He never did tell her.
After morning break had ended, John went to his second class of the day: Chemistry. He hated this class. Of course, they weren't doing any actual work today. The teachers who thought they were going to try that shit were going to be disappointed.
He sat down at his desk and pulled his phone out of his pocket half-way to see if either Dean or Tim had responded to him. Neither had. He double-checked to be sure the phone was on silent and shoved it back into his pocket.
The teacher, Mrs. Marcer, waddled into the room carrying her green bag, the same one she carried every day. No one had ever seen her open the bag. Not once had she needed anything out of there. The kids had begun to make jokes about it. “I heard it's all her dildos,” Brad Eddins had said. “Yeah, they say she's terrified her husband will find them, all big and scary—black ones too. So, she brings them with her everywhere she goes.” Another kid, Gordon Miller, had sworn that he had seen the bag move once.
She approached her podium and checked off the roll silently, her eyes flicking up and down from paper to seat. As she passed over Tim’s seat, she looked back at her paper, back to the seat again, and then finally to John. John threw his hands up in the air, and she shook her head. John muttered something under his breath about fucking brother's keeper and luckily for him, Mrs. Marcer didn't hear him.
Mrs. Marcer addressed the room. “I know it's the last day of school, but—”
The entire class sighed. She went there.
“Listen,” she continued. “Learning never waits.” It was her trademark phrase. John imagined her bursting through a wall like the Kool-Aid man, her face all busted up and bleeding, teeth missing. But instead of saying “Oh Yeah!”, she would shout “Learning never waits!” Christ, what a moron. Then John began to wonder what that glass is tempered with, the glass the Kool-Aid man was made of. That was some serious shit.
“Mr. Queen!”
Shit. He was doing it again. Living in his own world.
“Seven,” he shouted. “The answer is seven.” He was a snarky prick sometimes. The class laughed. Brad threw a wadded-up piece of paper at the back of John's head.
“Very funny, Mr. Queen,” she said. “Let me know when they book you at the comedy club, I'll have to stop by and throw some quarters in a hat. You'll need them if your grades keep going the way they do.”
Too much. That was too much and she knew it. He looked up at her with contempt as the class continued to laugh. Yes, yes, ladies and gentlemen, gather round and watch this grown woman who carries around a case of dildos—or severed heads—or whatever, pick apart a young man in a good, old-fashioned roast. Hilarious. He slunk into his seat and stared at the clock until it was time to leave.
The truth was that John's grades had suffered. Anyone with any insight into his home life would find the cause without much trouble. He was working all the time he wasn't at school. It had even gotten necessary for him to ask his boss for more hours, taking up his entire weekend—each weekend—as well as school nights. Ronnie had gotten even more greedy now, taking from every paycheck that John had earned.
John had finally decided that he had to let his mom know what he had been doing. He had been warned, of course, that Ronnie could and would leave her if John caused him any trouble, but John had decided that it didn't matter much anymore. If Ronnie was treating John like this, then how was he treating his mother? Another point of contention he had decided on was the matter of his paychecks. If Ronnie left them, John could offer to help pay the bills. His money had already been taken from him against his will, he would much rather offer it willingly if it meant that Ronnie would take a fucking hike. Just let me get through this trip, was the thought that kept circling in John's head. They had been planning this trip for so long, and he didn't want this messing it up.
CHAPTER THREE
Dean Fredrick was not having the best morning. Before he even woke, he was having one of his nightmares. Nightmares were a regular thing for Dean, but this one was a real son-of-a-bitch. This time, however, it was entirely his own fault. The night before, in anticipation of the upcoming trip, he had done some research on the Coheelee Creek Covered Bridge. He and the other guys had heard about ghost sightings. That was cool, but he didn't know if he really believed them. It was easy to dismiss ghost sightings. But what he had seen on his computer screen was real.
There were two things in particular which had bothered Dean the most. At the top of the page was an article about The Hanging Tree. Not even a mile from where they would be camping, there was a tree where the local law enforcement was said to have hanged vile criminals a century ago. There was a picture next to the article of a noose tied to a low-hanging branch. The local Sherriff, Paul Stanton, had made a comment on the matter: “Yes, we know of the hanging tree, but it's just a myth. Something kids like to talk about to pass the time.” When asked about the noose reappearing, he said, “I admit that I have cut the noose down myself several times, only to find it back the next day. But like I said, practical jokers, bored kids. Maybe one day I'll bring my trail-cam down there and we'll have a face.”
It was obvious that the writer of the article was a little biased, but it didn't matter to Dean. He believed every word of it. But the second occurrence from the area scared him even more. There was a single word at the beginning of the article: GOATMAN. Not goat man, or even goat-man.
GOATMAN.
The article had told the story of a black goat farmer that had moved his family into the area in the 1930s and found success and some local popularity. The Klansmen and local government were upset by this and sought to destroy him. One night, the Klansmen had found “The Goatman” and attacked him viciously, finally dragging him to The Hanging Tree and brutally hanging him from the noose which hung there.
The story said that when the Klansmen had finished the job, they turned to leave, only to hear a small noise from behind them—a small bleat like that of a distressed goat. When they had turned around, they found that the body of the Goatman had vanished.
There was only a lonely hanging noose.
In anger and fear, the Klansmen were said to have gone back to the residence of the Goatman and murdered his wife and two small children in cold blood. The kicker of the story—the thing that got Dean's heart really racing—was that they say the Goatman’s body had never been found, and that as recently as the early 2000's, there had been numerous sightings of a strange man walking through the woods of southwest Georgia.
A local musician, Willie Fred McPhree, had been quoted as saying, “I've seen the Goatman twice. Both times, he was down on all fours, just off the road. He was wearing furs or pelts or something. The worst part, though, is that it looked like he had hooves… and horns.” The local man had gone on to say that he had nearly crashed his car both times because he hadn't been able to look away from the Goatman. A chill had crawled up Dean's spine at the last bit. Couldn't look away. As freaked out as Dean was, he was ecstatic to tell his friends what he had read. He also wanted to find out if anyone had a gun they could take with them. Just in case.
Dean checked the time in the bottom corner of his computer: 11:45 PM. It was late, and he had school the next day. He closed the laptop and stood up, suddenly realizing that he was in total darkness. This awareness normally would not have bothered him, but under these circumstances…
The hallway was fifteen miles long, the floor was a mess of gnashing teeth and gums, the walls perspired blood. Dean was also pretty sure there was a dead man behind his open bedroom door, but he had to piss. Badly. He gathered all his courage and scrambled across the room to the lamp in the corner, flicking it on. Okay, so there was no actual danger in his room that he could see. Still, he didn't want to chance the hallway. He found an empty bottle in his trash can, pissed in it, and shoved it down to the bottom of the trash. He climbed into bed, leaving the light on and the door open, and drifted off to an uneasy sleep.
The woods were cold and dark. He made his way thr
ough them with great unease, his feet seeming to float rather than making contact with the ground as he stepped along. A thick fog in the air made it difficult to see much more than a few feet ahead or behind him. A loud crash behind him startled him, and he jumped, his heart leaping into his throat. A figure strode past him making gurgling noises, but Dean couldn't make out what it was; he backed up against a tree as he heard feet stamping by. When it got closer, he saw what it was: a black goat running past him. Only this goat didn't have a head. The neck of the goat was cut off in a messy stump, black blood spurting from the hole. Dean tried to scream but was unable to make any sound. The goat turned as if looking at him when it passed by, and it went on walking for a few yards before crashing down on the ground and convulsing sickly.
Dean felt something move against his back, which was firmly planted against a tree. The writhing, wriggling thing on his back caused him to jump forward and wheel around. Snakes crawled all over the tree, crisscrossing each other in an orgy of bodies, each of them ivory-scaled with shining, hateful red eyes.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a little girl approaching him.
She was singing and Dean saw that she had a small rusty hatchet in her hands. He started to say something to her when he heard a second little girl singing from another direction.
Suddenly, Dean realized that both girls were pointing above his head. He looked up and saw that he was standing under a rope—a noose. Horror struck him as he turned to run, but he couldn’t move. His feet seemed glued to the ground. The girls approached, and he clawed at them in vain. They raised their hatchets in unison and struck.
Dean woke with a start and glanced at the clock next to his bed.
6:58.
Fantastic, he thought. His alarm was set for 7:00.
His arms were pickled ripe with gooseflesh. As he sat up in the bed, he felt the coldness below him; he had been sweating heavily. There was no noise coming from downstairs, no clinking of plates, no TV running, no people talking. Dean's parents were divorced, and his mother had won custody of him. His dad wasn't a bad guy; he just wasn't his mother. The courts usually went with the mother.
Dean's mom worked early shifts at the Waffle House, so Dean had to be self-reliant in getting to school on time. Or at all. But she did her best to take her breaks in time to call and make sure he had woken up and was getting ready for school. Not that he couldn't lie, but she did the best she could.
In general, Dean had done well taking care of himself. He didn't have a car, but he usually caught rides with another kid who lived a street over, Christopher Lucas. He and Chris weren't good friends, but they got along well enough to ride to school together. If Chris wasn't going to school, there was always the bus.
Dean stood up and walked slowly to his closet. He opened the door and immediately screamed, jumping backwards. Hanging in the closet, between his plaid shirts and his hoodies, was a noose. But of course, it wasn't actually there.
Was it?
He looked again and saw just the most ordinary closet one could hope for.
After Dean's second class of the day—Anatomy and Physiology—he walked out into the hallway and saw John leaving his Chemistry class, looking flustered.
Dean called, “Hey John!”
John turned around and saw Dean waving his arms anxiously. He looked like a rabid Iron Maiden fan calling out to Bruce Dickinson from behind a ticket line.
John walked over to Dean and said, “What's up? Have you seen Tim yet?”
“No,” Dean said. “I was thinking we should probably go look for him, ya know, in his spot.”
John laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “But it's the last day. I don't understand why he wouldn't come hang out with us a little.”
Dean and John walked out of the building and made their way over to the band building, the least conspicuous way to leave the school without being stopped by a nosy teacher.
As they passed by the doors to the band building, John said, “I've got to take a piss real quick. You?”
“Nah,” Dean said. “I'll wait out here.”
John opened the doors and disappeared into the band building. Dean walked over to the outside water fountain and had a drink. He had to press down hard on the rusty metallic button for a small stream to come out. He stuck his face down in a sort of submission to the water fountain—to his human need of hydration—and began to lap up the coppery tasting lukewarm water.
“Hey Fredrick! Fuck you doing, boy?” A voice called out from behind him.
Dean turned around and saw a gang of four guys standing, arms crossed, staring at him. The furthest on the left—the one who had spoken—was Jamal Jenkins, Dean's cousin on his father's side. He and Jamal were friends when they were younger, before high school, before middle school even. As far as Dean could tell, Jamal's biggest problem with Dean was his choice of friends, or more importantly, their race. It was an ugly thing, really. The thing was, Dean was mixed, half Japanese and half black. This had earned him the distasteful slur of Blackanese from some people—some friends, some not. It didn't really bother him being called Blackanese. He actually found it quite funny, if not a bit lame. It was too easy.
“Nothing,” Dean said, eyeing the group.
Jamal rolled his eyes. He wanted Dean to say something out of line. He wanted a confrontation. Unfortunately for Jamal, Dean was in no mood for that, and he was willing to stay as neutral as possible in hopes that Jamal would get bored and shove off.
John walked out of the band building wiping his hands on his jeans. “Dude, they're still playing in there it's so—” he stopped as he saw the group of black kids cornering Dean. “What’s up?” he said to the small crowd.
“What's up! What's up?” Jamal raised his voice. “You trying to fight?”
John had seen this before. Jamal had a way of pissing off the Pope. Deciding not to let it work on him, he said simply, “Come on man, let's go.” He was looking at Dean.
Dean started walking towards John.
“That's right,” Jamal said. “Be a good nigga and obey your mastah.” The boys sniggered and jeered.
John said, “He's not—”
“Why are you guys laughing?” Dean interrupted, gesturing towards Jamal's friends. “You do everything Jamal says, when he says it. Seems to me you guys are the ones with a master.”
One of them spoke up, a boy named Demetrius Smith. “Least we ain't hanging around with no fuckin honkey.”
John’s face turned red.
Dean clenched his fists and stepped towards the group.
“Come on, Dean,” John said. “They're not worth it.”
“Come on Dean, they're not worth it.” Jamal said in a whiny voice. “Ain't nobody talkin’ to you, boy.”
“I ain't done nothin’ to you,” John retorted. “None of you. So just screw off.”
Jamal said, “I thought you'd be a little smarter, Dean, all that Jap in you. But I guess I was wrong. Let me know if you ever decide to drop your dipshit friends.” And he turned and walked away.
His posse followed him.
Dean considered following after them, calling out an insult or a retort, but he didn't. He looked at John instead. “Hey man… I—”
“Don't worry about it,” John said. “Let's just go find Tim.”
They headed west on Selma Street, being careful not to look suspicious. Once they had cleared school property, John spoke up.
“I just don't get it, man.”
“What?” Dean said, but he knew what.
“Why is race such a big deal to them?”
Dean shrugged. “Why is it such a big deal to anyone?”
“It's not to me.”
“John, it's Dothan, Alabama. It's at least somewhat of a deal to everyone. Hell, forget Dothan. It's a deal everywhere. You know it's true.”
John looked puzzled.
“Everyone is a little bit racist,” Dean continued. “It's human nature, man. It's the same reason cats hiss at dogs: they're no
t their kind. It's the same reason birds don't hang out with fish.”
“Okay,” John said. “Just a couple problems with what you said.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. First of all, some cats hiss at other cats too. Also, you're talking about different species there. Humans are humans. We're all the same.”
“Are we though?”
They rounded a curve and turned left onto the street where Betty was.
John said, “Yeah, for the most part.”
“Look,” Dean said. “All I'm saying is people feel comfortable around their own race, in general. I'm not saying Jamal is right though—he's a prick—I'm just explaining it to you. You know I don't fall into the same line of thought. If I cared what anyone thought, I wouldn't hang out with three incredibly white guys all the time, would I?” He laughed.
“Watch it,” John said, smiling. “You racist.” He punched Dean on the shoulder.
“You're the racist!” Dean yelled in an over-the-top manner, waving his hands, and they both collapsed into laughter.
“Yeah. You know what, all you fuckin’ Blackanese people are the same. Just a bunch of fools, I tell ya! Don't know whether to steal a car or not cause they sure as hell can’t drive it.”
“And you whiteys with your nice houses and your credit cards and your 401k’s. The worst.”
They breached the hill in the middle of the street and saw police lights flashing. There was a police car parked on the side of the road where the bridge was. Where Betty was.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tamer Animals Page 3