“Looks like it’s almost time t’get another pack. Probably a new lighter, too. That one’s gettin’ low.”
He drew deeply on the cigarette, leaned his head back, and exhaled slowly, his eyes closed. “Okay,” he said. “You wanted to talk to me. Here I am.”
Amanda looked at him as her mind raced. So many thoughts; so many questions. What to ask first? Her mouth opened and closed several times. Finally, she simply said, “Tell me about my father. About that weekend.”
Fred took another deep pull on the cigarette and exhaled slowly, his eyes still closed. “Thought it might be somethin’ like that. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know how he died. How he really died.”
He looked at her, shrugged, and looked away. Something on the far side of the parking lot seemed to hold his attention. He finally looked back at her. “I told the cops it was a hunting accident.”
She frowned. “Yes, that’s what they told me – told us. If that was true, then why was the coffin closed? What kind of hunting accident would require that?”
Fred said nothing for a long time. He stared into the distance, his cigarette burning between his nicotine stained fingers. His mind returned to that horrible night. How do I tell a man’s daughter that her father was torn in half right in front of me – that there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it? How do I explain the existence of something that shouldn’t exist?
When the ember came close to burning his skin he tossed the butt into the parking lot. He sighed and looked at the cement stoop between his feet.
“It’s been more than twelve years since that weekend.” His voice was a rasping whisper. “I still wake up nights wonderin’ if I screamed out loud or just dreamed I did. It’s bad enough that I go back there ’most every night. I don’t think I could stand to do it during the day for someone else.” He shook out another cigarette. His hands trembled as he lit it.
“Ask me something else.” He looked up at her. Tears rimmed his eyes. His lower lip quivered. “Ask me anything else. How’s your mother? What’s Kevin up to these days? I’ll bet he’s tall like your daddy was. Tell me what you’ve been doing with your life since I last saw you. Just don’t ask me about that weekend.”
“That’s the only thing I want to hear about. I didn’t spend all that money on private detectives and Internet searches just so I could stand here in this god awful Texas heat and do family chitchat.”
“How’s your mother?” he repeated.
“What? My mother?” She stared at him in disbelief. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I heard she got pretty sick after Johnny passed.”
“She died, Mr. Kyle. We buried her about two years after Dad. The doctors said it was an aneurysm, but I knew better. It wasn’t a blood vessel that broke. It was her heart. She never got over Dad’s death.”
“And, your brother? How’s he doin’?”
“He dropped out of school after Mom died. He lost interest in everything. He went through some rough times. He was arrested for drugs a couple of times, once for dealing. He did a little jail time. It was bad, but it could’ve been worse. He finally got through it. He earned his G.E.D. the last time he was in jail. Now he’s got a decent job driving a forklift for some company. The last time I talked to him, he was thinking about going back to school. Junior college, I believe. Maybe one of those trade schools you see on TV. He’s seeing a really nice girl. She seems like someone who can keep him in line. I think he’s going to be okay.”
“What about you? You’re dressed pretty sharp. That suit didn’t come off any rack at WalMart or Target. That your car?”
She looked at the black Impala and laughed. “No, it’s a rental. I did get the suit at WalMart. Not the blouse.”
“Rental car. Private dicks just to find me. You seem to be doing a bit better than okay.”
She shrugged. “It was hard. I’m not going to sugar coat it. First Dad died, then Mom. Then all of Kevin’s problems.” She sighed. “I think I got through it for them. I earned a Bachelor’s degree. Then a Master’s. I majored in Advertising and Marketing. I do all right.”
“Johnny’d be proud of you. He loved you and your brother both, but I think you were his favorite.”
She couldn’t stop the tears. “That’s why I have to know — to know the truth.”
“I know you think you do. Everyone thinks they want the truth, but no one really does.” Fred sighed, this time so deeply it made him shiver. “I just don’t know if I can give you the truth. I don’t know if I can go there again, even in my mind. And, if I do, I don’t think you can handle it.”
“Then, it wasn’t just a hunting accident was it?”
He remained silent.
“Please, Mr. Kyle, I have to know.”
He leaned back and shut his eyes. “Why can’t you just let it rest?”
“I need some kind of closure.”
“Whoever came up with an asinine idea like closure? What the hell kinda word is that? People die. It happens. Used to be that those who were left just dealt with it. Some did better than others, but that was life. There wasn’t any closure crap. People died and life moved on.”
“Please,” she was still crying and no longer cared. “Please tell me.”
He said nothing for a long time. The silence stretched until she could almost see it, like a wall of clear taffy – shimmering and impenetrable – standing between them.
Fred opened his eyes. His voice trembled. “How long you gonna be in town?”
“I guess that depends on you. I can stay a week, maybe more, if you tell me the story.”
He nodded. “I’m assuming you got a hotel room somewhere in town.” He waved his arm, encompassing the Del Mar Motel in its sweep. “I can’t see you wanting to sleep here.”
“Actually, it’s a motel room,” she laughed. “I’m not doing that well.”
“All right. Go back to your room and get a good night’s sleep. I need time to think about this. Come back, say noon tomorrow. I can’t promise my answer will be different. I just need time to think about it.”
Amanda studied his face. His skin was waxy beneath the gray stubble of his beard. Pain and something else – fear? – haunted his expression. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Kyle. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Don’t thank me, yet. I just said I’d think about it.”
“I know, and I think I understand.”
He stood and turned to go up the steps.
“Mr. Kyle.”
He stopped, his postures that of a man who expects a heavy blow from behind.
“Would you rather have Wendy’s, McDonald’s, or Burger King for lunch?”
“Save your money, girl. Most of my meals come out of a bottle these days.”
She shrugged. “I can’t stop you from drinking, but I really don’t want to eat alone. You can either tell me what you want or you can take your chances on what I think you should eat.” She studied him for a moment. “Probably Wendy’s. I figure plain salad. Maybe a grilled chicken breast – skinless of course. A baked potato with a little margarine but none of the fixings.”
“You’d be wastin’ your money,” he growled.
He turned and looked at her. For the first time she saw something in his eyes besides pain and sadness. There was a twinkle of amusement as they verbally sparred. For just a moment she saw the man he’d been twelve years before. She looked away as she tried to understand a new realization: that man had been attractive. More than that, he’d been sexy.
“Just ’cause you bring somethin’ don’t mean I’m gonna eat it.”
“That’s true.”
“If you’re dead set on seein’ me eat somethin’,” he capitulated, “how ’bout a Whataburger?”
“Whataburger?” She frowned and then brightened. “Omigod! I haven’t had Whataburger since, well, since we moved to Missouri after Dad died. Where do I find one?”
He
laughed. “I ain’t for sure. I don’t get around much since I only use the bus. Should be one near your motel. You can spot it by its orange and white striped roof.”
“Oh, I think I saw one not too far from here. By the highway, right?”
“Could be. Could be.”
“Okay. Whataburger it is. And, don’t order some little sandwich and nothing else. If you do, I’ll just add to it.”
“All right, all right. I know when I’m beat. Get me a double meat Whataburger with mayo, ketchup, onions and lettuce. A jalapeno on the side. Large order of onion rings. They still make the best rings in this whole God-forsaken city. An’ a slice of hot apple pie. That better?”
“Much.”
“One more thing, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“What’s that, Mr. Kyle?”
“Bring a quart of whiskey with you. Jim Beam.” He reached for his wallet, and then remembered it was in his room. “Just give me a minute to get you some money.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Kyle. I’m sure I can afford a bottle of Beam.”
“Make it Kentucky Driver. It don’t cost as much.”
“I’m not worried about the cost.”
“I ain’t bein’ kind, I’m bein’ practical. I don’t want it for the taste. I want it to kill the pain. Cheap will do just as good for that. Maybe better. The good stuff’s for the good times. We won’t be talkin’ about any o’ them.” He turned and shuffled up the steps. The door locked with a sharp snick.
Amanda stared at the empty stairwell. Her thoughts raced. At last she turned, walked around the car, and opened the door. She scribbled Fred’s food request on the paper lying on the center console. She stared through the windshield for a moment.
“Where the hell’s the closest liquor store?” she asked the reflection in the small rearview mirror.
CHAPTER TWO
Fred spread the slats of the cheap mini-blind with his thumb and forefinger. He stared down at the roof of Amanda’s rented Impala. The car was motionless for several moments. At last, it moved forward. It circled in the small parking lot and headed for the exit. It stopped below Fred’s window as the traffic on the street halted for the traffic light. Despite the gravel dust powdering the darkened glass, Amanda’s left shoulder, torso, and upper legs were clearly visible through the driver’s side window. The shoulder harness angled snugly across her body. The strap accented the swell of her breasts beneath the white silk blouse. Her short skirt rode high on her thighs. He caught a tantalizing flash of white fabric. He sighed as he backed away from the window. The slats closed as his hand fell to his side. The coltish teenager was now a very attractive woman.
“Don’t even think about it, Fred,” he chided himself as he willed his growing reaction to subside. “That there’s Johnny’s little girl. He’d climb right out o’ his grave an’ kick your ass just for thinkin’ about it. Besides, she’s about half your age. Bad enough she sees you for th’ uncle you ain’t been in years. Don’t need to make it worse by actin’ like an old pervert, too. Next thing y’know they’ll be arrestin’ ya down by some playground.”
He looked about the room, seeing it and its contents as if for the first time. Worse, seeing them as someone else might see them. As she might see them. How had he fallen so far? Was it the drinking? Some, maybe, but the drinking wasn’t the root. It was that weekend, that horrible, deadly Thanksgiving that took his four best friends away from him and left him with the pieces of a shattered life.
He ignored the squealing protests of the ancient bedsprings as he first sat down and then lay back on the crumpled comforter that served as a blanket in colder weather. He clamped his clenched fists tightly against his temples. Memories raged through his brain like black and red thunderclouds. He squeezed his eyes shut but the images refused to leave. His mouth twisted open in a silent scream.
•
“Johnny! Look out!”
John Carlyle looked back at Fred. Actinic lightning flashes accented the joy on the man’s face – the adoration in his eyes.
“Can you see him, too?” Johnny shouted. He turned back toward the abomination rising above him. Fred watched, horror stricken, as the creature closed on his friend.
“Johnny! There’s no one there!” he shouted. From somewhere – from everywhere – from nowhere – the insane screeling of a demonic fiddle filled the air. “Run, Johnny, before it gets you!”
Waving tentacles reached for Johnny.
“You’ve come for me, Michael.” Johnny stepped forward, his arms rising and opening to embrace the thing standing before him. “You really do love me!”
His arms wrapped around the creature’s rubbery torso. Its tentacles seized his upper and lower body. Johnny’s burbling, ululating scream punctuated the wet, tearing, bone-cracking noise of his body as the being pulled it in two. The fiddle’s tempo increased. Its volume grew until it rivaled the crashing of the storm.
“Johnny!” The wind carried Fred’s scream into the storm-tossed mountains.
•
Fred’s eyes snapped open. He stared blankly at the cracked and yellowed plaster ceiling. With his eyes he tracked along one of the cracks until it reached the insect-speckled light fixture in the center of the ceiling. Despite the translucent cover and the daylight filtering into the room through the blinds, the fluorescent light stabbed into his eyes. He blinked and looked away. The small TV set mounted on the wall, the low table with its litter of empty beer cans and nearly empty microwave dinner containers all helped to bring his mind back – back from the mountains, back from the forests, back from the death. He raised a shaky hand to cover his eyes as his tears flowed down his cheeks.
He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. When she came tomorrow to push and to prod and to cajole and to beg he wouldn’t be here. He’d get up early and catch a city bus and go somewhere. To the library. To a park. He’d be anywhere but here.
He shook his head. No, that was a lie. Coward though he might be, he was afraid to not be here, too.
She had no right to do this to him. He’d been through enough. What made her think she could just come into his life like this and drag his soul over the broken glass and razor blades of those memories? Wasn’t it bad enough that he returned nearly every night? That he relived every horror? Revisited every death? Must he do it during the day, too?
What about Johnny’s secret? The shame and fear he had shared with Fred before he died? Did Fred have the right to lay that at her feet? There was no way he could tell the story without revealing that, too. How much pain was she ready to take? How much could he deliver?
He sat up and looked around. He sighed, shook his head, and stood up. Out of habit he went to the small refrigerator and looked inside. Two six packs of beer still in their white plastic templates sat on the narrow shelf. He thought for a moment and then shut the door. Beer was not what he needed. Not tonight, at any rate. Tonight would be bad. Dreams. Memories. Nightmares. He needed something a lot stronger than beer. He needed anesthesia. Oblivion. He needed blackness so deep that no vision from hell could penetrate it.
He opened his wallet and took inventory. A monthly bus pass. Two twenties, a five, and three ones. He nodded to himself as he slipped the wallet into his front pocket. He stepped outside, locked the door, pocketed his keys, and headed down the stairs.
Maybe I’ll get hit by a bus or a car, he thought as he walked across the dusty parking lot toward the bus stop. He chuckled to himself — a dry, whispery sound totally lacking humor. Not likely. That would be a good thing. Good things don’t happen to me anymore.
CHAPTER THREE
The hands on the Baby Ben alarm clock pointed at 1:17. The clock’s ticking echoed in the silent room. Amanda sat in a rickety, armless wooden chair. She ignored the wicker fragments poking into her butt. Fred stretched out on the sagging double bed. He wore another wife beater shirt, this one free of stains, and he’d swapped the work pants for a pair of Bermuda shorts. His fish belly white scrawny old man’
s legs nearly glowed in the room’s dim light. Tightly closed mini-blinds blocked the early afternoon sunlight. Fred cradled the bottle of Beam on his lap, its seal unbroken.
Amanda’s eyes darted here and there as she looked around the room for perhaps the hundredth time since stepping inside. It was surprisingly neat, if a little small. Besides the door to the stairway, there were two others. One led to an unexpectedly large closet, the other opened into a tiny bathroom. Inside she could see a small freestanding sink, a toilet, and a shower stall.
Behind her stood a refrigerator. Next to that was a low, two-drawer vanity and a small round table. Three feet above the table, on a metal platform bolted to the wall, rested a modest twenty-two inch color television set. On the wall parallel to the bed were a small, window unit air conditioner and a set of shelves filled with canned goods and packages of dried foods, dog-eared paperback books, and DVDs. Recalling the conversation of the day before, she chose not to peer too closely at the titles. She was no prude, but if someone she knew chose to look at pornography, she preferred not to know about it.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Fred said without looking up. “I thought about it like I promised. Thought about it a lot. In fact, I didn’t get much sleep from thinkin’ about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. What’s done’s done. That’s somethin’ your father used to say all the time. Guess you know that, though. Anyway, it’s not the first night’s sleep I’ve lost from thinkin’ about it. Won’t be the last.” He shuddered. “Nope. Not the last by a long haul.”
Black Stump Ridge Page 2