The Drought

by Patricia Fulton

  Distracted, Murph looked around, trying to figure out if the javelina were still nearby.

  Rod said, “They’re gone.”

  Murph looked at his friend with doubt and asked, “How do you know?”

  “Robert told me.”

  “Robert?”

  “Robert Riley.”

  “Man, you’ve been in the sun too long.”

  “No, he’s here. He’s sitting right there.” Rod pointed to the corner of the pickup truck. Murph turned, half expecting to see someone, but the truck was empty.

  He pointed at the same spot, “Right there?”

  Rod nodded.

  “Rod, buddy there’s no one there.”

  Rod’s voice grew impatient. “Listen Murph.” He licked his lips. “I’m not going to make it out of here.”

  Murphy interrupted, “The hell you say, we’re both going to make it.”

  Rod waved his hand, silencing him. “I’m not going to make it, but you can. Riley says there’s a pocketknife in his right pocket. He wants you to give it to his son… says it’s got his initials on it.”

  Murph looked around blankly trying to find Robert Riley.

  “He’s in the cab.”

  Trying to make light of the situation Murphy asked, “Does he have any beer in there? I could sure use a cold one.”

  Rod whispered, “Just look.”

  Murphy stood, swayed, steadied himself.

  The truck looked ghost-like. It was coated with a thick layer of cracked mud that had grayed beneath the searing sun. The bed of the pickup truck was littered with debris and driftwood. Rod lay among the deadwood and discarded aluminum cans like he too was placed there by a whimsical current. Instead of a gray dust, Rod was coated in an ever-widening stain of blood.

  He pressed his palms against the glass and tried to slide the window open. It didn’t move. “I think it’s locked.”

  “Try it again.” Rod’s voice was hoarse, like his throat was coated with the gray dust. He stuck out his tongue to wet his lips but the colorless husk that emerged was dry. Exhausted he croaked, “Push harder.”

  He tried again. A sliver of space appeared between the window and the casing.

  “It’s moving.” Panting, he pushed harder and the window slid open. A dank, wet odor escaped through the small opening. Before he could pull back, he inhaled the hot moisture that had been air-locked in the cab for a decade. The smell of the river triggered memories of his childhood. He saw himself swimming to the bottom of the Llano to grab a handful of sand. Lungs burning, he would thrust himself toward the surface, the sand held up over his head. He peered inside the cab. What he saw inside caused him to pull back so quick he slammed the back of his head against the top of the cab window.

  If Rod’s delirious ramblings were correct, Robert Riley, (or at least what was left of him), was sitting behind the wheel of the truck.

  Chapter Eleven

  Junction, Texas

  The funeral for Rod Sawyer and the long dead Robert Riley took place on a Tuesday, during the last week of June. The town took up a collection and Robert Riley was laid to rest in the Junction cemetery with a simple stone marker inscribed with the words: Robert Riley He has been missed. Beth Riley had a point to make to a town that had long believed Robert Riley split town with another woman ten years prior. She insisted on the inscription and wouldn’t put a date of death. She reasoned they couldn’t know the exact day and even if they could she didn’t want to commemorate his murder.

  Murphy Jobes had spent four days in the hospital, recovering from dehydration, a hell of sunburn, and the two Javelina bites that together took twenty stitches. Fortunately, neither bite had gotten infected. He and Suzy attended the double funeral together and for once Murphy was not drunk.

  Pastor Lyle Hearly spoke softly into the hot air, as Riley’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Suzy glanced over to see how Jar was handling the funeral. The expression on his face was a blend of confusion and grief. Suzy wondered how a boy who never knew his father was supposed to feel at that man’s funeral.

  Jar’s grief came, not from a sense of loss but from watching his mother. This was a man she had loved, then lost, and now had lost again. Jar could feel the waves of her pain every time she gripped his hand and it sent tears to his own eyes. He looked around the cemetery and noted several new graves. Marcy Taylor, the banker’s wife; Fern Edwards, an eighty-year-old woman who had died in her trailer when her air-conditioner went out; Bobby Walsh, a small boy who had gotten in the middle of his mother and father’s domestic dispute and died from a knife wound. Jar’s eyes searched the stones and came across the one inscribed: Hugh McManus. The dirt on his grave didn’t have the freshly turned look like the mound of dirt waiting to fill his father’s grave. It was already gray and dry from the heat. Hugh had been the first, and now seven people in Junction were dead. Luke’s place of rest was not marked in the cemetery because his mother still held out hope her son would wander home some day with a hell of a story about where he’d been.

  Jar looked up at his mother’s pale face and wondered how long she had. How long before the headaches she’d been trying to hide got the best of her? He knew she was taking something stronger than Advil to ward off the pain, but she wouldn’t tell him. The pills made her sleepy, and for the first time he could remember, his mother was missing shifts at work.

  He looked around and caught sight of Suzy standing next to her father. Murphy Jobes still had red skin and there were scabs across his face where the damaged skin had peeled away and was starting to repair itself. What would have happened to Suzy had he died? He gripped his mother’s hand tighter. What would happen to him if his mother died?

  There was no doubt in his mind the dying wasn’t nearly done. He could see the Junction Cemetery filling up with new bodies, the ground marked by freshly turned dirt would turn gray and dry within a month, because the rain wasn’t coming.

  And it was going to get hotter, just like the voice he’d heard coming from the bank clock had said: It’s gonna get mighty hot, Mighty fuckin’ hot. Yes sir, we like our meatloaf and taters well done, served up pipin’ hot. He whispered under his breath. “We’re all just a bunch of taters.”

  His mom leaned down. “What hon?”

  Jar smiled up at her and squeezed her hand. “Nothing Mom. You okay?” She gave him a weak smile and squeezed back.

  Lyle nodded to Beth and she stepped forward to throw the first handful of dirt on her husband’s grave. Next, Jar stepped forward and grabbed a handful of the cool earth. He held his hand over the open grave and released the dirt, listening as each piece hit the coffin below.

  Jar stepped back and pushed himself up close to his mother. From there, he watched as the rest of the town came forward, one by one, paying their respects with a tightly held fist of dirt. When they were done, the men finished the job with shovels, and the body of Robert Riley was finally laid to rest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Reserve, Louisiana

  Nathan drove his truck down Route 61 toward town. The route was scenic, offering a true glimpse of St. James Parish. The town of Reserve, like most small towns along the river, had grown in response to the refineries being built along the banks of the Mississippi. Unplanned, the streets ran at chaotic angles near the river. The houses, propped on blocks, lacked a sense of permanence. The majority of the population was working class and the closing of a single refinery had a dramatic impact on the entire area. The past ten years had not been kind to the town of Reserve.

  Old man Roland was standing at his mailbox as Nathan came down the road. Roland had lived in Reserve for nearly twenty years, but just like Nathan he would never be considered a local. You had to be raised from birth in the Parish and a bit of Creole or Cajun in your blood didn’t hurt either. Nathan waved and was about to pass when Roland flagged him down. Pressing lightly on the brake he pulled the truck to the side.

  Agador swung his head over the side of the truck to see about their unexp
ected stop. Roland nodded his head toward Nathan in greeting then reached up and scrubbed Agador’s head. “Morn’ Agador. What brings you and the sheriff out on such a hot day?”

  Agador thumped his tail against the cab. A long line of drool hung from his snout almost touching the gravel on the side of the road. Roland laughed, gave him one last pat and directed his attention to Nathan.

  Nathan said, “Just going stir crazy.” He took off his hat, revealing a sweat ring and a serious case of hat hair. Using it as a fan he asked. “You caught sight of Nute lately?”

  Roland scratched his white hair. “No, come to think of it, can’t say I have. He gone missing?”

  “Yeah, looks like.”

  Roland nodded his head and pointed at the scratch on Nathan’s forehead. “Heard you had yourself a little bang up over to River Road.”

  Nathan pushed his hat back into place. “I got the feeling I’ll earn the title of local long before the good citizens of Reserve stop talking about it.”

  Roland laughed. “I imagine so. Do you mind me asking about the bag of money? There’s quite a buzz around town, half the time I can’t tell what’s true and what’s not.”

  Nathan smiled. Human nature sometimes was fairly predictable. “I’ll give you the insider on this one Roland. The money part is true.”

  “What the paper’s saying true?”

  Nathan understood the half question and responded. “No lies, half a million.”

  Roland whistled. “Dadgummit! You’re pulling one over on an old man.”

  Nathan raised his hand as if taking a pledge. “I swear. Half a million sitting in a duffel bag in the back of an abandoned car. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Roland murmured. “Just there for the taking and a boy scout like you has to find it.”

  Nathan laughed, reaching down to put the truck in gear. “If you catch sight of Nute, you tell him I’m looking for him.”

  Roland called back. “Hold up there a minute. I didn’t get the chance to tell you why I flagged you down.”

  Surprised, Nathan waited, his hand poised over the gearshift.

  “I keep hearing noises out in the woods. Sometimes I swear I hear drums. Spooks the animals. Thought I was dreaming it the first couple of times, but I’d say it’s been going on for a few weeks now. I thought you might want to check it out, figured it could tie into those missing animals.”

  Nathan pondered the last part of Roland’s assumption. He looked off toward the woods and wondered who might be beating on drums in the middle of the night. “What makes you think drums in the middle of the night and missing pets might tie together?”

  Roland didn’t hesitate, “Voodoo.”

  Nathan sat up straight, unable to hide his surprise.

  “You been too long up north, Nathan. If you’d been born and raised here you’d know that kind of thing still goes on.” Roland reached into his pocket and pulled out a shriveled chicken’s foot. “Nute give me this to keep the evil spirits away.”

  Nathan pulled back slightly. “When was the last time you heard the drums, Roland?”

  Again, Roland didn’t hesitate. “Last night.”

  Nathan glanced toward the trees again, wondering if he was up for a stomp through the woods. “How far off you suppose the sounds were?”

  “I’d guess somewhere on my property. I’ve got a good twenty-five acres. I doubt I’d be able to hear anything beyond that.”

  Nathan put the truck in park and got out. He walked around to the back of the truck and lowered the tailgate. Agador lumbered down, groaning like an old man with bad hips.

  Roland inquired. “I thought Agador was officially retired?”

  Roland was referring to Agador’s role as a search and rescue dog. Nathan had pulled him from active duty a couple years back, claiming the hound was too old. Truth be told, Agador’s sense of smell was as keen as it had ever been, but the last rescue had been a bit much for Nathan, and in all honesty he had lost the heart to do the job, not Agador.

  The last search he’d gone on with Agador had been for a missing five-year-old girl. She’d been missing for two days before Nathan had been called. He and Agador found her within seven hours. She had drowned and her body had drifted against a pile of wood near a bank. The sight of her small body, bloated and picked over by the local wildlife had been too much.

  Nathan believed he had grieved as much as one man could over the death of his own daughter, but seeing the little girl brought all the pain back. He pulled that small, pitiful body out of the water and held her on the bank, rocking and sobbing, and calling out his daughter’s name.

  Curtis Trosclair was the first to find him. He gently removed the little girl from Nathan’s arms, saying quietly, “Nathan, this here’s Clair Breaud. You need to pull yourself together before her daddy comes up the path.” Nathan nodded mutely, his grief a lead ball in his stomach that would never be digested.

  Nathan hooked a lead rope onto Agador and responded lightly to Roland’s question. “You can’t stop a hound from doing what he does best. You mind if I stomp around out there for awhile?”

  “Not at all.” Roland pointed to a group of trees in the distance. “It’s hard to say but that’s where I’d guess it’s coming from. You know how sound travels.”

  “Well, it’s as good a place as any to start.” Nathan gave the leash some slack and whistled softly at Agador. Understanding the signal, Agador tensed, waiting for Nathan’s lead.

  They were out about twenty-five minutes when the dog caught a scent that made him go crazy. Tracking blind was a crapshoot. Whatever had the hound riled could literally be anything. Unable to fight a hundred and sixty pounds of straining hound, Nathan reached down and let him loose. Forgetting his earlier moans, Agador leapt through the tall dry grass until he disappeared. Ten minutes later, he let off a series of loud howls.

  Nathan trotted through the grass until he reached the woods. Just inside the line of trees a barbed wire fence marked the end of Roland’s property. Nathan climbed the fence and continued to follow the frantic sound of Agador’s baying.

  An old shed had the hound in a frenzy. A low, crude wall had been constructed around the squat building creating a courtyard of sorts. Agador stood at the center of this courtyard near a large pole sticking out of the ground. His body was rigid and his eyes were fixed on the entrance of the shack. He was still howling.

  “Shh, Agador. Good job.” Nathan patted the dog. Agador quieted but remained agitated. Whatever scent had led him here was inside the shed. Nathan approached warily. He was without a weapon and hoping he wouldn’t need one. Still holding the leash in his hand, he reached down and picked a good size branch off the ground. Better safe than sorry.

  The shed was slightly larger than he had first realized. There were two rooms, one in front of the other. In the first room, there was a poorly made wooden table with an assortment of candles, a few bottles of rum and a picture of what Nathan believed to be a catholic saint. The table was covered with melted wax giving the impression numerous candles had been burned there over time. The smell of blood hit Nathan as he passed the table and prepared to enter the second room. Clutching the branch tightly, Nathan swung into the room quickly. The room was empty of anything living, but there was blood everywhere.

  “Holy mother of God.” Nathan lowered the branch. Here too there was a table filled with burned down candles, rum, and a variety of odds and ends, but the thing that had brought them here, the scent Agador had followed for more than a half hour was hanging from a beam in the roof. Nathan couldn’t be sure but he thought the thing hanging from the beam was Gwen Doucet’s missing Collie. It had been filleted down the middle.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Junction, Texas

  It was nearing dusk as Jar rode his bike into town. Long shadows stretched across the deserted streets but there was still no relief from the thick heat. Tired and hot, he rode past the Junction Eagle. He could see Edna Mae’s large form sitting behind a desk. Sh
e was eating a sandwich. A thought flashed through his head. Just a fragment, but it repeated as he rode toward the library. When the electricity goes, and I know it will, she’s not going to last an hour.

  Edna’s column in the newspaper had made the trip into town necessary. She had written about Junction’s last drought referencing a book she had written on the topic. He dropped his bike on the front steps of the library and walked into the cool interior. His face was flushed from the long ride and he wasn’t sure how to look for what he needed. Catching the eye of Lola Edwards who sat behind a large desk to the right of the front door, Jar muttered, “Excuse me Ms. Edwards, where would I find information on the history of Junction?”

  Under normal circumstances Lola Edwards would have beamed at a teenager coming in to find out about their hometown but the heat had taken its toll. She had a pinched look on her face and she spoke in a strained whisper that seemed to cause her pain. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  He hesitated, “Well you got anything written by Edna Mae?”

  Ms. Edwards pulled her lips into a mew of distaste. “You mean her collection of essays about the drought? You know it’s not exactly accurate.”

  He lied. “That’s okay. I just want to read about Coach Bryant and the Junction boys.”

  She raised her eyebrow but stood up and led Jar over to the reference section. She couldn’t help muttering as she slid her fingers down a line of books, “It really should be in the creative non-fiction section.” Her fingers stopped their search and plucked a thin volume off the rack. “Here it is.”

  He took the book, thankful it wasn’t thick, and sat down at one of the tables. Stenciled across the front cover in gold lettering were the words,

  The Junction Drought

  1949-1954

  A Collection of Essays

  By Edna Mae

  He flipped through the thin volume catching snippets of the past. There were black and white pictures of large termite mounds. The first caption read: Termites consumed roots as well as parts of the root crown. Next to the first was a picture of a rancher driving a snowplow. The caption beneath this picture read: In some areas, sand dunes reached six feet.