San Diego Lightfoot Sue

by Tom Reamy

  Orvie pushed the child away with a sharp, puzzled exclamation. Little Cleatus returned with single-minded ferocity and clamped his teeth on his father’s shoulder. Orvie twisted in the seat to disengage the child. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The narrow tire on the front wheel struck a stone in the rut and cut sharply into the high grass. The car careened through a low growth of dogwood, flushing a flock of doves which filled the air with gray blurs and whistling wings.

  Orvie pinioned his son to the seat with his bleeding arm and fought the steering wheel with one hand. But it was too late. The left front wheel spun on air. The car tipped over with maddening slowness, and slid down the embankment on its roof. The glass shattered in the windshield. The car tipped again, rolled onto its wheels, then toppled once more to land upside down in Indian Creek.

  Orvie’s head twisted loosely with the movement of the water, his hair flowing like dark sea grass. Red flumes stretched farther and farther, leaving his head, shoulder, and arm and exiting through the empty windshield frame.

  Little Cleatus fought like a trapped rat, tearing at his father’s arm, clawing with his fingernails. Bubbles oozed from his nostrils and from between his clenched teeth. But he could not break Orvie’s protective grip. Orvie drowned and, with love, took his would-be murderer with him.

  —6—

  Meridee Callahan put her hands to the small of her back and stretched. The nagging ache under her fingers eased slightly but resumed when she relaxed. She sighed and looked at her swollen abdomen. Only one more month, she thought and smiled. “I can take it if you can,” she said out loud and patted her stomach.

  She smoothed the chenille bedspread where she had taken a nap and looked at the clock. It was almost two and she had a lot of work still undone. Robbie had wanted old Ludie Morgan to help her out now that her time was drawing close. But, as much as Meridee hated to admit it, she simply didn’t get along with her Grandaunt Ludie. The old woman meant well, she supposed, but she was bossy, meddling, gossipy, righteous, and had enough superstitions to do the whole valley.

  Meridee lifted the cuptowel and checked the bread she had put on the back of the Sunshine stove to rise. She nodded with satisfaction. She opened the door of the fire box and stirred the coals, added shavings and kindling, let it catch, and added wood. She moved the breadpans to the kitchen cabinet away from the heat. She took a mixing bowl and a pan of string beans she had picked that morning and went to sit in the shade on the front porch.

  She was snapping beans when Danny Sizemore passed on his. Way to the church. She watched him idly and then went back inside. She dipped water from the stove reservoir into a stewer and added the beans. The stove was hot enough so she put the breadpans in the oven, then wiped the perspiration dewing on her upper lip with the cuptowel. She rolled up the door of the high closet and took a chicken leg to nibble while waiting on the bread.

  Seeing Danny reminded her she should go to Mavis’ and check on her washing and ironing. She knew it was only an excuse to take a walk and get out of the hot kitchen because Mavis would bring them around when she finished. That was one thing Robbie had insisted upon. She argued she was still capable of doing her own laundry, but rather gratefully gave in when he put his foot down.

  Screams of terror drifted in the kitchen window from the direction of the school.

  —7—

  Robbie Callahan was the constable of Morgan’s Cleft. There wasn’t much for a constable to do in the valley: an occasional lost child or lost cow, a little too much corn liquor on Saturday night, an infrequent territorial dispute between farmers, a boyish prank gotten out of hand. The people were hard-working, self-reliant, and God-fearing. They didn’t really need a constable. Besides, everyone knew everyone else and it was virtually impossible to get away with anything. But they needed and wanted a figure of authority: someone to organize when organization was necessary, someone to collect taxes, someone to preside at town meetings, someone to help when help was wanted.

  Robbie was only twenty-six, but he had broad shoulders, long legs, sandy hair, an easy grin, and could lick practically anybody who gave him trouble. He was well-liked and trusted and had married Meridee Morgan three years earlier. His connection with the Morgans hadn’t hurt him at election time.

  But, as there wasn’t much for a constable to do, and because the job only paid ten dollars a month, Robbie worked at Watson’s Mercantile. He kept the accounts, went to Utley twice a week in the truck for the mail and ice and anything else needed from the outside. For all practical purposes, Robbie had been in charge of the store since old Calvin Watson began failing six years before.

  The Mercantile smelled of coffee beans, licorice, cheese, dill, and leather—especially leather. He opened another crate of harness, entering it in his inventory as he hung it up: bridles, lines, traces, pads, back and hip straps, breeching, breast straps, martingales, hames, spread straps.

  Frances Pritchard, who clerked for Robbie, was showing yard goods to her mother at the front of the store. Mrs. Pritchard always found it necessary to unroll every other bolt before she made up her mind. She fingered ivory silk crepe with one hand and mais chiffon mull with the other, but Frances knew her mother was only daydreaming.

  “I can’t make up my mind,” Mrs. Pritchard said with a whine. “Which do you like best, Frances, dear?”

  Frances smiled tolerantly. “The crepe is very nice, mother, and it’s two ninety-eight a yard. The mull is fifty-five and,” she pushed two other bolts forward, “the chambray is nine cents a yard and the calico is ten.” She cocked an eyebrow at her mother. Mrs. Pritchard sighed in resignation.

  They heard a commotion from the direction of the school.

  —8—

  Edith Beatty sat at her desk looking at the huge smear of blood where Bobby MacDonald’s body had been. Other smears led to the window where the body had been removed. Her brain felt like cotton. She couldn’t think or reason. Her arm was numb. She held it tightly to stop the bleeding. She felt light-headed and her ears rang.

  Several people came into the room. She recognized Mrs. Bledsoe and Robbie Callahan but the others were back in the deep shadows. Strange there should be so many shadows in the middle of the afternoon. Robbie leaned over her, talking to her, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. The shadows had overtaken Mrs. Bledsoe, covering her like a greasy black fog. Robbie was doing something to her arm but she couldn’t tell what because of the shadows.

  —9—

  Meridee watched Morgan’s Cleft through the kitchen window as she cut away the burned crust of the bread. The inside would be fine for making bread pudding, she decided. She wrapped it in a cuptowel and put it in the high closet of the stove. Not tonight; she would make pudding tomorrow. It was nearly sundown but the street was filled with milling, confused, sometimes hysterical people. Robbie would be home soon, hungry as a bear.

  She made biscuits and put them in the oven and warmed up the leftover chicken. Even with the beans it didn’t seem like much so she fried bacon and eggs.

  She had gone to the school house with everyone else. It had all seemed unreal, like she was reading a storybook. No one could explain what had happened. Everyone stood around while the stunned children told what had taken place, trying to make sense of it all. Mrs. Beatty had passed out and was carried to Doctor Morgan’s office. The bite on her arm already seemed infected. The parents of some of the missing children had gone into the woods after them; they hadn’t come back yet.

  A team and wagon had ripped and rattled into town. The horses had been wild with panic, rearing and screaming, their eyes round and shining, bloody froth on the bits. The wagon was empty except for sacks of oats in the bed and blood on the seat.

  Robbie had sent her home when Caroline Walker ran the two miles into town carrying the body of her five-year-old Pretty. Caroline’s arms were covered with bites and she screamed she had killed Pretty. They couldn’t get her to say anything else. She just repeated it over and over and
fought them when they tried to take Pretty from her. Then she fainted and they took her to Doc.

  Meridee ate the bacon and eggs because she was so hungry and fried more for Robbie.

  —10—

  Pauly Williams felt sick to his stomach. He had a bite on his chest and another on his arm. Both throbbed and itched. Doc Morgan had swabbed them with something that stung and bandaged them. Pauly was embarrassed and ashamed. Delton Reeves was only ten years old and Pauly was twelve, but he hadn’t been able to fend off Delton’s ferocious attack, hadn’t been able to keep Delton from biting him twice. He had never been so grateful for anything in his life as he had been when Mrs. Beatty clobbered Delton on the head with her shoe.

  He scratched at the bandage on his chest, but his mother pulled his hand away. The skin around the bandage was red and the inflammation seemed to be spreading. She felt his forehead. It was hot. He had taken a fever. She pulled the covers around Pauly’s neck and told him to go to sleep. She turned the lamp low, making sure the wick didn’t smoke.

  She went onto the front porch and looked through the moonlight toward the road that skirted the corn field. She wished Joe Bob would get home. The chickens hadn’t been fed, the eggs hadn’t been gathered, and the milk still sat in the smokehouse unseparated. She had half a mind to take the lantern and do all three, but Joe Bob had told her to stay in the house with the door locked while he and the other men looked for the children.

  It was hard to believe that Wayne was out there in the dark. He was only seven and had never been very strong. Pauly was the strong one. Wayne was the smart one. Thunderheads were building on the west ridge. She hoped it wouldn’t rain—Wayne was sure to catch cold if it did.

  She had been watching the movements of the cornstalks for several minutes before she realized what she was seeing. The tops would sway slightly as something brushed against them lower down. It was only a small area of movement. It had started at the road and crept across the field toward the creek.

  She became consciously aware of it when it shifted directions and started toward the house. If we didn’t have enough problems already, she thought. Now the fence is down somewhere and the deer have gotten in. They loved the young corn and could mess up a field in nothing flat. But she didn’t know what she could do about it. Joe Bob had forbidden her to leave the house.

  The movement drew closer and paused as it reached the fence. She leaned against the porch railing and strained her eyes to see what was there, but it was too dark. She thought she saw something crawl through the fence but she wasn’t sure. Yes, she had seen something. There was another one. It wasn’t deer. Deer couldn’t crawl through the fence like that. Besides, it was too small.

  She could see nothing but dark shapes close to the ground. There must be a dozen of them, she thought. They could be bear cubs, but she didn’t think there would be so many together.

  She backed toward the door, beginning to be afraid. They moved toward her with such determination and purpose. She reached behind her, feeling for the handle of the screen door. One of the shapes grew suddenly taller and moved alone toward the porch. The others waited motionlessly. She pulled open the screen and slipped inside.

  The single moving shape stepped into the rectangle of light cast through the open door.

  “Wayne!” she cried and ran across the porch toward him. The screen door slammed behind her like a rifle shot. She stood at the top of the porch steps. She gave a little moan. He looked up at her, his clothes torn and dirty, his hair mussed, scratches on his little face and hands. She hurried down and knelt before him, throwing her arms around him, pulling him against her breast.

  She saw dried blood on his neck. She pushed him from her, and held him at arm’s length. Dried blood flaked from his face and stained the front of his shirt. She became aware of the other children; that they had stood up; that they were surrounding her. She rose suddenly with a frightened whimper and backed toward the porch, pulling Wayne with her.

  She knew these children. She knew all of them.

  Her heel caught on the edge of the step and she fell. A fierce pain shot through her elbow, numbing her whole arm. She screamed. The silent children rushed to her, covering her.

  She screamed again and again. She seemed to stand outside herself watching something she couldn’t believe. There was a noise like the screen door slamming. She couldn’t be sure she heard it because the screams were so loud.

  Delton Reeves jerked and the side of his head flew off with a little red explosion. He fell over and twisted like a rag doll. Barbara Ann Morgan clutched her hands to the front of her bloody dress, but the blood wasn’t dried. It was wet and shiny.

  The children ran away, scattering through the darkness like silent phantoms. A small puff of dust erupted at Wayne’s feet as he ran. She pulled herself around on the steps and looked up at the porch. Pauly stood there with Joe Bob’s deer rifle.

  He had a satisfied smile on his face.

  —11—

  Danny Sizemore walked slowly across the footbridge, looking around carefully. He had stayed inside all evening crouched at the window, watching the people running around the street. He had never seen so many in town at one time and it frightened him. So many horses and wagons and automobiles, leaving and coming back and leaving again, rattling the boards on the big bridge by the mill. People crying and yelling. Dogs barking and whining because they didn’t understand what the commotion was about. And that big fire they built in the school yard. But no one had crossed the footbridge. No one had come near all evening as he huddled and watched.

  Now the street was empty and only a few of the houses still showed lights. And he was hungry. There had been no supper though he had sat at the table and waited. The woman had never brought it.

  But another compulsion overrode the hunger, forced it deep into the mists of Danny’s mind. He walked through town and down the road deeper into the valley. He didn’t know where he was going but he never hesitated at a juncture of the road. When the road didn’t go where he had to go, he crashed through the brush, scratching his arms on the dogwood branches, flushing startled quail, never veering from his unknown destination.

  Danny’s lungs burned and his puffy body trembled with fatigue. He had walked for hours but his legs kept moving. Then he was slipping and scrambling down the embankment into the creek bed. He went another hundred yards keeping his footing with difficulty on the round smooth stones.

  He saw them up ahead, working silently in the moonlight. They seemed to be excavating the high creek bank. Even the smallest among them carried rocks and armloads of dirt.

  Probably for the first time in his dim existence, Danny felt. The feeling swelled in him, choking him, stretching his doughy flesh. He began running toward them, making a happy gurgling sound deep in his throat.

  The children stopped their activity and turned to watch him silently. One of them reached down and plucked a smooth river rock from the stream. He threw it at Danny. The rock rattled on other rocks at his feet but Danny didn’t notice. Others began throwing stones. Danny became gradually aware of the sharp pains growing on his body and stopped in bewilderment. The stones continued to pelt him. His arms came slowly up to protect his face.

  He stood for a moment watching the children, the feeling inside him changing to a hurt far worse than any made by a stone. Then he turned and walked away. The children returned to their work. Danny looked back at them once, great tears rolling down his cheeks, but the children ignored him.

  He tripped while climbing the embankment and didn’t bother to get up. He lay with his face buried in the grass, choking on his sobs. It was the first time he had ever cried.

  —12—

  Meridee Callahan lay in the darkness beside her husband, feeling the warmth of his body. She couldn’t sleep and thought from the sound of Robbie’s breathing he couldn’t either. She put her hand lightly on his bare chest. He turned facing her and put his arms around her, pulling her to him. She snuggled against him
and felt his breath in her hair. “You all right, Hon?” he asked softly.

  “Mmm-huh. I just can’t go to sleep.”

  “Me, too.” His hand slid down her arm and rested gently on her stomach. She felt his face move against hers as he smiled. “I think I felt him move.”

  She chuckled against his neck. “It’s probably gas.”

  “Don’t say that.” Robbie sat up and put his cheek against her swollen abdomen. “Hey, you in there, my son,” he whispered. “If you don’t hurry up and come outa there, your old man is gonna hafta pay a visit to Mavis Sizemore.” Meridee grunted and hit him on the shoulder with her small fist. He laughed and buried his face between her breasts. Her arms went around his neck squeezing him tightly to her. They lay like that for a while, her face against his hair which smelled of pine. He slid his hand under her gown and cupped her breast, rubbing his thumb across the nipple. She ran her fingernails lightly down his spine and the muscles on his back trembled. She stopped when she felt a warm hardness against her hip.

  “Robbie?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you think… what happened to… to the children… do you think anything happened to our baby?”

  He raised himself and looked into her face. “You shouldn’t upset yourself with thoughts like that, Meri. Our baby will be the finest baby in the valley.”

  “But, how do you know…”

  He put his fingers on her lips. “Now stop it,” he said gently. “You’re gonna worry yourself into a nervous fit about nothing. You hear me?”

  She nodded. He slid his fingers to her cheek and touched his lips lightly to hers. “Now, go to sleep,” he said and cuddled her in his arms.

  But she didn’t—not for a long time.

  —13—

  The Church of the Nazarene was packed. The pews were full and people stood three-deep around the sides. Even then, they weren’t all inside. Others stood in the churchyard by the open windows where they could hear and still watch with the rifles and shotguns they held.

  There was none of the running and playing which usually accompanied a town meeting. No children under the age of eleven were present, and most of those who were present were in the parsonage which had been converted into a makeshift hospital. All who had been bitten were running high temperatures with frequent bouts of vomiting.