The Drought

by Patricia Fulton

  Jar’s mother came up behind Chief Buckner right as he made his last statement. She said, “People have a way of disappearing around here and never being found, don’t they Horace?” She held out her hand in a protective gesture, and Jar came to her. She pulled him close to her side.

  Horace chaffed at the use of his first name in front of the kids but turned and offered a more civil tone than he had been using. “Come on Beth, let’s not start that again.”

  “No, let’s not.” Her voice was soft but firm. “And let’s not treat these kids like they’re criminals. If Jared says he went in there, then the boy went in there, even if it isn’t convenient for the Mayor and the city council.”

  Chief Rocking Horace flipped his notepad shut and shoved it into his pocket. He said, “I’m not through questioning them kids.”

  Beth said, “We’re not exactly a flight risk. You know where we live.”

  Chief Buckner was just about to step away when Barry Tanner’s voice, not as cocky as usual, entered the conversation for the first time that evening. He said, “Luke went in after my ball.”

  At the sight of the baffled look still stamped on Chief Buckner’s face he added, “I stole the ball from my dad’s collection. It was signed by Carlton Fisk.” The admission wasn’t done out of benevolence or in the misguided hope they would tear apart Flatrock Bridge looking for Luke, who was surely dead. It was a calculated maneuver, made by a desperate boy.

  The name didn’t alleviate the confusion on the Chief’s face. He was a Texas football fan. Talk to him about Coach Bryant, talk to him about high school football, college football, anything from the past fifty years involving football and he’d have something to say but he didn’t know anything about Carlton Fisk, the Boston Red Sox or any East Coast baseball team. Griffin Tanner, on the other hand, unaware he had a valuable stake in the game until that moment, turned with an odd gleam in his eyes. Barry had his father’s undivided attention.

  Murphy Jobes felt the dull weight of sobriety taking hold. He watched Mike Casteel’s eyes glaze over and drift toward the damn drainage pipe again and again like any moment his boy might come scrambling out like the whole night had been a lark. If the boy was stuck, he’d be in there kicking up a ruckus—caterwauling and what not—and there hadn’t been diddly squat, nary a sound coming out of that pipe the whole time he’d been standing there. Silence told its own sorry tale.

  He smacked his lips together and scanned the ragtag gathering of people wondering if anyone had thought to bring along a cooler. He had a bad case of cotton mouth and desperately needed a drink. The mayor and two city councilmen stood close to the dirt trail leading up to the road. It was doubtful the wound tight, uptight citizens of Junction would have a beer to spare.

  Damn it was hot. Had to be a hundred degrees and the sun wasn’t even shining. Hell he would have settled for a drink of water, that’s how bad his thirst was. He spotted Suzy standing near Beth Riley and her kid. The oaf Horace Buckner stood nearby. He’d have to get Suzy up the trail and in the truck before Horace got around to thinking how ol’ Murph got out to Flatrock Bridge without driving.

  He licked his lips again. He needed a drink. Bad. Deciding it was past time to go he shook Mike Casteel’s hand, wished him the best, and headed for the 2x4s laid across the mud.

  Beth Riley watched Murphy Jobes approach the makeshift bridge of 2x4s like a single-minded oxen. If he saw Griffin Tanner ahead of him, he didn’t show any sign. In his haste, his size 12 work boot caught the edge of a board and sent him stumbling forward. The planks shifted and Griffin Tanner, almost across, had to step sideways to catch his balance. One leg sank to mid-calf in the mud. For a split second Griffin’s perfectly composed face twisted with rage and he spat out, “You stupid oaf.”

  She thought. Get a good look folks, that’s the real Griffin Tanner. A smirk of satisfaction almost made it to her lips but it froze and slid away replaced by growing trepidation. That’s who Barry was going home with, not the polished, perfectly pressed version the town always saw.

  She didn’t want to be involved with the Tanners, she’d been against Barry since the first day he stepped through her door, but over the past year he had become a permanent fixture in her home. As much as she wanted to take Jared and get away, a mother’s concern kept her feet rooted in place. She wanted to make certain her son’s best-friend would be all right.

  Chief Buckner offered Griffin a hand and hoisted him to dry land. The genial mask returned and Griffin expressed his appreciation. “Thanks Chief. If it’s all right I think I’ll collect the boy and head home.” He pinched his wet pant leg between his thumb and fingers gave it a little shake and grimaced.

  “You go on Mr. Tanner. If I have any more questions, I’ll just give you a call.”

  “Just come out to the house. We can have a scotch.”

  Beth waited, half expecting the chief to drop down and lick the mud from Griffin’s cordovan colored shoes but he didn’t. She glanced over at Barry who had scrambled up and taken several steps back at his father’s approach. If Griffin noticed, he didn’t show any sign. He walked past Barry as if he’d forgotten he were there. Barry didn’t wait to be summoned he fell into step behind his father like an obedient dog.

  Before Beth could stop herself she called out, “Barry, you give us a call tomorrow. We’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

  Griffin turned back and gave Beth an appraising look. A smile, indiscernible in nature, wavered at the corner of his mouth, never quite making it across his lips. Beth met his eyes and waited for him to turn away. He gave the slightest nod, acknowledging her unspoken challenge, turned back toward the path and made his way up to the road. Barry followed. He did not look back.

  Murphy Jobes hung back like a reprimanded child until Griffin Tanner departed and Chief Buckner wandered away toward the mayor and the councilman. At her father’s approach Suzy shot a look of embarrassment toward Jar and his mother, turned away and headed up the trail ahead of him. Oblivious to his daughter’s disdain Murphy followed with an unsteady gait calling out, “Suzy Q, wait up!”

  After his friends were gone, Beth gave Jar a tight squeeze. She wished he were little again so she could pick him up and carry him home, and protect him from all the things in the world that didn’t make sense, like fathers who beat their sons and drainage pipes that swallowed little boys. She said, “Just let me say goodbye to the Casteels and then we’ll head on home.”

  He didn’t let go of her hand. “I’ll come too.”

  “You sure?”

  He nodded.

  Susan Casteel’s eyes were red and nearly swollen shut. She’d been crying for hours. Jar felt a lump forming in the back of his throat as he watched her face work in a desperate hope this was all a hoax. She grabbed his arms, leaned down until she was eye level with him and searched his eyes for the truth. “You sure he’s in there Jared? You sure?”

  He looked down at his feet unable to meet her anguished gaze and whispered, “He’s in there, Ma’am. I saw him go.” His voice caught and he finished in a choked whisper. “He didn’t come out. We waited and waited and he never came out.”

  He felt her grip loosen, and understood she wasn’t just letting go of him, she was letting go of hope. In a desperate moment of clarity, he wished he could unsay his words and give it back to her. But it was already gone. He could see Mrs. Casteel’s face working in confusion, her gaze distant as if she were searching for something she had lost. In a flash, he felt all of her pain wash over him, and he understood about a mother’s greatest loss. He knew he had experienced his first grown up moment and he did what any twelve-year-old kid would do, he buried his face against his mother and sobbed.

  Chapter Four

  Junction, Texas

  It was a common refrain around town that Griffin Tanner had grown a bit big for his britches. It was often followed by a comment or two about Lloyd Tanner. “A good man. God rest his soul “Salt of the earth.” “Served in World War II.” “Decorated
with a purple heart.” “I knew Lloyd when Griffin was bouncing on his knee.” Tsking would ensue, with a shake of the head, followed by a spat of tobacco hitting the ground. Speculations would follow. “What does he want with the land? He doesn’t ranch, doesn’t farm.”

  In the end, Guy Davis would drawl, “It’s a damn shame is what it is.” The others would nod in agreement, squint their eyes in the general direction of Griffin’s estate—unable to fathom the thoughts of a man who never cultivated a single acre of the land he bought.

  The land in question had suffered through the indignities of fire and drought, offered refuge for those in flight and in turn had soaked up its share of spilt blood. Now rising from the earth’s crust stood the house Griffin built—a monstrosity in opulence, out of place in a town where houses were often made from scraps of corrugated tin. A black wrought iron fence, easily eight feet in height and topped with spikes, marked the perimeter of the property, adding fuel to the gossip in town. “Why does a man need such privacy?” “What do ya suppose he’s hiding up there?” “Who do ya suppose he’s trying to keep out?” “More likely trying to keep in.”

  Dora’s name might be mentioned then, in a hushed tone of respect used for the missing or the dead. Another round of tsking would ensue this time by the women wondering about the poor child, innocent in all of this, raised without the love of a mother.

  The Aston Martin traveled along the dark narrow streets of Junction, passing small houses already astir with the news of the missing Casteel kid. Inside the expensive car, Barry Tanner still dressed in swim trunks and covered with the grime of the day looked uncomfortable and out of place against the expensive leather seat. The image of the Carlton Fisk ball flying over his head, just out of reach, kept repeating in a permanent, damning loop that had his fingertips twitching in anticipation of a catch that would never happen.

  *

  Ascending another narrow road, they left the town behind. Barry’s eyes remained on the window as they drove through the gated entrance, down the cobbled drive lined with pecan trees, beyond which lay a perfectly manicured lawn, still green despite the drought and the county wide watering ban. The house with its worn stone, copper fluting and large mahogany doors should have stirred in him a sense of pride but he had learned at a very young age even the most beautiful surroundings could become a prison. At the front of the property the automated gates swung together, silently closing off his only avenue of escape. His face reflected in the dark window, remained expressionless but his heart—his heart pumped, wildly infused with a strange mixture of fear and hope, a sensation known intimately by every inmate praying for clemency they know will not come.

  A walkway extended over the driveway from the house to the first set of garages. Griffin drove under this walkway and into a courtyard where an additional five garages housed an exquisite collection of automobiles. From this rear courtyard there were several entrances into the house. Holding to a peculiar habit, Griffin walked along a quaint stone path, delicately lined in moss which led to the front of his house. Once on the front stoop, he stopped to admire his property then inserted the key into an ancient lock fixture adorned with a lion’s head and turned the key.

  The interior of the house was equally overstated. The floors were a dusty pink Italian marble. A sweeping staircase descended from the upper levels in a grand flourish of oriental carpet and intricate railing. A mural depicting Dante’s nine circles of hell was painted across the ceiling, the writhing figures of purgatory rendered with such realism it looked as if they might plummet at any moment to the marble below. He placed his keys in a bronze dish near the door, picked up the day’s mail, and walked across the foyer unmindful of the trail of mud he left behind. For all appearances it looked as if he had forgotten about his wayward son.

  Barry refused to follow his father to the front of the house. He entered through a side door and was waiting in the kitchen when Griffin stepped into the room. Their eyes met for a moment, Barry’s defiant; Griffin’s dismissive. Griffin knew Barry well enough to know when he was looking for a fight and he had no intention of giving in tonight. “You must be starving. I believe Rosa left you some dinner.”

  “Cut the crap, Dad.” Barry’s lower lip trembled. He raised his arms and thumped his bare chest. “Why don’t we get this over with right now!”

  Griffin smiled. His lids came down partially obscuring brown eyes that looked golden. He was handsome in a hard, uncharacteristic way—in that fleeting smile was a trace of the suitor who had pursued and caught one of the most beautiful women in town. “Barry, Barry. You know, I don’t get to choose the moments when you’re going to steal from my collection.” He tapped an envelope against the kitchen counter. “And I don’t get to choose which pieces will never be recovered.” His smile became larger, revealing strong white teeth. “If we’re going to play this game, certainly I deserve the right to enjoy choosing when to punish you for your indiscretions.”

  Barry backed away, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re psychotic. I think it gets you off when I mess up.”

  Griffin had opened the cream colored envelope and now looked up from reading. “You’re the one who likes to pull the tiger’s tail, son.” He looked down again, dismissing Barry.

  Too proud to admit he was hungry Barry left the kitchen without his dinner. He went up the back stairs and into the upper hall that led to his bedroom. It wasn’t one of the bigger rooms in the house, but its location near the kitchen stairs allowed him to come and go without being seen by his father. The room could have been a guestroom. There were no posters on the walls, no sports paraphernalia, nothing to give any insight into the boy who occupied the space, except a silver, five-by-seven picture frame on the nightstand.

  Barry stepped into the room assessing the situation. The door didn’t lock. His father believed in privacy, but only his own. The only thing in his bedroom he could move was the dresser. In the past he had tried barricading the door. But the beating, when it came, was worse than usual. Exhausted, he lay down on the bed and grabbed the picture frame off the nightstand.

  A striking young woman stared back at him. At a glance the smile on her face made her look happy but he had spent hours staring at her picture and saw details in the print that gave her away. Her eyes were distracted, there were lines of tension around her mouth and it looked to him like she couldn’t breathe. It’s the glass, he thought, she’s suffocating under the glass. He ripped the back off the frame, slid the picture free. Her expression didn’t change. He held the photograph, smelled the chemicals in the paper, it was just a picture, that’s all it would ever be, that’s all he would ever have. He fell asleep holding the picture of his mother, thinking if there was anything worse than a beating it was waiting for it to happen.

  He was sleeping when the moment finally came.

  The first lash of the belt cut through the darkness and across his bare chest, wrenching him into consciousness. Crying out, he instinctively rolled over and into a fetal position, allowing his back to take the next lash. His father didn’t speak. There was no lecture to accompany the blows, just the sound of the belt whistling through the darkness until it made contact with a stinging smack.

  Cringing beneath each lash of the belt, he gripped the mattress with rigid fingers and bit into his pillow to keep from crying out. There was nothing he could do about the tears rolling down his cheeks, but he refused to give his father the satisfaction of any sound that signaled weakness. Instead, he concentrated on the rhythm of the beating. Eight, whistle, smack, don’t scream. Nine, whistle, smack, don’t scream. He counted each lash, mentally recording them, storing them in a vault of hatred he’d created in honor of his father. Ten. The whistling stopped. He drew in a ragged breath and his father spoke for the first time.

  “I have a little something extra for you this time, Barry.”

  Barry closed his eyes, tensing his body as he waited for the next blow. This time, the breath fled his body in a gasp. The metal belt buckle r
ipped into his raw back. The buckle descended again and again, until he lost count of the blows.

  He floated just below consciousness, noting with bemusement the rhythm of the beating had changed. Under the added weight of the buckle, the whistle had become more of a warble. With each thud of the buckle, the smack had more of a wet sound. The rhythm now went something like, warble, squish, just breathe. Reality, coated in pain, slipped away and he chuckled. Hey what starts with a warble, ends with a squish and is covered completely in red?

  “Barry.”

  The single word, whispered from the walls, emanating from the dull gray twilight of unconsciousness, where he nearly slept.

  The voice, melodious, soft, warm came again.

  “Barry.”

  His eyelids fluttered and slowly opened. Tiny red spots speckled the white cotton sheets. He rubbed at one with his finger. Feeling his lids grow heavy, he started to drift away again.

  Urgent, beckoning.

  “Barry!”

  *

  His eyes rolled open, searching the depths of the shadows for the voice. The room was cold. He could see his own breath coming in short, tight, expulsions. These exhalations filled the room with a light mist and through this celestial fog he saw her for the first time.

  She waved her hand, motioning for him to come to her. Her movements were languid, and somehow as melodious as her voice. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders. He stopped there, unwilling to allow his eyes to drop beyond those soft shoulders. Barry, bring me the brush, the silver one on the bureau. She beckoned again. Everything in him ached to join her but he was afraid to move. The belt had a way of snaking around the body and finding places that were harder to heal than the back.