It was not a guard. It did not move like a soldier. It was tall, inhumanly tall, and covered an impossible amount of ground with each stride it took. It glided along as if it did not need to hurry, as if my capture was inevitable. The moon was shining behind it, casting what would have been a face in complete shadow. It had no weapon, but I knew that its purpose was to kill me. In terror, I flipped myself over the top of the fence and came down hard. I heard the bone in my right ankle snap and felt white hot flames of pain shooting up my leg. Now I was hobbling along, dragging my foot beside me. Just beyond the fence was a ditch, built from the sweat of the soldiers living in the camp. It was used for water run-off from the torrential rains that sometimes swept through. The ground was muddy and slick. I slid down the first side, a shock of pain washing through me as my foot stopped my fall. Nausea overcame me and I rolled over in the mud and vomited. When I rolled back over, I saw my demonic pursuer sailing over the top of the fence behind.
I knew that it would reach me in just a few more strides, and I struggled to my feet. I began to sob uncontrollably, the tears pouring down my cheeks and my breath coming in ragged pants as I fought my way through the mud that sucked me downward with every step. I reached the other side of the ditch and looked back. The black figure was standing at the top of the ditch now. It paused for a moment and stared at me, and then slowly raised its arm to point at me. I felt myself screaming, trying furiously to scramble up the other side. My frenzied scrambling did nothing but pull huge clumps of mud down the sides and into the ditch. I could not climb it.
I knew that my killer was right behind me now, and I shrank into the side of the ditch, pressing my back into it and covering my eyes with my hands. I waited for death, but the thing did not strike. I could feel it towering above me and for one instant took my hands from my face and looked up. It was bending over me, its arms extended toward my neck and I knew it meant to strangle me. I braced for the feel of its cold fingers encircling my neck and squeezed my eyes closed again, knowing that this was the end and praying for it to come quickly. The next moment my mind went black and everything faded into nothing.
Chapter Fifteen
I woke up gasping and clutching my throat. My cry echoed around the tiny room for a moment, and then all was silent. I eyed the clock next to the bed and saw that it was after midnight. My clothes and sheets were soaked in sweat, so I sat up in the bed for a moment. It had been years since I’d had a dream like that. After the war, I had them nearly every night that I wasn’t drinking. Most of the time I’d try to drink as much as possible during the day so that I’d pass out. The liquor would drown out my dreams, and sleep became a black nothingness, a period of unconsciousness to break up the nightmare of my waking hours. After I married Sally, the dreams came less frequently, and she would be there to calm me in the night, until finally they subsided altogether. I suppose I was naïve to think that they would never come again.
I knew that I would not be able to fall back asleep, and so I got out of bed to try and bring myself back into the present. The moon was shining brightly into the room, and I walked over to the washing stand to splash some cold water on my face. I grabbed the towel and held it over my eyes, beginning to breathe normally again. When I pulled the towel away and glanced down out the window, I saw something that made me freeze. It was a figure standing just beyond the driveway under the cover of a row of azalea bushes. Just like the figure in my dream, I could not see its face. I knew immediately that this must be Melee’s devil, and yet this was no demon. It was clearly a man.
My fear quickly turned to anger, and the next instant I was running across the attic, barreling down the steps, fumbling with the kitchen door and then leaping down the back steps and out into the night. I ran around to the side of the house where I had seen the stranger, but he was gone. I stopped in my tracks, listening intently, trying to determine if I could hear him. There was nothing but a strange silence. The usual chirp of crickets and call of night birds was noticeably absent. I felt a suppressive feeling of dread in the air as though the stranger had left a wake of malice behind him.
I ran down the driveway and out into the road and stood there turning back and forth, searching up one way and down the other, straining my eyes in the hope that I would see some kind of movement in the shadows.
“Who are you?!” I shouted.
I waited for a reply but heard nothing.
“What do you want?!” I shouted again.
A dog started barking in the distance.
I stood thinking about my options, wondering if I should get in my car and hunt for him, and then thought better of it. Whoever it was, he was gone and hopefully would not be back.
I went back to the house and after letting myself inside, locked the back door and then walked to the front door to make sure it was locked too. All was silent. If Melee and Sally had heard the commotion of my running out into the street and yelling for the stranger, there was no sign of it. I was grateful for that. It meant that I could spend the rest of the night alone. I turned off the kitchen lights, poured myself a brandy and proceeded to sit in the dark in a large leather arm chair, smoking and slowly sipping my drink. Tomorrow was Ash Wednesday, I thought, flicking my cigarette into the ashtray. Peg Blanchard would be giving up chocolate as she did every year. Her husband would abstain from alcohol and complain about it at every opportunity. I would not need to do anything more than I already did. For years my life had been one long Lenten season of abstinence and deprivation. The time with Melee was a momentary lapse in my solitary and celibate existence. Now that it was over, I was even more acutely aware of my loneliness, and I felt it like a pang of hunger in the pit of my stomach.
At some point during the night I must have dozed off again, because I woke up to the sound of a blue jay screeching outside my window. I was thankful to have made it through the night without another nightmare. From the brightness of the sun I could tell that it was already quite late in the morning. I dragged myself out of the chair, and was struck by a searing headache so I shuffled into the kitchen to find some coffee.
Melee was seated at the table, peeling potatoes into a large ceramic bowl. When I walked in she jumped as though I had scared her. It was the first time I had seen her without Sally in months. She stared at me, open mouthed, fear washing over her face.
“Good morning,” I said, “sorry if I frightened you.” I walked around the table and opened up the kitchen cabinet to grab a mug.
“I- I thought you were at work,” she stammered.
I scanned the clock on the wall. It was nearly ten in the morning. Months ago, I would have panicked, knowing that my father-in-law would be waiting for me at the store, ready to launch into a tirade about my shiftlessness, my irresponsibility and general failure as a man. Now I didn’t care. Charlie Bordelon and his wife Alice were excitedly waiting for the birth of Sally’s imaginary child. Their elation at the prospect of becoming grandparents had erased most of their animosity toward me. I enjoyed taking advantage of their short-lived goodwill.
I poured myself some coffee and drank it down. It was probably made some time in the early hours and was now quite cold, but its bitterness helped to wake me up and clear my mind. I noticed that Melee had not recommenced her task at the table. Instead she was watching me closely. Over the last few months she had become terrified of me. It was sickening to think that I now repulsed her, although I had only myself to blame. My blinding need for her had driven me to do things that I now regretted. It was true that I had used her. I had taken advantage of her vulnerability and forced myself on her time and again, deluding myself into thinking that she was willing. It was only Sally’s intervention that had stopped me. Even now as I stared at her I could feel the desire begin to prick at me. Her flushed cheeks and pregnant belly made her seem all the more beautiful and mysterious to me. I wondered how it would feel to hold her again, and feel her warmth against my chest. I imagined her enlarged breasts swaying gently as she moved up a
nd down on me, her eyes closed and her head leaned back in pleasure. My momentary reverie was broken by the loud bang of the screen door announcing Sally’s entrance into the kitchen.
My wife stood motionless, taking in the scene. Her eyes flitted from my face to Melee’s and back to mine. She gritted her teeth and glared at me.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped, removing her gloves and hat and setting them down on the kitchen counter. She was wearing a ridiculous maternity dress, and I could see she had concocted some kind of padding underneath. The effect was convincing, although she did not have the natural color and softness in her face that Melee’s possessed.
“I had some dreams last night,” I answered, dumping the rest of my coffee in the sink and rinsing out my mug. “I came downstairs and fell asleep in a chair, and I guess I overslept.”
I noticed a smudge of ash on Sally’s forehead. Presumably she had gone to mass this morning, perhaps with her mother or Peg Blanchard. She walked over to Melee and stood behind her, her hands resting protectively on the girl’s shoulders. Melee raised up her right hand and placed it over Sally’s.
“I guess you’d better get going then,” grumbled Sally, “Daddy will be expecting you at the store.” She patted Melee’s shoulder, and then helped her up out of the chair. The two of them went back to the bedroom together without another word.
I did my best to pull myself together. After a quick wash and shave, I dressed myself in a hopelessly wrinkled shirt and pair of pants. Neither Melee nor Sally bothered with the ironing anymore at least not any of my clothes, and I had to admit I looked terrible. When I arrived at the store that morning, it was eleven o’clock and time to set up for the lunch counter.
“Well, welcome, Palmer,” Bordelon called across the store, his voice brimming with sarcasm. “Glad you could make it. Boy, you look rough. Have too much fun at the parade yesterday?”
“Oh, not too much, sir,” I shrugged, “Guess I didn’t get too much sleep last night, Sally was up quite a bit,” I lied.
Bordelon’s face immediately turned serious and he walked over to me. “Everything alright?” he asked, “She’s not feeling poorly is she? Alice took her to mass this morning, but she didn’t mention anything.”
“Oh no, she’s fine,” I smiled, “Just the usual discomfort.”
“I see, I see,” Bordelon nodded, the subject was distasteful to him and he quickly changed the subject. “Alright then, Bram. I’ll let you get over to the lunch counter.” He strode off to the front of the store where a customer was waiting.
I took my time setting up for lunch. My head was still pounding and I was beginning to feel a bit nauseated from lack of food. I was putting coffee cups and saucers on the counter when Warren Blanchard walked up and seated himself on his usual stool.
“Hey Palmer,” he nodded, flipping over his coffee cup.
I poured him a cup and then stepped back for a moment.
“Where’s the Sherriff?” I asked him, noticing the conspicuous absence of his usual crony.
“Hell if I know,” he grumbled, “lying in a hole somewhere would be my guess. Damn fool got drunk as a skunk last night.”
I was surprised at Blanchard’s anger. I had never seen him speak in that manner about Boyle. As far as I knew, they were partners if not friends. Blanchard noticed my confusion.
“He ain’t been acting right for months,” Blanchard muttered in a low voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he’s downright embarrassing. Not showing up in court, coming to my office with liquor on his breath, I’m telling you I’m gonna have to cut him loose,” he shifted on his stool, twisting his head around to see if anyone was listening. “Palmer, that idiot has become a liability to me. I have a reputation to maintain, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna have it tarnished by a sleazy miscreant like that.”
“Miscreant!’ I exclaimed, “Jesus, Junior, what’s Boyle done?”
Blanchard sat up straight and glared at me, suddenly realizing he had said too much.
“Don’t worry about it, Palmer,” he said, “I’m taking care of it.”
He would say no more. I was disturbed by the revelation. I had hoped to talk to Boyle about the stranger I’d seen last night outside the window. Now I wondered if it was worth it. Boyle’s days as Sherriff would be numbered as soon as Blanchard decided he was no longer fit for the job.
After the lunch rush was over, I cleaned up and went to the stockroom to do some inventory. My thoughts were interrupted by a light tap at the door. It was Izzy Johnson.
“Hi Mr. Bram,” he mumbled. “You got any deliveries for me today?”
His head was turned away from me, a baseball cap clutched tightly in his hands.
“Yeah, I think we do, Izzy,” I answered. “I’ll just get the order list.”
I walked toward him and noticed that he was keeping his head down, his normal smile absent.
“Izzy,” I said, “what’s wrong, son?”
He looked up at me, and I gasped. The left side of his face was bruised and swollen. Tears were welling up in his eyes.
“N-nothing, sir,” he said, quickly brushing away the moisture on his cheek.
I pulled him into the stockroom and shut the door.
“Izzy,” I said, “don’t tell me nothing’s wrong. Who hit you?”
“Nobody sir,” he said, “I- I was playin’ ball with Gabriel and uh, I missed. He threw a hard one to me and it hit me in the face. It was just an accident, sir.”
“Izzy, that doesn’t look like a ball hit you.” I shook my head and put my hands on his shoulders. “You can tell me, you know. I want to help you.”
Izzy stood staring at me for a moment, his mouth opening as if he were about to say something. Then he turned his head away again.
“No sir,” he said. “It was an accident.”
“Izzy, I know you’re father has been around again. I know that he’s been hitting your mother and now he’s hit you, hasn’t he son?”
“No sir,” Izzy mumbled.
“Yes he has, son. Why are you protecting him? You don’t need to be afraid, Izzy. I can help you. Let me help you, Izzy.”
Izzy was crying in earnest now.
“I got to go, Mr. Bram,” he cried. “I – I need to go home. I forgot my momma wanted me to do something for her.”
He moved toward the door and started to open it.
“No Izzy,” I pleaded, “don’t go. Let me drive you home at least. Maybe I can talk to your momma. Is she home today?”
“No sir, she’s at Mrs. Peg’s house,” said Izzy. “I got to go, sir, please, sir.”
He was getting panicky now, his voice trembling. He turned the door knob and pushed the door open.
“Alright, alright,” I tried to calm him, “it’s ok, Izzy. You can go.”
With that, Izzy jammed his cap back on his head and bounded out of the back of the store. I went after him and watched as he climbed on his bike and pedaled away.
It was the last time I would see him for weeks. Every day I would wait for him, hoping that the sunny little boy would come skipping back into the store, but he did not return. I began to do the deliveries myself, and took to driving down to the Bottoms from time to time, cruising up one street and down another to see if I could spot Izzy’s bicycle parked somewhere. I drove slowly, dodging potholes and mangy stray dogs along the muddy gravel road. The tiny shotgun houses drifted by, one looking very much like another, the same plastic chairs and wooden benches adorning the porches and the same tired old colored women sitting in rocking chairs, snapping beans and raising their heads in surprise to see me and my shiny car. I would wave and they would lift a tentative hand in reply, wondering what a white man was doing so far away from town.
I wanted to question Gabriel, but he too was missing for weeks. I determined that he did come to the house, as I would find the yard cut, the hedges trimmed and various other odd jobs completed but never did I see him. I
t seemed that he timed his visits to coincide with my absence. One Saturday, however, I came home early and found him sweeping the driveway. I parked my car in the garage and then walked over to him, determined to get a real answer to my questions this time.
“Hello Gabe,” I called, “how you been?”
“Fine, sir, fine,” he smiled, pausing to wipe the sweat off his face.
“And your mother?”
“She fine too, sir,” he smiled again.
“You know, Gabriel, I haven’t seen your brother around lately. In fact it’s been weeks. It’s not like him to not come to the store.”
Gabriel nodded and scratched the back of his neck.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I guess Izzy didn’t come to tell you goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” I asked, surprised. “Where did he go?”
“Oh, he’s with my Aunt Betty in Baton Rouge, sir. Yeah, he went out to visit, you know. I got a whole heap of cousins up there and Izzy loves to go and play with ‘em.”
I stared at Gabriel for a moment. There was something about the way he spoke that wasn’t convincing.
“Are you sure about that?” I asked.
“Sure about what, sir? That Izzy went to my aunt’s house? Yes sir, I’m sure about that,” he chuckled at cracked another smile.
“No, I mean are you sure that’s why Izzy went to your aunt’s house? Just to visit? There wouldn’t be any other reason?”
The smile left Gabriel’s face and he began to shift uncomfortably.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir. What other reason would there be?”
I took a deep breath, and then unleashed the frustration I’d been feeling for weeks.
“Come on, Gabriel, I know what’s been going on. The Sheriff told me.”
Gabriel’s jaw clenched and a flicker of anger darkened his expression.
The Devil in Canaan Parish Page 15