Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

by editor Leo Margules

  Then I wonder what it is that Jim’s been telling him, and suspicion is like gallwood in me. For I have not changed. It’s Jim! And that’s what makes it so hard. Nobody knows what Jim is really like, except me and my dog, Ripper.

  If only someone would come spying at the window when Jim comes in from working the farm, they’d see. Ripper growls low and goes over into a corner of the kitchen, never taking his yellow eyes off Jim and never a wag of his tail.

  Ripper, who’s seventy pounds of muscle and strength—Ripper feels the fear of Jim that’s in me and Ripper has anger clean through him.

  Jim comes in without washing up at the tin basin and sits down to the table all earth and sweat and he says, “I got the west field cleared for planting.”

  I smile. “Good, Jim.” I keep busy about the stove, turning the sizzling ham in the spider, shaking the hominy grits. I dish up the food before him and fill his cup with strong coffee. His shoulders are lowered, fork already in hand, his elbows on table, head thrust forward.

  “Jenny,” his voice not going up or down but all one pitch. “I got the west field cleared for planting.”

  I don’t dast show him my face. I open the oven door and bring out crackling bread all light and golden.

  His mouth is crammed with victuals. I see the food as he chews. He swallows and before the next loaded fork reaches his mouth he says it again.

  “Yes, Jim, you’ve already told me.” And Ripper hears the worry that’s in my voice and pads softly across the wide walnut boards and stands in close to me keeping his eyes on Jim.

  Jim’s face pinches and he almost snarls at Ripper, but he’s silent till he’s finished. He gets up, turning over the chair and at the kitchen door he turns.

  “I’m starting on the south field this afternoon.”

  When I don’t answer he says it again, all steady and too meaningful for something that has so little meaning. “Jenny, did you hear me? I said I’m starting on the south field this afternoon.”

  “I heard you,” I say quiet and tight. As the door closes I say it again, and louder, “I heard you the first time,” and I almost scream it, “I always hear you!”

  Jim was going to Ansted for the day to lay in seed and provisions. He asked me if there was anything I wanted.

  “A piece of ribbon? Or mebbe you’d fancy a sweetmeat?”

  It was so unlike Jim that I was startled.

  “Well, Jenny. I’m waiting.”

  “No, thank you, kindly,” I said. And in truth, the only thing I’d wanted in a long time were the moonflower vines, and I had them already planted around the house with window panes over their delicate sprouts, keeping them from the frost.

  But Jim’s asking had given me pause. It made me wonder if maybe I weren’t the one at fault. Jim was good to my family. I knew he’d given my brother Henry a store-bought watch. Jim was well thought of by our neighbors. And certain sure before our marriage I was ready enough to please him.

  Maybe the trouble was that I’d stopped trying to please Jim entirely!

  The fire was cozy and the room cheerful after he left. Ripper slept beside my rocking chair, his powerful muscles twitching, and I smiled, knowing that in his dreams he’d just run a lynx to cover. I am the only being that Ripper loves, and it is a fine thing to be chosen god by such a creature.

  Folks have many natures and a dog but one. A dog has little thought of self. When I nursed the sick shivering bundle that was Ripper back to health, using a remedy made from the barks of chestnut mixed with some lobelia seed, tending him night and day till the sickness was out of him, my greedy brother Henry saw what a fine animal Ripper was going to be and started making a great fuss over who was going to own him.

  But Ripper had already made his choice and would take orders from no one but me. He had been out of Matt Parker’s best bitch, and Matt helped me teach him the ways of the wood and field and Ripper never once spooked at the sound of the gun. He never once shrank at smell of cougar. He is a born killer of wild beasts. Only he’s never liked the smell of Jim and only tolerated him on account of me, even when we were courting.

  Jim and I used to talk together then, and I’d be concerned in what he told me, instead of just listening with numb patience as I do now. I used to ask him why he’d left home to move into this harsh and rocky land amongst strangers, and if he didn’t have a sweetheart waiting for him back home.

  He’d answered the last question, “And iffen I have, don’t you have a sweetheart you’re waiting for, Jenny?”

  “Matt Parker is gone for good,” I said sharp.

  “I’m mighty pleased to hear that.” He smiled. “I’m sorta counting on him not ever coming back to claim you.”

  Jim used to be so natural like. “We’ll have the rest of our lives to just sit by our fire and I’ll tell you all that happened at home and why I moved in here with strangers, Jenny.”

  I must have hurt Jim so cruel the night we were wed he can no longer speak to me of what’s in his heart. But I wanted to die of shame! I who love to breathe the air of morning, I who love to see and feel the wondrous things of God’s world, I wanted to die that night. And the way I carried on must have made Jim wonder what manner of woman he’d wed!

  Maybe that’s why he goes off to Ansted when he’s not working the farm and stays the whole day through, lounging round the general store and talking to folks he must find more amiable than me.

  But now I am more used to the strange ways of man and almost have put away my shame. And certain sure I do not want to die now—not even when the distaste and fear of Jim comes up in my throat so it’s like a choking.

  I must try to be kinder to him and more patient. Men are queer creatures and their passions like the dark winter’s night. And I, being woman, must accept them without questioning.

  Perhaps if I keep on praying, a child will be the reward of my forbearance. All the evil will go out of Jim then and he’ll be different.

  I whistled Ripper up from his dreams of hunting and stroked his long soft hair. I felt as though the sun had driven through and into me, piercing my darkness with hope. I tossed another hickory log onto the fire and listened to the sizzle and the crackling as the wood warmed, grew hot and burst into flame.

  Everything has to be given time for warming.

  I decided to fix something extra nice for Jim’s supper. Something that he’d really relish like candied yams and salt pork with rich cream gravy. I hadn’t thought of cooking fine for quite a spell. Maybe when Jim tasted the special victuals he’d know I was trying to please him.

  Ripper’s hackles rose and he growled fierce and low. He’d caught the smell of Jim heading home. Sure enough, it wasn’t long till I heard the rattle of the buggy as it crossed the wooden planks over Gitah Creek.

  Then I had a talk with Ripper who understands me better than any human ever has—lessen it were Matt Parker. I told Ripper it was our fault—his and mine—that Jim acted the way he did.

  “We must let him handle us and not let on when our hairs begin to rise and bristle,” I said.

  Ripper’s ears pointed and he began to pant, which let me know he understood.

  Then Jim threw open the door and walking with his heavy, slow tread came across the threshold. Ripper did not growl at him and I reached down to give him a grateful pat. My own voice was light and cheery, “Hello, Jim!”

  Jim dumped the store goods on the table and came over to stretch his great hands in front of the fire. He took out his pipe and tobacco, shook the bowl full and pushed it down tight.

  I was thinking how homey this was—the way it ought always to be between man and wife. It seemed to me that even Ripper was going to give Jim a wag of his tail and maybe stick his nose up into Jim’s hand, and the rays of the sun could not outnumber my joys.

  Jim rolled a long piece of paper into a spill. He leaned down and lighted it from the fire and pulled in on his pipe till the tobacco was glowing red. But he held the spill between thumb and finger till I thought he
must burn himself.

  I watched with wonder—about to cry warning—when Jim dropped the spill a-purpose straight down onto Ripper’s back.

  I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. Nor could I yet believe it. Ripper’s silky coat caught fire quickly, burning along like dry grass fire. I came out of my stupor fast and grabbed my dog up to me, rubbing out the fire against my body.

  Then I looked up at the man I had married. He was standing smoking his pipe, a smile at the corners of his mouth.

  We said no word. There was no word to say. He had done this thing with grim intent and I knew my hopes of the day were as dandelion fuzz in a high wind.

  I went to the kitchen with Ripper at my heels and gently rubbed lamb’s grease over his burned skin. I was treating my own reddened belly when I knew that Jim was standing in the doorway.

  “Where’s my supper, Jenny?”

  I cooked food in silence and silently he ate. After, he said, “Come to bed, Jenny.”

  I threw Ripper’s rug behind the cookstove. He took the side of my hand in his mouth, nuzzling it before he flopped down, all the time eying Jim with strange red eyes.

  I followed Jim up the stairs. We undressed. Jim was full of lust and I bore it patiently while he spent himself, thinking all the while of the Bible’s teaching.

  I waited till Jim’s breathing told me he slept. Then I crept from bed slow, inch by inch, making no sudden shift lest the springs sing out and waken him. My knees touched the cold floor and I eased my body out.

  Then I heard his slow, even voice, “Come back to bed.”

  The lust was strong in him again, and I thought my own thoughts as countless women have done till the bad time passes. Vengeful thoughts, then praying for forgiveness, praying hard, but still the vengeful thoughts were pressing.

  I waited till I was very sure that Jim was deep in sleep. His snoring was loud indeed and I jumped from the bed and dressed. I raced down the stairs, and out into the kitchen to get Ripper up, cautioning him to make no sound.

  We were starting out the back way when I remembered the great whine of the hinges, so we went through to the front.

  In the black stillness, Ripper let out a sudden growl and my heart began to thrash about like a fresh-caught fish.

  I reached my hands out to find the door, but instead of wood, my hands touched flesh. A triumphing, mocking laugh came from Jim. “Come back to bed, Jenny.”

  Ripper growled low and fierce and full of hate. I had only to say the command for him to leap straight for Jim’s corded throat and I could almost hear the tearing sound Ripper’s teeth would make as they slashed skin. How many times I’d heard it when Ripper went for the throats of wild beasts.

  I had only to say the word…

  “Come back to bed, Jenny.”

  My whole being was sickened. “No,” and again, stronger, “no. Let me go, Jim!”

  “Where would you go, Jenny?”

  “Home. I’ll go home to mom.”

  “You want to go home?” he said, reasonable and sort of surprised. “Then I’ll dress and take you.” He flung wide the front door. I could see him standing large in his nakedness, his flesh shone dark as a pine tree in the light of the moon. “Wait for me, Jenny.”

  He went up the stairs and Ripper and I ran out of the house, cutting across the cornfield to the lane. The moon was high and every frost-tipped stubble of the old corn stalks twinkled like morning stars.

  We were free! But even after Ripper and I reached the road, I felt the terror and the fear of all trapped things.

  We ran like deer when a forest fire’s behind them. We were away up the hill when I heard the clopping of hoofs on the road behind and I knew the uselessness of running any more. We’d breathed our breath of freedom and it was over. I stood quite still, waiting till the buggy came alongside.

  “Get in, Jenny.”

  I climbed in, feeling nothing. Nothing at all. But instead of turning round as I was sure Jim would do, he kept on over the hill that led to pa’s house, Ripper loping alongside.

  “What you going to tell your pa about this, Jenny? Whatcha going to tell him?”

  Out there under the stars, riding toward home, some hope came back to me. “What’ll I tell him? I’ll tell him you tried to kill Ripper!”

  “Now, Jenny. What kind of crazy talk is that? You know a coal sparked out and fell onto your hound dog. You know your dog always does lay in too close to a fire.”

  He sounded so reasonable. I could just see pa’s eyes on me as I tried to tell him the truth. I started to cry.

  “What’s wrong with you, Jim? What’ve I done that you should act like this?”

  And when Jim answered I knew the thing that ailed him.

  “You got yourself another letter from Matt Parker. You got another letter from him.”

  But I’d had no word from Matt in nigh a year… I’d had no word since Jim Skaggs had moved into Martin County! I saw it plain. Jim had paid my brother Henry to steal my letters—and after we were wed, he just stole them himself.

  The buggy drew up sharp before the stoop of our house. I jumped out and ran through the door with Ripper close behind. We ran through to the parlor where mom and pa always sleep in the big old feather bed. I was crying then something awful and calling for mom.

  She had me safe in her arms and pa sat up and lighted the oil lamp. His voice was mighty roiled. “What’s all this rumpus going on in dead of night?” Mom was holding onto me close and clucking soft like she used to do when I was ailing. After a little I told them I was coming home.

  “You’ve got yourself a home, daughter,” pa said, speaking steady like he would to a fretted colt. “You be a married woman, married in the sight of God and man.”

  “I can’t live with him longer, pa!”

  Pa got out of bed with his striped cotton night shirt over his long drawers. Even in these garments he still was high in pride.

  “What’s your husband done to you, daughter?” And when I could not tell he turned and went out to the buggy. It wasn’t long before he came back. “Has Jim ever laid hand to you, Jennifer?”

  I shook my head. “But he talks so strange and he repeats—”

  Pa was full of wrath. “Talks! It’s come to a pretty how-de-do when a man can’t talk! Shame to you, daughter. Now get on home with your man or I’ll give you a thrashing you won’t forget, even though you’re woman growed and married.”

  Mom could only reach out her old worn hand and take mine.

  Pa must have noted the trouble in my eyes for he gentled a mite. “If you were alone, we’d take you in. But this is between man and wife, daughter. And what God hath joined together, let no man put asunder! Now take your dog and get on back with your man.” Ripper followed me. I climbed in beside Jim, my shoulders sagged as though laden with a thousand sacks of grain.

  “Giddy up, Nellie,” Jim sang out. As we reached the top of the hill, he said real slow, “Where would you go to, Jenny? Where would you go?”

  I looked out into the clouded moonlight at Ripper running alongside. He was black and hoary as a wolf, his muscles all smooth and powerful.

  After a while I said, “What you fixing to do to us, Jim?”

  His voice was cold as winter’s wind. “What am I fixing to do? Now, that there’s a mighty interesting question.” His voice rose to shrill. “I’m going to break you proper, that’s what. I’m going to break you like a woman needs to be broke.”

  He would break me, all right. That I knew for true. He’d have me old and cringing before the crops were in.

  The sound of his laugh froze my bones. “Got Ripper figured too! I’m gonna get me a great big club for him and let you watch it.”

  We were in the lane and I could see the fine log cabin with the moon shining down right pretty on it, and I thought it was sort of sad that I’d planted all those pretty moonflowers. Come June and they’d be blooming, all drowsy with their own sweet smell, and who now would see their blooming?

  Jim was loo
king out at Ripper and I could feel the killing lust and hate mounting in him.

  Only Ripper too had reason to hate. And Ripper was trained at killing wild beasts.

  And God knows tonight I would not stay him…

  I reckon death does come certain sure to the house round which moonflowers are planted. It would come tonight.

  A HOOD IS BORN

  by RICHARD DEMING

  When the Rider Fork and Hoe Company moved its plant from Philadelphia to Brooklyn, it adopted the simple, expedient course of laying off most of its workers and rehiring new ones in Brooklyn. But it not only kept its key men, it moved them at company expense.

  That’s how it happened the move didn’t separate Rick Henderson and his best friend, Junior Carr. The fathers of both boys were shop foremen for Rider.

  Before the move, Rick got a lecture from his father on the subject of juvenile gangs. Big Sam Henderson had been reading the newspapers.

  “We’ll be living in a nice section of Brooklyn,” Big Sam told his son. “Only a couple of blocks from Prospect Park. But Brooklyn ain’t like Philadelphia.”

  “How’s that?” Rick asked.

  “Here this gang stuff is only in the slums. Near as I can figure from the newspapers, Brooklyn’s got it all over. Even in the nice sections the police have plenty to worry about.”

  Rick gave him a confident grin. “Don’t worry about me, Pop. I can take care of myself.”

  He had reason for confidence. At sixteen Rick Henderson was five feet eleven and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. He was first-string fullback on his high school football team and president of the boxing club. Though he wasn’t a brawler, he’d had his share of teen-age fights, and had yet to lose one.

  Big Sam said, “I’m not worrying about you getting beat up. I’m worrying about you hooking up with one of these gangs.”