Long Black Curl

by Alex Bledsoe

  Does he like me, too?

  Does he think I’m pretty?

  Does he want to kiss me?

  She rolled onto her side and punched her pillow in annoyance. Luke was from the other side; that made things even more complex. There was nothing stopping them from getting together, of course—the days of the real blood feuds were long over, and in fact, there had already been several couples quite happily married across that divide. But in those cases, their Tufa blood was diluted, mixed with human strains and not subject to the same urgent call. It was impossible for anyone to be more Tufa than she was, and Luke was certainly tied firmly into his people.

  Some of her predecessors had been wives and mothers. Many had not. Each bore the burden in her own way. But none of that had any real influence on her life, and her decisions.

  She wasn’t deluded that she’d found the love of her life. But she wondered how, if this first infatuation felt so strong and incapacitating, she’d survive anything worse.

  No, damn it, concentrate. Bo-Kate’s going to make her move soon, and you have to be ready. Jefferson blew it, so now it’s all up to you.

  * * *

  Jeff walked through the woods to the road, and caught a ride with a farmer driving two horses somewhere, for some purpose; the old man didn’t talk much. It was almost dawn when the farmer dropped him at the Pair-A-Dice, and from there he drove to the Catamount Corner. He expected to have to ring the bell to be let in, but the door was open; apparently her grief had caused Miss Peggy to abandon the habits of a lifetime.

  He went up to his room and dialed Janet Ling back in New York.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “It’s you,” she agreed sleepily. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know for sure. An hour later than it is for you. Listen, sweetie, I may … There might be some unforeseen problems with me getting back.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, if I did, they wouldn’t be unforeseen. But I just wanted to tell you that you’ve always done a great job, and on some days you’ve been the single bright spot. And I regret that I never saw you naked.”

  Janet giggled. “Wow, Jeff. How drunk are you?”

  “Not a bit. Hopefully I’m just being melodramatic, and you can feel free to tease me unmercifully. But just in case … I love you, Janet. Like a sister, or a daughter. You’ve been more loyal to me than any of my family, and I just wanted you to know that in case—”

  “Aw,” she said, clearly believing he was drunk despite his protestations. “I love you, too, boss.”

  He hung up, took off his coat, and collapsed onto the bed. Gray winter light was already filtering through the curtains. He was asleep at once, and dreamed of a long black curl.

  * * *

  The roads were clear enough for school on Monday and, in fact, all of Cloud County resumed its normal routines, despite the ominous forecast. The only one who didn’t was Peggy Goins, who still sat in her living room, staring at the floor, occasionally sniffling. Processing the absence of Marshall would take her a while.

  * * *

  There were only fifteen kids in the sixth grade at Cloud County Consolidated Schools, so there was no way Mandalay and Luke could really avoid each other.

  Monday was a busy day, as Mrs. Welch struggled to make up for lost time, especially in English. The class was reading Wuthering Heights, and the discussion of star-crossed lovers sent shards of metaphoric glass into Mandalay’s heart. She wondered if Luke also felt the parallels.

  Yet neither made eye contact, nor spoke before class, and Luke shot out of there so fast at the end of the day that Mandalay had no chance to speak to him. Which was okay, because she could only think about Tuesday night, under the full moon, when Bo-Kate Wisby might very well kill her.

  * * *

  Jeff awoke around eleven that morning, went across the street to the Fast Grab, and bought a case of beer. He returned to his room and drank until he fell asleep again. There was nothing he could do, and he just wanted to blank out the rest of the day, and his life. And the image of that curl falling into a little girl’s face.

  * * *

  As darkness fell, Bo-Kate stood naked at the window in her bedroom, looking out at the snow. The sky was purple and pink in the west, and its whimsicality seemed totally at odds with the impending darkness, both outside and in her soul.

  “Nigel,” she said casually, “I think I’ll kill Bronwyn Hyatt first. She’s the real threat, even in her delicate condition.” She said the last two words in a cold, mocking way.

  Her casual tone frightened him more than anything. “Bo-Kate, I think that perhaps you’re being a bit rash. Why not wait and see how your evening goes tomorrow night?”

  She turned to him, and her nakedness did nothing to dim her intimidating intensity. “Nigel, this is it. Fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot. I’ve haven’t kept secret what I planned to do here, and I need to know I can count on you.”

  Nigel gathered the sheets around him as nonchalantly as possible, feeling suddenly as vulnerable as a Stradivarius beneath a hanging anvil. “Bo-Kate, you can count on me, of course. But part of my responsibility to you is to make sure you don’t do something exceptionally foolish.”

  “Are worried about the law? There’s no law here. You could send every cop in the state, and they’d never find me. This place isn’t like anywhere else.”

  “So I understand.”

  “The only law is the one that’s always bound the Tufa to this spot. Everything else is negotiable.”

  “Even murder?”

  She walked over to the bed, putting an extra sashay in her movements. “Nigel, if I could do it with a damn drone strike like those soldiers everyone calls heroes, I would. But I can’t; I have to get my hands dirty.”

  Nigel chose his next words carefully. He’d promised Snowy that he’d remain neutral, and God knew he wanted to, but he couldn’t let this pass without at least trying to convince her to change her plans. “She’s pregnant, Bo-Kate. Extremely pregnant. You’ll be killing her and an unborn baby. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “It’s unfortunate, yes. But I can’t be sentimental about any of this. That little girl is sentimental, and it’s going to cost her her life. Eventually.”

  She slid her hand under the sheet. “Come on, Nigel. Let’s make two minutes fifty-two seconds of squishing noises. It’ll all be worth it in the end, I promise you.”

  He tried not to wince at the touch of her fingers. “I think I’m fucked out, Bo-Kate. Perhaps your teen idol is ready for another round.”

  She stood up. “Okay, Nigel. You’ve cast your vote.” She took her robe from the door and put it on, cinching the belt tight. He just had time to notice the heavy object in her pocket before she pulled out the revolver.

  He had time to think, Well, damn. Here I thought I was the nice guy who’d get the girl in the end, but it turns out I’m the black guy in a horror film.

  Then she shot him twice in the head. The echo of the blast stayed in the room much longer than he did.

  The door flew open and Byron burst in. He had to hold on to the frame to stay upright, since he didn’t wear his leg brace. His sudden appearance and great size made Bo-Kate gasp and drop the gun, which clattered loudly on the wooden floor.

  “What the—?” Byron started. Then he saw.

  “You scared the hell out of me, Byron,” Bo-Kate said.

  He looked at her with nothing but contempt. “I doubt that, Bo-Kate. I bet there’s plenty of hell left in you.”

  Byron withdrew, and she heard his door close. A familiar voice said in her ear, “That was the right thing to do. That nigger wasn’t on your side anymore.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice choked a little.

  “Don’t be getting sentimental on me,” Rockhouse’s ghost said. “You still got work to do. You got a plan?”

  “Can’t you read my mind?”

  “Not from where I am, hot stuff. Y’all been re
adin’ too many spook stories.”

  “Yeah, I got a plan.” She picked up the gun, put it back in her purse, then went to the bedroom door, and hollered, “Snad! Canton! Y’all get up here!” She looked back at Rockhouse, who was a transparent, wavering form in the darkest corner of the room. “But I ain’t telling you.”

  “You think I can’t figure it out?”

  “If you can, why’d you ask?”

  She couldn’t quite make out the details of his face, but he seemed to be glowering. “You don’t want me against you, little missy.”

  “I don’t want you at all.”

  “I’ll remember you said that.” And he faded into the shadows around him just as Shad and Canton entered the room. They stopped dead when they saw Nigel’s body.

  “Well?” Bo-Kate said harshly. “You ain’t never seen a dead nigger before? Get him out of here.”

  34

  The Tuesday night of the full moon arrived bleak and cold. The temperature dropped into the single digits, which froze the snow in its clouds, allowing only the occasional flurry to escape. Ordinarily this would have kept most people at home, but the Pair-A-Dice parking lot was full, and cars parked along the road wherever the old, dirty banks of snow allowed them. It turned a mile-long stretch of highway into a one-lane road, but since no one was likely to drive by unless they were headed to the roadhouse, it wasn’t a problem.

  Inside it felt like a combination of the excitement before the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan, and the gallery at the Scopes Monkey Trial. Every Tufa capable of movement had arrived, drawn to this event as much as, if not more than, they’d been to Rockhouse’s funeral. Everyone had shed their coats and hats, and the heater had long since been turned off as unnecessary. The kitchen was closed, and Arshile the cook now worked beside bartender Rachel to keep up with demand for cold beer and Cokes. There was an unspoken demilitarized zone that ran down the middle of the room. The two groups kept to themselves, and the conversations were low and slightly menacing. Everyone present knew this night would change everything for Needsville, Cloud County, and all the Tufa.

  On the little stage, a single microphone stood, connected to a PA. Both the contenders would have their say. The decision, though, would be up to the crowd.

  Bo-Kate and Byron waited in the darkened kitchen. She peeked out through the serving window at the simmering crowd with a mixture of apprehension and smug glee.

  Byron, antsy and claustrophobic, clutched his guitar and said, “Can we get this over with?”

  “Not yet,” Bo-Kate said without looking at him.

  “Waiting for that old boyfriend of yours?”

  “No, I shoved him off a cliff.”

  He waited, but there was no punch line. “Man, when you people break up with each other, you do it for real.”

  She turned to him. His sour attitude, even when they were having sex, had just about killed off her teenage crush. She saw him now as merely a bitter punk, useful at the moment but of no lasting value. She no longer had any second thoughts about the fate she had lined up for him. “What are you complaining about?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing at all.”

  “Good. This is your revenge, too, you know. You’re helping destroy the very soul of the Tufa. Isn’t that better than killing them one at a time?”

  When he said nothing, she resumed looking out the window. Byron went to the back door and peered through the little square of glass at the cars in the parking lot. He’d show them, all right. And he’d show her, too.

  * * *

  “I don’t think you should go,” Bliss said to Mandalay in her bedroom as the girl decided what to wear. Bronwyn waited in the living room with Leshell and Darnell. “We can’t protect you there.”

  “I appreciate that,” Mandalay said. “But everyone else is there, so I have to be.”

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen if you don’t go?”

  Mandalay turned and looked at her. “Bo-Kate walks away with everything. Needsville becomes Scarborough. And we are all lost to the night winds.”

  “That would never happen.”

  “You don’t think so? Rockhouse isn’t around anymore to uphold the status quo. Marshall can’t even step in as the civic authority. It’s entirely my job now, and if I don’t show up, then it’s the same as saying I’m too afraid to face her.”

  “But you must know she intends to—”

  Mandalay smiled. “Bliss, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, really. But I’m going, and that’s it.”

  “Mandalay—”

  “I’m going!” Mandalay said. Her voice, normally soft and deferential, blasted forth like a physical slap. Bliss gasped, not just at the sound but at the fury in the girl’s face as well. Bliss had never seen that before.

  “Don’t ask me what I’m going to do, because I don’t know,” Mandalay continued. “I only know I have to be there tonight. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She decided on an outfit and began to change clothes. “Warm up your truck. It’s late, and we need to go.”

  * * *

  If Junior Damo knew how to do one thing, it was stir the pot.

  He moved from table to table, group to group, speaking in whispers and being careful not to draw attention. He stood only when at least three other people were on their feet, so no one would notice his movements, and always slid into conversations by agreeing with whoever was speaking. It didn’t take much—a slight comment about Bo-Kate, a supposed story about Rockhouse, a lewd joke about what Mandalay would be like in a few years—and the tension grew. That was what he wanted, because if they were tense, and a little angry, they’d be more inclined to listen to him when he really lit the fuse. And then, after the explosion, he could honestly claim he’d known it would happen all along.

  He eased in between an immensely fat man who smelled of bacon grease and a broad-shouldered, glowering young man who idly tapped a quarter on the table. A middle-aged woman finished a story with, “And I swanny, he acted like it was no big thing, like a man diddles a goat every day.”

  “They do,” the fat man said, “down in Mississippi.”

  They laughed. Junior waited patiently, and when the laughter had almost died, he interjected, “So what do you think Bo-Kate is going to do? Think she’s gonna kill Mandalay Harris right here in front of us?”

  “Wouldn’t mind that a bit,” the quarter-tapper said.

  “She’s just a kid,” Junior said, mock-offended.

  “She’s trying to get us all thrown off our land,” the fat man said.

  “Who is?” the woman asked.

  “Bo-Kate,” Junior said, going with the flow. “That’s her plan. She wants to buy up all the land and turn it into a damn shopping mall. Wasn’t any of you here the other day when she came in?”

  “That don’t make no sense,” quarter-tapper said.

  “It’ll be one of them outlet malls,” the fat man said. “They like to put them off the main path, so’s you feel like you’re being sneaky when you go there, like that one they used to have down in Boaz, Alabama. That’s a fact.”

  Two men from other tables stood and made their way toward the bar, and Junior stood to join them, content that he’d done his job with this group.

  * * *

  Jeff came down the stairs and entered the Catamount Corner lobby. Peggy Goins sat behind the counter, staring into space, a cigarette in her fingers. She didn’t look up until he said, “Hey, Peggy.”

  “Hello, Mr. Powell. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing, really. I’m on my way out of town, I need to settle up my bill.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. Consider it a freebie. It won’t be my problem soon.”

  He picked up a postcard that advertised the Smoky Mountains, and gazed at the wisps of cloud that clung to the treetops. “So, are you going down to the Pair-A-Dice tonight?”

  “Me? Good Lord, no. I wouldn’t trust myself i
n the same room with that cancerous bitch.”

  “I know the feeling,” he muttered.

  Peggy spoke with the flat voice of someone wearied by tragedy. “When she changes the name of the town, I’ll have to sell out to her. She already told me she wants the place, and with Marshall gone, there’s nothing keeping me here. I suppose I could go over to the Pacific Northwest. I visited that once as a young woman, it’s always been in my mind to go back.”

  “Maybe the people here won’t want her. Lot of ’em got long memories, you know.”

  Peggy took a drag on her cigarette and smiled coldly as the smoke came out. “There’s no one else. Junior Damo? Please. And Mandalay’s a child. I hate to say it, because I love her to death, but when it counts, she’s just a child. She can’t stand up to a full-grown woman with as much hatred and spite in her heart as Bo-Kate has.”

  Jeff nodded. He agreed with that, even though he didn’t want to. The memory of that little girl, with the strand of hair in her face, came back to him, and he had to force it down.

  “Well,” he said at last, “if I don’t ever see you again, Miss Peggy … you take care.”

  “You, too, Jefferson. Travel safe, and tell New York I said hello.”

  “I’ll do it.” And with that, he left.

  * * *

  Byron peered over Bo-Kate out at the crowd. “Any sign of her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m getting antsy.”

  “Just drink your beer and calm down.”

  “You calm down. You don’t have to go up there in front of them.”

  She turned and looked at him. “Stage fright, Byron? You?”

  “Elvis gets stage fright, too, you know.”

  “Elvis died when he was forty-two, sitting on the commode.”

  She resumed looking out at the crowd, and so didn’t see the look on Byron’s face as he took in this information. He knew from his brief experiences with the Internet that, of his peers, only Jerry Lee Lewis was left alive; but he hadn’t really dug into the circumstances of their various deaths. Somehow he assumed they’d all died old and rich. But if Elvis—the one they all wanted to be, the one who set the template—could die such an undignified death, then what did that say? Was rock-and-roll music, which had once seemed like it could change the world, really just a waste of time like all the preachers, teachers, and parents said? And did that make him even more useless and pitiful for outliving his time so egregiously?