

  Stone opened his hand, “May I?” he asked and I handed him the knife. “You don’t need a gun. This knife is sweet. Sharp enough to fend off a fair sized gator as long as you stab him in the neck before he gets you in a death roll. Good for camping. It’s collapsible.”

  “Useful if you’re lost in the jungle. I’m an Art History major.”

  He handed it back to me and shrugged. “A good knife will always come in handy. Bedrooms next. Do you have a broom?”

  I looked at the deathwatch bugs that decorated the carpet. “I’ll vacuum those.”

  “We need to empty all the dresser drawers, check closet corners, between mattresses, and under beds. Any snake, poisonous or not, can bite. Not knowing what species it is, I don’t want to use my bare hands.”

  “In the laundry room,” I said and walked down the hall, past the kitchen, to a small room next to Sheila’s bedroom. Rummaging through mops and dusters, to find the broom, I spotted a fleck of orange wrapped around inside of the washer machine drum. Using my best blood-curdling yell, I called, “Stone.”

  He rushed in.

  I pointed.

  He poked the end of broom at the flash of orange in the washer and jumped back.

  When he reached his hand inside, I backed up and tucked my face in the opposite direction. “Is it dead or alive?”

  “Turn around and look.”

  I followed my instinct and dashed out of the room. “Just get it out of here.”

  “Don’t you want to see it first?”

  “No.”

  He followed. “Seriously, Rach, just look.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. On the end of the broomstick dangled a very large, very lacy thong the color of a sunset.

  ON THE FIRST WEEKEND of 1989, the sun didn’t bother to break out, and an unseasonable cold streak wrapped around the North Carolina central Tri-State. The weather forecasters threatened snow, but nothing more than a wind-swept rain appeared. Stone and I rang in a quiet New Year, watching the MTV top 100 video countdown complete with a spin on his childhood favorite drink: Coke and peanuts doctored with whiskey. At first I was hesitant. I hadn’t erased the memory of freshman year when Hugh introduced me to Jack D
aniels. The night ended badly and landed me in the campus infirmary. I’d vowed never to touch the liquid fire again, but Stone poured mine with a light hand and after a few sips, I decided that some promises could be broken. Maybe I’d given Jack a hasty and unfair rap. The drink’s sweet and salty flavor complimented the steaks Stone grilled, and the twice-baked potatoes with bacon bits and heapings of sour cream and butter that I served up as a side.

  I’d spoken to Katie Lee, who’d called Sheila about the snake. I got the word second hand that The Flamingo House had been turned upside down, and rodent traps had been set in the attic and crawl space under the house in case mice were the attraction for the reptile. Since we’d all been gone, the heat had been turned off, and Danman said it would be out of character for a reptile to be active in the cold. Stone completed a thorough search and asked, “Are you sure a snake really even ever existed?”

  I couldn’t answer. If one had been around, his guess was that it had crawled off the premises to find a warm hidey-hole to ride the rest of the winter out.

  Stone intended to drive back to Spring Island Sunday, but I convinced him to extend his stay to Monday morning, which rolled around way too quickly. That morning, he dropped me off outside of the Humanities building.

  We were saying our non-verbal goodbye, mostly with our lips, and a slight amount of underclothing exploration, when there was a tap on the driver’s window. Being preoccupied, I couldn’t immediately tell who was busy minding my business.

  He wound down the driver window and a cold draft poured inside. Two gloved hands gripped the black interior plastic doorsill window. At first we could only see a torso dressed in a black zip vest over a blue long-sleeve work shirt. A bedecked head in full ski hat regalia complete with earflaps ducked down, and a set of round russet potato eyes poked into the window. “This curb is a red zone. Deliveries only.”

  Stone’s back stiffened and he was about to reply.

  “Oh hey, Rachael. I didn’t know that was you in there with the windows being foggy n’ all.”

  “Hey, Tuke.”

  “Its Christmas break, what are you doing on campus?”