Dwelling

by Thomas S. Flowers

  At best, she had offered some kind of collateral, such as extra chores perhaps, or not being mean to her younger sister, Karen, and making sure she took her on their little adventures. Whatever it had been, they had obviously agreed to it. Suicide Squad had spent the entire summer together that year. Johnathan came because he wasn’t far removed from Ricky’s side, and Ricky came because, though his and Maggie’s love had yet to fully mature, the seed had been sown—it would take another summer to fully bloom. And Bobby was able to get out of going to fat camp, and Jake, by nothing short of a miracle, convinced his parents to let him skip Church Camp. Jake, I think he told them they were going on the Painted Church tour…Yes! That’s how he did it. Painted Church tour, jeez. What a square!

  Maggie hung a right down the unpaved Oak Lee Road. She searched deeper, but the memory she found of the house was similar to the photo of Suicide Squad she had found in Ricky’s room, the photo with the gang in front of the old farm house, fading with age. Twenty or so years…Jesus, has it been that long?

  Swerving the Jetta, she dodged a precarious pothole. Moxie lifted her head slightly and whined. Shit. Road’s seen better days, I guess. Maggie righted the car, continuing down the road. It would take another few miles before she reached the turn off for the house. Again, her mind wandered back to her Papa and Memaw’s RV trailer park off Route 77 on the south end, and the day they went exploring, bicycling across Giddings and into Jotham. They’d come upon a two-hump hill, dodging cow patties and laughing in the afternoon sun. She recalled perching on top of the crest that overlooked an open field with tall stalks of wheat. There may have even been a tire swing or a barn down there, she couldn’t be certain, the memory was still fuzzy at best, like static on a television that’s lost signal. And then the house came into view, the old country farm house that sat in a clearing besieged by weed and vine. The porch looked haunted, she remembered that. The swing rocked in the wind, moaning on rusty metal chains. What did we do? What happened…? In her mind she pictured Jake and Ricky running down the hill first, followed by Bobby and Johnathan, leaving Maggie to tend with her sister, Karen. Neither of them wanted to go near that creepy place. That’s right, I didn’t want to go…that much I remember at least…

  But the boys went and so the girls followed. And who had gone inside? Didn’t someone go inside? Was it Ricky…only Ricky? Sounds about right…Was it a dare? It was a hot and humid day, but somehow she remembered feeling cold standing near the place. She and Karen had both stood there rubbing their arms with their hands watching the boys daring each other to go in. And Ricky, up on that porch, but then what?

  A bright white-picket-fenced house peeked over horizon. The must-be-new paneling shimmered in the glow of the afternoon light. And the—just as she remembered them—rows and rows of wheat stalks. Maggie followed the road and then rounded up the drive of 1475 Oak Lee Road. The gravel here was softer, more inviting than on the road. Moxie lifted her head again, but instead of whining this time she growled, low and faint.

  “Easy, girl. We’re here. We’re home,” Maggie said the word and with surprise, actually felt it was true. This was home. She didn’t have to look down at Moxie to know she was giving her that dumb, glazed-over look. Home? Maggie’s gaze was fixed ahead, mesmerized by the beautiful, white farm house, the golden stalks that moved with the wind, the large oak tree with the rotting bits of rope that perhaps once belonged to a tire swing. She came to a halt with a little cry from her brakes. Everything looked new and freshly painted. Even the porch looked like it had been recently updated. She killed the Volkswagen’s engine; it sputtered slightly before exhaling in defeat. Her eyes searched for Duke, the larger-than-life Texan from the Butters & Sons Real Estate website. Another car was in the drive, a Buick sedan, and black as night, coated in country dust. A man stood near the porch, silhouetted by the house in the afternoon sun. He was tall and thin, dressed in a black suit with a white dress shirt and black tie. His shoes would have yielded a high shine, but out here…in the dust, nothing shone.

  Who is that? Maggie wondered, squinting at the thin frame man before cautiously exiting her car. That’s not Duke, no way. Though Maggie and Duke had never official met, she remember the jolly dancing man with the robust midsection and even larger cowboy hat from his commercial, and his glowing, meaty face from the website, the one she had found deplorably clownish. Or was it Duke who suggested such a thing? She couldn’t remember.

  “Hello?” Maggie called out, stepping onto the soft rock of the driveway. The discomfort of not knowing the man standing on the porch was not well hidden from her tone. “You’re not Duke Butters, are you?” She tried her best not to sound rude, but when you’re expecting someone, it’s hard not to sound put-off-ish.

  The man simply smiled. His lips curved upward exposing yellow stained teeth. Despite the unusually warm fall and the dust from the wheat field blowing in the wind, his suit looking as black as coal, Maggie felt her spine lock in a cold breeze. The white of his dress shirt seemed to glow. His shoes had a muted shine, deafened by a soft coat from the decaying crop in the field nearby. He looked well-to-do, but there was something else about the man that Maggie found unsettling. Something unseen. She had the strangest notion that she ought to run away. Jump back into the Jetta and drive far, far away, back into Jotham, past Giddings.

  But why?

  Where? Where would I go? Houston? Heavens, no!

  “Mr. Butters will not be joining us today, I’m afraid,” said the thin tall man. “My name is Eugene Parsons and I will be taking over his account for this property.” He spoke clear and concise. Every word, every syllable enunciated, in a way that could leave one wondering if English was perhaps not his first language.

  “Okay—” Maggie said, taken aback. “What happened with Mr. Butters, with Duke, I mean?” She held Moxie tight against her chest. The dog growled in a dull, almost mute purr.

  “Unfortunately—well, I do not know if it is really my place to say. It certainly is not conducive to our business with the property for you to know.” The tall man, Eugene, spoke again, very clear and concise, too concise.

  “I don’t care what you think is conducive. I’d like to know, Mister Parsons. Please.” Maggie kept her cool, but the unreal quality of the man struck a strange cord in her heart, pulling on the back of her eyes, tickling her nose.

  “Will this information impede our business with the property?” asked Eugene.

  “Not unless you don’t tell me what’s going on,” Maggie said hotly.

  “Then, at your behest, it is my regrettable duty to inform you that Mr. Duke Butters of Butters & Sons Real Estate Company has recently passed away.” Eugene spoke without emotion, as hard as it is to imagine when speaking of such things as mortality.

  “Dead? What? When?” Maggie placed her free hand over her mouth. Moxie remained tucked between her armpit and her forearm, glaring at the tall man with her small, black, beady eyes.

  “Last night. His body was discovered by his cleaning lady, one Mrs. Ybarra. As I’ve heard, she was quite distraught.” There was only a glimmer of emotion this time. A small faint grin across his thin rosy lips.

  “Jesus—what happened?”

  “Suicide.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Mr. Butters hanged himself with a manila rope, one half inch thick. He tied it on the banister overlooking his living room. And then, supposedly, tossed himself over. Mrs. Ybarra came in through the front door at around six in the morning and saw him.”

  “Oh—God…What about his son? His business is Butters & Sons, I’m assuming he’s got a kid or two, right?” Maggie was guessing. She couldn’t quite remember ever talking with Duke if he had kids or not.

  The tall man, Eugene, glared with an air of nonchalant impudence, unsettling in the cruel grin spreading across his narrow well-groomed face, exposing finely pointed stained teeth. In the field, the clicking of locusts (or are they cicadas?) sung around them. But in a strange way, Maggie could swear the cl
inking was coming from the man in black suit.

  “Dead as well, I’m afraid. Suicide, just like Duke. His youngest, Glenn, was found in his bathroom with his wrists slashed open. He bled out in minutes, or so I’ve been told. Mark, the oldest, was discovered in his garage. He’d left his truck running with the doors closed,” said Eugene turning toward the house.

  “Jesus—” Maggie breathed, the news rushing over her like a freight train. She couldn’t be sure if it was empathy or sympathy. Again, she didn’t know Duke very well, or his boys, but in the minimal amount of time she did spend with him, she’d liked him right away. She could imagine probably liking his sons as well, had she’d had the chance to know them. But, now they’re gone. Dead. All suicides, as hard as it was to believe.

  “Where are you going?” Maggie called out, noticing Eugene retreating toward the house, climbing the porch steps.

  “You are still interested in the house, yes?” he asked, concise and cold as ever.

  Maggie looked at him for a moment. Then she looked at Moxie grumbling in her arms. She thought of Hood and the asshole housing folks and the movers already on the way. She hadn’t expected this. She had expected Duke to be standing here showing her the place. And then the trip to Jotham proper, signing the deed. The loan was already set, the blood money spent, the check written with her husband’s blood that came with a neatly folded American flag some funeral detail officer handed her the day they buried him in the Houston National Cemetery. What would Ricky do? Would he even have thought about buying a place like this if I had bit the dust? Maybe, maybe not. Doesn’t matter, does it? He’s gone. I’m not. He left me here alone. Me and Moxie. Fuck ’em.

  “Mrs. Smith? You still want to look at the property?” asked Eugene, pressing, sounding less as if stating a question and more in a way that hinted that he already knew the answer.

  “Let’s do this. Lead the way, Chuck.” Maggie started after him. The closer she got to the porch, to the house, the more Moxie began to stir. She looked up at the tall, thin man who held his arm out toward the open door, gesturing for her to take the first step inside. Moxie began to growl louder. Maggie ignored her, petting her head gently if not nervously. The dog suddenly bit her hand.

  “Shit!” Maggie yelled, dropping the dog on the porch. “What the hell’s gotten into you—?” she started. But Moxie scurried off mid-sentence, in a mad dash off the porch. She rounded the house and disappeared into the field of wheat stalks.

  “Moxie!” Maggie yelled after her, half running. She stopped just short of the porch. Gazing out in the field for any sign of disturbance among the tall golden stalks.

  Nothing.

  Stillness.

  A gang of crows perched on a scarecrow, a robust effigy of some hay-girthed farmer, plaid shirt and all, at the epicenter of the field glared back at her, cawing venomously. Maggie blinked, and then turned and walked back inside the house where Eugene stood, waiting for her.

  CHAPTER 18

  CONVERSATIONS WITH DEAD PEOPLE

  Johnathan

  Smoke clung to the bar walls, slithering in from the constant opening and closing of the back patio door. The smoking ordinance in Houston was in full swing but damn if it was going to stop casual and socially adept smokers from enjoying a Camel or Marlboro toke. Pool balls clanked in the corner, followed by laughter and drunken bravado and misfortune wages over lost billiard games. Barflies clung to their stools. Widowers. Divorceés. Blue collar types. Refinery linemen from over near La Porte or perhaps Pasadena still dressed in blue coveralls. Office managers. Waste disposal specialists. High school chemistry teachers in faded white button-ups and planetary ties, principals, off-duty nurses, tax collectors, whores disguised in red satin skin-tight dresses, the whole lot, every one, seeking answers at the bottom of a glass or in the company of a stranger, or perhaps both.

  Here, below the cackle of empty conversation lay a slumbering, ancient, and despondent god dejected from the normality of the world and cast into a pitiful humdrum existence craving more; more than what it has or could ever have. Here in the bar, everyone was something other than themselves—that is until the jukebox played its final hit, maybe something by Bruno Mars or Ellie Goulding or that one song by Foo Fighters, and then the open sign would fizzle out and the bloodshot eyes of an ill-gotten night would be forced to readjust to the harsh, earthly shine of reality.

  Johnathan raised his hand signaling for the waitress to bring him another glass of Johnny Walker. Normally, the crowd and roar would have bothered him. But luckily, they were able to find an empty table near the corner that faced the main entrance and exit. Here he would be able to keep an eye on who was coming and going, until the warmth of the booze set his mind more comfortably at ease. The mood at Hoister’s felt dull with melancholy, and perhaps it was a good thing. A wild crowd would put him on edge. And the best part, here the chances of ghosts or dead friends finding him seemed slim to none. In the chaos is when dead things seem to find you, not in the somber, drunken, decadent orgy around him. Jake sat in the chair beside him, nursing a Coors bottle, also unwilling to turn his back on the door. His eyes occasionally surveyed the bar. He didn’t seem thrilled with Johnathan’s choice of bars.

  “So, you gonna tell me what’s going on or are we going to need another round before you start talking?” asked Johnathan, chasing the last of his scotch with a chug of Miller Lite. “You know, to be honest,” he said belching, “I didn’t even know priests could drink. You know, celibacy and all.”

  “I think you mean sex. And yes, sex is allowed, if you’re married,” said Jake, his gaze wandering over to the pool tables. Some lumberjack looking fellow with a long beard and red flannel shirt was making what appeared to be a poor attempt at getting the number of some pretty girl in skinny jeans and a loose revealing top.

  “No, I meant booze. Aren’t you supposed to be celibate from booze?”

  “You mean abstinence? No, not necessarily. Some ministers during Lent will give up alcohol, except for Holy Communion, the taking of wine during the Eucharist is allowed during such practices. Though, traditionally, we use grape juice. But otherwise, outside of Lent, no, there are no restrictions per se.” Jake took a sip, pretending not to notice the woman in the short skirt walking by their table.

  Johnathan grinned. He winked. “I think she likes you!” he said, nodding toward the bar where the short-skirted woman stood ordering a drink, casually glancing back at Jake and smiling.

  Jake turned, briefly, and then returned to the table, eyes downcast on his Coors, watching the sweat roll off the bottle and collect in a ring on top the napkin coaster.

  “What? Not your type?” asked Johnathan, grinning like some drunken fool.

  “No. Don’t really have a type. Just not in the mood, I guess.”

  “Where else are we going to find you a nice respectable girl than here? You got the pick of the litter, Padre.”

  “Please stop calling me that.”

  “Oh—right. Sorry, man. Habit.” Johnathan searched for the waitress. “What does it take to get a drink around here? It’s not even that crowded, not really.”

  “So—how was your flight? How are things with Karen?” Jake asked, probing.

  “I hate flying. Hate heights. Guess that’s why I never joined the Air Force.” He laughed.

  “You didn’t join the Air Force because you’re terrified of heights. Remember when we all went to Astro World? You, Maggie, Bobby, me and Ricky? You were scared out of your mind!” Jake laughed dryly. He didn’t care to mention Ricky, to speak his name. It still felt too soon.

  “Yeah, well, whatever, man. And no. I told Karen I had a late flight. She’d be pissed if I told her I was going to hit up a bar before coming home.” Johnathan was still searching for the waitress. Finally he spotted the young twenty-something and waved her over. She gave him the ‘wait just a minute’ finger signal as she took another table’s order. “Jesus—” he hissed.

  “Something bothering you?” asked Jak
e, taking a sip of Coors.

  “Yeah, I’d like my drink.”

  “Sounds like something else.”

  “I thought we came here for you?”

  “Maybe both.”

  Johnathan watched the waitress as she ventured up to the bar, hopefully to retrieve his scotch. With his eyes still lingering on her firm form, he said, “This thing with the Wounded Warrior Project, talking about the war and my experience, this was my first run—out of town that is. Two days of regurgitating my trauma. Once with veterans and the next day with civilians at this global herbal supplement company out near Largo. One flight, two visits, a double whammy. Two birds, one stone kinda thing, I guess. Talking with the veterans bothered me the most…I don’t know why.” The waitress returned and sat the glass of Johnny Walker in front of Johnathan; she smiled automatically.

  “Sorry about the wait, hun,” she said, “new bartender tonight.” She smiled again and went off back to the bar to assumingly pickup her next round of orders.

  “You were saying,” prodded Jake.

  “What?” Johnathan was distant, watching the waitress.

  “About your trip.”

  “Oh—right. Like I was saying, I don’t normally mind talking with civilians about—you know, it, the war. It probably sounds strange, right, but it’s true. You can talk and talk and pretend nothing touches you. They just nod their heads, like ‘yeah, man, far out,’ as you tell your story. But with vets…they know. They can see past the bullshit. They can see your real face.” Johnathan bit hard against a swing from his drink and then exhaled a hot odor across the table.