by J. M. Lanham
“So here is the bottom line,” Dawa said. “We cannot afford to continue this infighting any longer. From this moment forward, we must stick together. Agreed?”
Paul and Donny looked at one another, then down to the ground like two brothers scolded by an older, wiser father. Then Paul looked to Dawa. “You’re right. This is getting us nowhere.” He extended his hand to Donny. “Water under the bridge?”
Donny feigned hesitancy for a few seconds, then stuck his hand out to shake Paul’s. “Yeah, Paul. So long as you at least give me a chance to prove to you that I’m not crazy.”
The two men shook on it and smiled, but Paul’s eyes wondered. A pale, lanky figure emerged from one of the bars down the street. He was redheaded with slouched shoulders, and wearing a backpack. He also looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He stepped into the street and stopped to look around, and that’s when his eyes caught a glimpse of Donny Ford.
Paul couldn’t believe it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the mugshot. Then he looked up again toward the wild-eyed kid just outside the bar.
It was Fenton Reed.
***
The front steps creaked and sagged in their predictable manner that signaled Arlo Vaughan’s return home. Kerry was standing at the sink and heard him walk in the front door, but didn’t take her eyes up from the dishes. He hung up his coat and stepped into the kitchen.
Kerry asked, “What’s cooking, good looking?”
Arlo grunted, then walked to the fridge. Kerry took note and turned the water off, then reached for a towel to dry her hands. She asked, “Everything okay downtown, sweetie?”
“Oh, yeah, everything’s gonna be fine. It was just one of those days. That’s all.”
“Did something happen?”
Arlo grabbed a couple of Cokes, then the two sat down at the kitchen table. He slid one to Kerry, then started in. “You know, the nerve of some people just never ceases to amaze me. Here I am, bringing in another load of dishes to the restaurant, when out walks a guy I’ve never seen before in my life. The man runs right into me, knocks the box out of my hands, then takes off down the street like nothing happened.”
“Wait,” Kerry said. “Are you talking about my dishes?”
While waiting on the water to get shut on at Kerry’s Restaurant, the couple had decided to caravan loads of dinnerware back and forth to stock the cabinets for the grand opening. That meant Kerry had worked her fingers to the bone getting supplies ready for the River Street restaurant. Arlo wasn’t the only one putting in the work.
“Yes, dear. It was the load I just left with.”
Kerry shook her head. Irritated, “And he didn’t say a word? Not so much as an apology?”
“Just wait. It gets even better. Not only does the man bust every dish in the box, when I call him out on it he gives me the finger!”
Kerry’s jaw dropped. “The finger? That man shot you a bird?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good Lord, Arlo. No wonder you’re in a mood this evening!”
He nodded and sipped his Coke. “Ah, it’s not that big a deal. World’s full of assholes. Just put me in a funk, I guess.”
Kerry leaned in toward her man and held out her arms. Playfully, “Hear, hear, baby. You sound like you could use a hug. Besides, with that big loan you got from the bank, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting more plates. Now if something happens to the building . . .”
“Don’t say it! You’ll put a hex on the whole damn thing!”
Kerry grinned. She loved getting a rise out of Arlo, but she decided to call a truce for the time being. They rocked in each other’s arms as they embraced one another at the table, and Arlo finally smiled.
***
Lord, I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow. Arlo looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. He tossed and turned in bed as Kerry groaned in displeasure on the other side. He did some quick math in his head. If I take one of those little pills now, I’ll be up by 8 a.m.
He sat up at the edge of the bed and looked toward the bathroom. There were plenty of Ocula pills in the cabinet.
Then he remembered the headache.
It had only happened once. In the past, the sleeping pills had worked right as rain. But last time . . .
“Shew, lawd,” he whispered as he shook his head. Taking a pill would mean taking a big chance. But maybe it wasn’t the pill that gave him the headaches after all. It would have made perfect sense; one headache for every dozen or so doses. If the last time was a bad reaction to the sleep medication, wouldn’t every dose have caused him to puke through the night?
It could have just been the stress he was under, too. He’d been worked up for weeks in anticipation of the meeting with the loan officer. He was also the type of person who could work himself up into a headache over anything, like running into that jerk on the street earlier that day.
That son of a bitch, thought Arlo. What kind of grown man behaves that way? It had been years since someone like that had blatantly disrespected him for no apparent reason, other than the belief that one man’s affairs were more important than another’s.
Guess the world hadn’t changed much after all. Arlo thought about that man in the ridiculous Hawaiian shirt on River Street and began to rub his temples.
And there he was, working himself up all over again. He nodded and agreed with his original conclusion. It probably wasn’t the pills last time. And if it was, then this time he would know for sure whether or not he could rely on them for nights like tonight, or if he needed to flush every last one of them down the toilet.
He slipped on his house shoes and tiptoed toward the bathroom. Using Ocula again felt a little like playing Russian Roulette, but if it meant getting a little shuteye, Arlo was willing to take a chance.
Chapter 23:
Dangerous Liaisons
Anthony Hoover sat up in bed at 6:30 a.m., gasping for air, clutching his chest, and sweating up a storm. His wife immediately rose up to his side and grabbed the nearest shoulder.
Anxiously, “Anthony, Anthony! Wake up, Anthony. You’re having a nightmare.”
He continued to panic, trembling hands strangling a wad of sheets, eyes lost and confused as if he were a man waking from a thirty-year coma. “Wha—where am I? What is this place?”
“You’re home, honey. You’re with me. You’re just having a bad dream.”
A dream. Anthony heard the words and reality slowly began to set in. It was all a dream. The notion gave him almost immediate relief as he was finally allowed to breathe, but it also gave rise to another question: what was I dreaming about?
Anthony looked over to his wife, Cheryl, and forced a smile. He patted her arm and said, “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t know what got into me.”
Cheryl said, “Me neither. You haven’t woken me up like that in years. Is everything okay at work?”
“Ah, just the same old, same old. Nothing out of the ordinary, or stressful. Well, nothing too stressful.”
Cheryl got out of bed and grabbed her robe. “You’ve always been pretty good at handling stress,” she said as she tied it. “Do you think you may have drunk too much last night?”
Anthony Hoover did like his nightcaps. And since being appointed head of the FDA, what used to be a weekend ordeal had turned into a nightly habit. Working long hours meant taking extreme measures to wind down. Some nights, downing four doubles on the couch in the study was the only way he could get to sleep.
Now his anxiety was through the roof. It appeared his habits were starting to catch up to him.
He rolled out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. Cheryl was already at the sink and brushing her hair. She asked, “What were you dreaming about that got you so upset?”
Anthony rubbed his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “That’s just it, Cheryl. I can’t remember a thing about it.”
She gave him a suspicious look, but he was telling the truth. Obviously, something had sprung him out of bed like a terrified jack-in-the-box
, but the more he tried to remember the events of his dream, the further he drove them away. The fear had all but diminished too, replaced with an unfamiliar lingering sensation in his mind that something was wrong, a problem had to be solved—he just wasn’t sure what. Strange sensation, indeed. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it . . .
Doubt. That was it. An intense feeling of doubt.
She asked, “It wasn’t about another woman, was it?”
He half-grinned and assured her, “No, dear. Believe me, if it had been about another woman, I think I would’ve woken up in a better mood.”
“You bastard!” She cupped her hand at the running faucet and slung a handful of water Anthony’s way. He was quick to block it with a hand towel. He was about to retaliate when Cheryl said, “Stop it! You’re going to make me late!”
The two smiled and laughed off the strange morning they’d had, then continued getting ready for work.
***
Anthony Hoover sat in his office at the Maryland branch of the FDA, shuffling papers on his desk and checking his email in between answering a phone that seemed to ring every five minutes. It was early on a Friday—a day he was typically checked out mentally to begin with. But today was different. No daydreams of weekend boating or fishing or cocktails on the golf course. Instead, Anthony kept returning to the dark wickedness that had launched him out of bed just before daybreak.
The same question whirled in his mind, playing on repeat: just what in the hell was I dreaming about? What kind of scenario could cause such early-morning trepidation—especially a scenario he couldn’t even remember?
It was the strangest feeling, knowing he had been host to a handful of horrible thoughts, and not being able to recall any of them. His scalp tingled as he consciously tried to spark a memory within the delicate pink-and-gray muscle housed in his skull, hoping the right set of neurons could take him back to the early morning hours, back to the images behind his inquietude. He knew something bad had happened, something that felt quite alien. Foreign. A false memory that had been implanted. One he could never in good conscience take ownership of.
He just couldn’t remember what.
The mental torment lasted through most of the morning. Finally, just before lunchtime, the sensation left him, evaporating into thin air. Maybe it was the countless barrage of calls and emails and the heavy workload getting in the way of the impending weekend. Or maybe his brain just gave out. Whatever the reason, Anthony was suddenly able to let go of the incessant need to have an answer and get on with his life.
Clear-headed and feeling like his old self again, he picked up the phone to dial his secretary, Hailey, for lunch ideas. He knew it was probably inappropriate to meet a female coworker for lunch so often, but there was a connection there that he couldn’t deny. Still, both parties were married, so they made it a point to keep their midday rendezvous down to once every two weeks or so.
Always on a Friday. Always a good half-hour drive from the office.
This was one of those Fridays.
***
“Have trouble finding the place?” Anthony asked as he shut his car door. Hailey was parked right beside him. She smiled and said, “No. Navigation led me straight here.” The two locked their cars and walked toward the restaurant.
Inside, the sweet aroma of barbeque smoldering in the back made Anthony’s mouth water. Hailey wiggled awkwardly in her chair, looking around the joint and surveying the rustic surroundings. Skeptically, “This place is . . . different,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She pointed toward the black cook fixing plates in the back, then to the rebel flag hanging above the cash register. She looked back at Anthony and deadpanned.
“What can I say? Isaiah knows his clientele.”
“What’s that supposed to mean exactly?”
“Well, if you want to run a barbeque joint in the sticks, you’ve got to make a few concessions.” Anthony looked to the back and waved at Isaiah. The jovial cook tossed up a quick hand, then got back to running a kitchen swamped by the busy lunch-hour rush.
The gesture didn’t impress Hailey in the least. She pushed her silverware away from her across a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “I find this entire establishment offensive. I don’t think I can eat here.”
“Hailey,” Anthony said, “I promise you right here and now that once you’ve had a taste of this man’s barbeque, you’re going to forget all about that flag up there”—Anthony checked his watch—“not to mention we’re already thirty minutes from the office. I may be able to get away with two-hour lunches. But you, my dear, will be sorely missed.”
Hailey sighed, then caved. “Okay, Anthony. I’ll try the damn barbeque.”
‘That a girl.” The two waited while the sounds of a bustling kitchen and clanking plates and sizzling grills resonated from the back. The restaurant was always busy on Fridays. The locals would pile in just before noon, saving the limited seating for friends and family and coworkers who were on the way. Couples leaned in to one another across wooden tables and chatted. The blue collars guffawed and chortled and ate their ribs without a care in the world—or a napkin. The more Hailey looked around, the more uncomfortable she became. This was not her kind of place.
Isaiah walked out from the kitchen with two plates piled high with barbeque, pork and beans, potato salad, and Texas toast. He approached the couple and served up the meals.
“Well, well, well. Mr. Hoover. And what brings you in here on this fine day?” Isaiah didn’t walk out plates for just anybody, but Anthony Hoover was one of a few exceptions.
“Thought I’d show my coworker here what real southern barbeque was all about.”
“Well then, you came to the right place,” Isaiah said as he waited for Anthony to introduce his lunch date. Hailey looked away as Anthony spoke up. “This is Ms. Hailey Roderick. She’s an administrative assistant who works with me at the FDA.”
Isaiah said, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hailey. Name’s Isaiah.” The owner-operator extended a hand, but the woman ignored the cordialities. Isaiah grimaced and turned to Anthony for answers.
“Hailey can be a little shy sometimes—”
“Actually,” Hailey said as she turned to Isaiah, “I’m not shy at all. I just can’t understand why you’ve got that hateful flag hanging up in your place of business.”
“Hateful flag?” Isaiah said as he looked around confused, eager to identify the point of contention.
“Yes, that flag. My grandmother was a Freedom Rider, and she would be rolling in her grave if she saw that symbol of hate hanging from the rafters of a restaurant some 50 years later.”
Isaiah made the connection and billowed with laughter. “Ms. Hailey, let me tell you a little something about that flag. See, that flag up there don’t mean shit to me. Not a damn thing. And I think it’s clear it don’t mean shit to you, either.”
“Then why do you have it hanging up in your restaurant?”
Isaiah pointed to the walls decorated with old license plates and pin-up posters and animal heads and newspaper clippings. Then he said, “My daddy opened this place in 1966. Half this shit’s been up since then. People like familiarity, that’s all.”
Hailey scoffed. “Doesn’t make it right.”
“Doesn’t have to be right,” Isaiah said. “But I’m a business owner in the boondocks, Ms. Hailey. I can stir the pot and watch my customers walk over to Merle’s for lunch, or I can just let some things be.”
“You know, Isaiah,” Anthony said as he chewed on a rib, “You could probably take half this shit down and no one would even notice.” He marveled at his plate, then said, “I mean come on, pal. The food speaks for itself.”
“You may be right,” Isaiah said. “Thing of it is, I don’t notice half this stuff anymore, either.” He tipped his cap to Hailey, then walked back to the kitchen.
Hailey was appalled. “Jesus, can you believe that guy?”
Anthony continu
ed gnawing on his ribs, indifferent to the outrage. She went on, “The pursuit of familiarity . . . is that any reason to hold on to bullshit ideals, or an era that was full of inequality and injustice? I mean seriously, Anthony. You don’t have a problem with that flag flying overhead?”
He shrugged his shoulders and kept eating.
“How can anyone rest easy at night knowing they’re using a symbol of racism and hate to bring in these hillbilly customers?”
Anthony dropped his rib, the sound clanging the half-empty metal plate like a small gong. Rest easy at night . . .
The words shook him to the core. He said them out loud this time, “Rest easy at night . . .”
“Hmm?”
“You said, ‘rest easy at night.’ Isn’t that the motto for Ocula?”
Hailey said, “The sleeping pill?”
“Yeah, from Asteria.”
She thought on it a second, then said, “Something like that. I think it’s actually ‘rest easy with us.’ Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” But it was more than curiosity driving Hoover’s questions. Once again, the terror that had awoken him that morning had returned. His ribcage grew tight and constricted with every laborious breath. Arteries in his neck bulged and pulsed painfully as they fought to accommodate the sudden spike in blood pressure. He’d ordered his ribs mild, but by the beads of sweat that were beginning to rise on his forehead, they could have easily passed for Cajun-style.
He reached for his glass of water and took several big gulps. Concerned, Hailey asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m just fine. It’s just—”
He couldn’t finish his sentence. He excused himself, then ran to the bathroom. He picked out the stall in the back, then retreated to it and latched the door behind him. He had just enough time to throw his tie over his shoulder.
Then he puked.
He couldn’t believe how quickly the nausea had come on. It was also so much worse than any sour stomach or morning after a bad batch of sushi he had ever experienced. This was his nerves talking, and they weren’t happy with how they felt.