Shivaree

by J. D. Horn

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Elijah opened Corinne’s empty suitcase and laid it on the bed. He turned to the chifferobe and yanked the doors wide, collecting her hanging clothes in a single scoop and tossing them on the bed next to the case. At first he made an effort to fold the dresses neatly, but he lost patience quickly and started dropping things in. He turned back and opened the top drawer, both a little excited and a little embarrassed as he reached in and took hold of her undergarments. He ran both hands to the back of the drawer so he could collect them in one go, but stopped cold when he felt the unmistakable shape of a pistol swathed within the softness of his fiancée’s underwear. His hands released the clothes and took hold of the velvet bag containing the firearm.

  The sound of the door opening from the kitchen caused him to release the weapon. “What’s going on here?” his mother asked. She stepped out onto the sleeping porch and crossed over to the bed that held Corinne’s case. She paused before it and, without looking at her son, removed the contents, laying Corinne’s belongings next to it. Elijah watched without responding as his mother began to neatly fold the clothing before returning it to the case. “She’ll be staying on with the Judge for a while? Will we be postponing the wedding, then?” she asked, looking back at him without stopping her self-imposed chore.

  “Ah, I see it’s more than that,” she said when he stayed silent. She must have read, or misread, the expression in his eyes. “You’ve had a change of heart? Or was it the young lady who did?” He held his tongue, knowing he was in for a scene the moment he told her that he would be packing a case for himself, too. That he was going to leave this place and never lay eyes on his mother again.

  When he joined the army, he did it to run from what he believed Ruby had done to him. He knew he was running now, too, but this time he was separating himself from the lies he’d been raised to believe. He didn’t want this farm. He didn’t want these people. Since the TVA was hiring, he’d take Corinne to Tennessee. See if they could start a new life together there.

  “Well, doesn’t really matter,” his mother said. “She wasn’t right for you. Nor you for her. You need a wife who knows her place. A wife who knows how to be a woman. The pair of you will be saving yourselves a lifetime of regret. Besides, I think the girl is a bit off . . .”

  “Corinne isn’t off. There ain’t nothing wrong with Corinne.” The words broke free from Elijah’s heart. “What’s wrong is with you. And Daddy. And this place.” His voice cracked. “How could you not tell me the truth about Ruby?”

  His mother blanched at his words, her face frozen into a cautious mask, her lips a tight straight line, her brow smooth. Only her eyes betrayed the truth he suspected was buried in her soul. He waited, wondering if she would finally, and for the first time, be honest with him. “And just what truth is that, son?”

  The screech of the screen door alerted them both to his father’s arrival. Clay stepped onto the sleeping porch, his expression hard. The drink-fueled and gleeful aggression had been replaced by a smoldering hate that was all set to ignite. “You can stop your pretending, Ava. The boy knows he ain’t mine. He knows you spread your legs for the Judge. And he knows you’d’ve rather watched him marry his own blood than admit to your sins.”

  She turned and advanced on Clay. “Why? Ruby is dead. Why would you tell him now?”

  “Maybe ’cause I’m tired of pretending the spineless bastard is mine. I mean, look at him. I tried to make a man out of him, but even the army couldn’t do it.” He smiled, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. He seemed almost happy to be finally spewing his venom.

  Elijah pushed his way between them. “We’re leaving. Corinne and me both. Today.”

  “Yeah, boy, that’s right. Go on and run.” Clay reached out and pushed him back and into his mother. “You’ve been nothing but a disappointment your whole life. Hell, I’d hoped you’d get yourself killed in Korea, so I could at least boast about ‘my son the hero.’ Maybe even get a few free drinks out of it. But Jesus Christ, you can’t even get yourself shot right. They probably pegged you while you were running anyway.”

  His mother tore around him, and advanced on Clay. “You’ve been disappointed? You? Look at what happened to my life. I had no choice but to marry you, an unwashed, uneducated man who reeks of sour mash and dung.” Her face turned red, but the blood drained from her pale hands as they bent into claws. She struck out and scratched long, angry red tracks along her husband’s cheek. He took a step back, then slapped her hard enough to drive her to her knees. She pressed her hand over her reddening cheek and looked up at her husband. “I should have hanged myself,” she said, rising. “I should’ve flung myself in front of a train. I should have pulled him out with a wire hanger before I ever married you.”

  Elijah had heard enough. He went to the chifferobe and opened the top drawer, feeling around inside until the texture of soft velvet met his fingers. He retrieved the bag from the drawer, then turned it upside down so that the pistol inside could slide out and into his open hand. A Walther PPK, a model he knew well. He checked the clip and took off the safety, aiming the barrel between his father’s surprised eyes.

  The older man laughed. “Go ahead, if you got the balls to do it,” he said.

  He faced his father, each moment causing his hand to quiver a bit more, every second weakening his resolve to end the man.

  “You put that down now, Elijah,” his mother said, her voice quivering. “We’ll deal with this together. Just hand me the gun.” Elijah caught his breath, then lowered his arm, and let the pistol slip into her waiting hand.

  “Little pansy mama’s boy,” his dad said and laughed, not a happy sound, but one filled with anger and disdain. “Worthless bastard.” Elijah felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. He focused on his dad’s lined and weathered face, staring into this stranger’s eyes. Elijah never noticed his mother lifting the gun. A bullet entered through the man’s right eye, and his brains splattered against the window screen like oatmeal being flung against a sieve.

  He jolted back and turned toward his mother. She stood there trembling, the knuckles of her hand white as she clutched the weapon. Her eyes were red, tears brimming. “I didn’t mean any of what I said. I’d’ve never hurt you. You forgive your mama, okay?” Before he could move, she swung the pistol up and placed it against her temple. She squeezed the trigger, then she was no more.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “Yeah,” Bell said to his deputy as they pulled up to Charlie Aaron’s place. “Something sure as hell happened around here.” They’d gone by the funeral parlor where Charlie worked before coming out here. Charlie was due to assist at a burial, but the owner of the funeral home hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him. Charlie’s boss figured Charlie was passed out—again—in a drunken stupor. Asked Bell to pass on the message to the old man that he was fired. For good, this time.

  It looked like Charlie might have worse problems than being fired. Even from the car, they could see the broken windows and the dried blood that painted the concrete steps leading up to the porch of the old man’s house.

  “His truck ain’t here,” Deputy Rigby said as he put the car in park and killed the engine. Bell looked at him, barely able to hide his disgust. They hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet, and the boy was already turning green around the gills.

  “Just stay here,” Bell snarled and flung open his door. Bell’s joints felt stiff and his footfalls were heavy as he plodded toward the steps. The blood had dried, but flies still buzzed around, landing in the sticky residue. Bell squatted as best as his bad knee would let him to examine what he realized was a tooth. He stretched slowly up and placed his right hand over the back of his neck to block the sun’s scorching rays.

  He mounted the steps, doing his best to sidestep the blood. The front door was broken into splinters, providing a gaping entryway. He stepped inside, his senses affronted by the vinegary scent of Charlie’s home. And riding over that unpleasant smell was something worse:
the stench of coppery blood and decay. He watched his step, moving around the swipe of blood on the wooden floor that led from Charlie’s living room and out to his porch. “Charlie?” he called, although he didn’t know why. The old man was already dead. He felt that in his bones.

  The heavy buzzing of horseflies caused him to look up and take a few more steps through the main room to the kitchen’s doorway. Bell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose.

  “Shit,” he said, catching sight of the mastiff’s ruined body. What the hell was going on around these parts? Seemed as though the whole goddamned world was going mad. The sheriff backed away without taking his eyes off the dog’s body. No way Charlie would’ve let someone get away with such a thing, which was another tip of the hat to his theory that the old man was dead. He turned and made a beeline for the door, this time not bothering to check whether he was tracking blood, be it Charlie’s or the dog’s. He broke free of the pungent scent that permeated the house and clambered off the porch, avoiding the stairs altogether.

  “We got trouble,” he called to Rigby, but no sooner had he said the words than the sound of a gunshot echoed across the fields.

  Then a second.

  Rigby bounded out of the car and looked over at him. “Hunters?”

  He shook his head. “That was no rifle.” He pointed toward what seemed to be the source of the sounds. “What’s over there?”

  “I’m pretty sure the Dunne place lies in that direction.”

  FORTY

  Raylene tapped the hard-boiled egg on the railing of the steps of city hall, then rolled it between both hands until the shell shattered. “Here you go, boy,” she said, holding it out to her son as he came walking up to her.

  The boy looked ridiculous. He was swimming in his father’s old coat, and wore his father’s trilby with the brim angled down to shield his eyes. He’d taken a once-white, now gray, dish towel from the diner and wrapped it around his neck like a scarf. He’d forced his hands into much-too-small ladies’ gardening gloves, powder blue with pink roses and daisies. Where he’d found those, she had no idea.

  He seemed worried, or maybe just uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, not meeting her eyes. “Naw. Not hungry,” Merle said, taking a drag off his cigarette.

  Folk around here had criticized her for letting the boy smoke so young, but she figured it didn’t matter very much one way or another. The angel done told them that the world they knew would soon be ending, and that a new Jerusalem would be built right here on this spot. “‘So also is the resurrection of the dead. The body is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.’ That’s First Corinthians, boy,” she said, realizing that Merle wasn’t listening to her. His eyes were fixed on the city hall clock, and she knew he was willing the hours to speed by, until the sun would set, and he could shed the garments he wore to protect himself from its light.

  That morning, the boy had been beet red when she cut him loose from the fence. As Ruby told her to, Raylene had covered him with a blanket, then walked him back into the shade of the house. As burned as the boy had been, within minutes of getting him inside, his skin had returned to the same freckled paleness it had always been.

  Raylene had to struggle to keep up with him as they made their way into town. The boy pretty much ran, the hat pulled way down and his hands stuffed in the pockets of the coat, his pace not slowing until they stepped into the thick morning fog. For the first time Raylene found herself wondering why an angel of God should burn in the rays of His sun.

  No. Her faith was unshakable. She buried the thought as quickly as it had arisen. “What you doin’ here? I thought the angel had work at the diner for you today.” She finished peeling the egg and popped it into her mouth whole.

  Merle drew a puff on the cigarette and blew it out. His face pinched in on itself whenever he smoked. “I already did as she told me to.” He paused, and she noticed his hand shook. It sickened her to see her boy’s hand in the feminine glove. “It starts tonight. She told me to be ready. But she wanted me to come talk to you. Pass on a message.” Merle watched her, alternating between biting his lower lip and taking drags. “She said ain’t everybody gonna get changed. Just a few of us. The ones she says are worthy.”

  The yolk was dry, making it hard to swallow. For many are called, but few are chosen. The words came to her mind, but she didn’t manage to speak them before Merle went on.

  “I need to get back to the diner,” he said, throwing his half-smoked cigarette onto the steps. Raylene leaned over and picked it up, sticking the stub behind her ear. When Raylene looked up, Merle’s forehead had scrunched up, his eyes narrowed with hate. “She ain’t changing you. You haven’t been chosen. She says you’re too old.”

  A tremor ran through Raylene, and she nearly teetered over. She grabbed the step she sat on with both hands, taking deep breaths while the world spun before her eyes. “Not chosen?” Like Moses on Mount Nebo, she was to die, looking into the promised land, but being denied entry herself. Raylene grabbed ahold of the railing and pulled herself up. She was a servant of the Lord. If this was His will, she would bow to it. She nodded. “‘Neither do men put new wine into old bottles: else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish: but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.’”

  She reached out for her son, but he pushed her hand away. Merle took a couple of steps back, reaching the foot of the stairs. “She says you worship false gods.”

  Raylene felt her knees buckle, and she caught the rail to keep from falling.

  “From now on, folk around here are to worship her.” He gave his mother a sour look. “Oh, and she said if you don’t quit quoting that Bible crap, she’s gonna rip your tongue out.” A cruel, straight smile came to his lips; then he turned and ran off in the direction of the diner.

  FORTY-ONE

  Corinne jerked awake. In spite of her best efforts to remain vigilant, the warm band of sunshine that had stolen through the crack in the curtains, combined with the sleepless night, had caused her to nod off in her chair. She glanced at her wristwatch. It was well past noon, and Dr. McAvoy still hadn’t come for a sample of the Judge’s blood.

  She rose and went to examine Judge Lowell. If he had regained consciousness at any point, she was unaware of it. She thought again about the high dose of sedatives the doctor had administered. It was almost as if McAvoy had subconsciously hoped to help his friend pass quietly into death rather than recover. Again, Corinne had to combat a sense of distaste in order to take the Judge’s wrist. His pulse was still weak, although his breathing seemed less labored than it had before. He seemed to radiate an unexpected vitality that belied the gray clamminess of his skin.

  The sound of men’s voices drew her to the window, and she pulled the curtain back an inch or so, in order to see the yard below better. The two goons who worked for the Judge stood outside talking, very nearly arguing. The dark, slim one, Frank, leaned back against their auto as the clown called Bayard strutted, waving his arms and pointing angrily at his companion. Corinne couldn’t make out their words, but the buffoon’s anger came through clearly enough.

  When Lucille had introduced them, she’d said that McAvoy had sent them to assist with caring for the Judge. Corinne found herself shaking her head as she watched Frank light up a cigarette, puffing away with no sign of concern over his buddy’s tirade. What kind of care could these two possibly provide? What had she found herself mixed up in?

  A sound, something between a moan and a whimper, caused her to turn back to the Judge. He seemed to be rousing, and was clutching tightly to the top of his sheets as if trying to drag himself back from a nightmare. He rose almost to a sitting position, his eyes open wide and flooded with terror. His lips moved, but no words came. Then he fell back and went still. Corinne rushed to his side and felt
his wrist, following up with pressing two fingers against his carotid artery. After several moments passed, she closed his eyes and pulled the sheet over his face. Whatever the reason for his delay, the doctor would arrive too late.

  FORTY-TWO

  Bayard didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one little bit.

  “Keep your head,” Frank said and puffed on his cigarette. His annoying habit of squinting as he smoked, something Bayard could usually ignore, made Bayard ache with a desire to draw his partner’s blood.

  Frank opened the car door and climbed in. He sat sideways, hunched over, his legs hanging out.

  “You know that scent,” Bayard said, nodding in agreement with himself. “It’s the same as how that Hollywood woman smelled.”

  Frank flicked ashes from the tip of his cigarette and glared at Bayard. “All right. I know. Damn it. I know. Shut up, so I can think.”

  But Bayard wasn’t going to be hushed, not this time. “They ain’t nothing to think about. Whatever was wrong with her was wrong with Ruby, too. And now it’s got the Judge.”

  Frank didn’t answer; he just kept sucking on the damned cigarette. It wasn’t until it was mostly ash that Frank spoke. “We need to find out what’s keeping the doc,” he said and threw his cigarette to the ground. “You stay here and keep an eye on things. I’ll start at his house, maybe head down to the hospital in Tupelo if he ain’t home.” He swung around on the seat and cranked the ignition.

  Bayard lunged forward and grabbed the top of the door before Frank could close it. “If’n he was home, he would have answered the four times you called.” Bayard blinked slowly, looking Frank up and down and asking himself how this pretty boy who thought with his cock had ever come to assume he was in charge. “And you ain’t leaving me here.” Bayard reached in over Frank and killed the engine. He took possession of the keys.