by Lawton Paul
“Are you okay, Ms., uh?” he said.
“Fisher,” the girl said.
“Stand up!” he commanded. The girl stood up, all self-conscious, suddenly naked. “Well Ms. Fisher, did you have something to add?” The room went silent. No soft shuffling of papers or the sounds of pens scratching against thick, college-ruled notebooks. Even the kids in the back reading the newspaper had tuned in.
Walt stood up, a few inches taller than the girl. “It was me, sir, making the noise. My apologies.”
“Well then, by all means,” said the professor, his voice full-on fake gracious. “Please enrapture us with your words. You deemed them worthy of Ms. Fisher here. Don’t leave the huddled masses out in the cold.”
Suddenly, every kid was on the edge of his seat.
Walt thought about telling the truth: She’s hot and I really wanted to talk to her. That might have worked, but he didn’t want to ruin his chances with the girl so instead he took aim at the professor.
“Well, uh, I was just mentioning that you said ‘gas all’ instead of gasol. And earlier you said ‘goooten tag,’ instead of guten tag.” And then he sort of faltered and could feel all the eyes boring into him and he realized suddenly that he was the one being an ass.
The professor leaned on the lectern, put his chin in his hand. “That’s it? So you thought you’d critique my German to impress the girl?” He paused for an answer. “She doesn’t look too impressed right now.” The girl had shrunk down in her seat as the weight of everyone’s eyes fell on her, judging her level of attraction to the boy.
“Why don’t you both leave,” he said and waved his hand towards the door and put his glasses back on.
“Please let her stay, sir,” Walt said. “It was totally my fault.” The professor shrugged and nodded. And Walt made the long walk of shame to the doors in the back of class.
The professor let off one last salvo as Walt was about to step outside: “And please do not return. Insolent twits are not welcome,” the professor yelled at his back.
Walt had the door open and the sun was on his face right as the “insolent twits” bomb fell. He stopped. Stepped back into the room.
“Well, if you must know,” Walt said, “your theory on gas production is accurate insofar as the Allies won because the US was the Saudia Arabia of the day, and Germany was too dependent on foreign oil. But when you speak of what was actually going on there on the ground your argument loses its veracity.”
“You have no idea what you are talking about!” boomed the professor.
“You stated there were no work horses for farming because they were eaten. That’s just wrong. Farmers had to scrounge fuel to run tractors because the military had already conscripted their horses. They took what they wanted. The bastards always just took what they wanted.”
“There’s no research to support—” the professor started.
But Walt cut him off. “Also, that bit about the synthetic fuel production plant at Luena not being bombed. That’s wrong, too. The slide you showed must have been early, because it was most definitely damaged by the bombers. It wasn’t completely out, but a good chunk of the place was just shredded. You know how they’ve got those giant, shiny metal pipes running every which away, reminds me of the Busch beer plant in Jacksonville, only they were making fuel, not beer, but anyway, it was torn up. The roads in and out were blown away, too, so they started cutting tight trails through the woods on the sides hoping the Americans wouldn’t see them from the air.” Then he turned and opened the doors again.
“Wait!” the prof yelled at Walt. “The image! I always suspected it was ‘45 ish—.” Walt realized maybe he’d gone too far and ran all the way to Caribbean Spice.
Walt sat down at a booth after ordering. He wiped the last customer’s grease and bits of red stuff that he hoped was some kind of spice off the table with a napkin. Suddenly a bright blue backpack flew into the seat across from him followed by the brown-haired girl. She had green eyes and her hair hung down past her shoulders.
“So are you a history genius or just a smart-ass?” she said.
“Probably a little of both,” he said.
“How do you know Luena was bombed, too?”
Because I walked through Luena with a nurse dressed as a nun and a German shepherd. He smiled. “You ever had jerk chicken?”
She shook her head, no.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Angela.”
Do Not Cross
Chickasaw, Florida: present day
It’s 3:17 am in the cottage, pitch black, the dog snoring like an old man next to her on the floor. She keeps her hand lightly on his shoulder when she goes to sleep. The other night Bo offered to take him. He could sleep in the kitchen and be out of your hair, she said. I know how you hate animals.
No, that’s okay. I don’t want to put you out, Angela said. Truth was, she wondered if she could sleep without him. But tonight sleep didn’t come because her mind wouldn’t shut down.
The sheriff thinks it’s not the freak. Could I be back at square one with Johnny in jail? She could feel herself starting to sink down the dark hole again where nothing good can happen and everything is against her, like the other day at the courthouse. I took my pill. Only had one cup of Chardonnay. I need a handhold, a direction. A target! That was supposed to be Jesus!
But she starts to feel herself slipping into the hole anyway. Then she remembers what Greg said after the courthouse: If you start to have an episode, then physical movement can help. Do something.
Stand up! she thinks.
She stands up, does a little head-rush wobble. Stares out the window at the tiny brick house, in the darkness just a gray blob. I need answers. She goes to the closet, slides on her jeans, and tucks in her t-shirt.
“Hey, Dog. Get up, boy,” she whispers. He just looks at her, knows she’s up to something, starts wagging his tail. She puts her cup on the table, reaches for the carton of Chardonnay, then stops. “What do you think, Boy, cold turkey?” He whimpers. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Then she grabs the rifle from under the couch, puts the carton of wine under her arm and heads out into the cool, moist night air with Dog at her side.
She angles towards the river, sets the gun down, takes a big windup and chunks the carton into the bulkhead: a pile of concrete, rebar and waste metal that keeps the property from washing out into the river. The wine box makes a hollow thud. “Okay, rats. Drink up.” She picks up the rifle and makes for the gray house. “Gotta have our wits about us, Dog. This shit’s about to get serious.” She takes a deep breath, pets Dog on the head. Greg’s right. It feels good to act. This may be square one again, but I’m not going to give up on that kid. “Listen to me. Talkin’ shit. To a dog, no less.” She ponders that for a second. “No offense, Dog.”
The gate opens without a sound and she’s right there at the back door facing the yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape. Two strips of yellow make a big X right at the door and she can hear Bo telling her what a bad idea this is but she gently pulls one side clear anyway. No alarms go off. No police helicopters.
The screen door is open but the back door is locked. “What to do, Dog?” She goes to the side and tries a few windows. All locked. Then she comes to the back again and Dog is sniffing around a row of clay flower pots. It’s too dark to see color but she remembers them: red and yellow. Bo would know their name and just how to take care of them. Beyond your basic rose, Angela had no idea. But even though she didn’t know anything about plants, she could tell these plants were different—healthy, vibrant. Maybe the freak was taking care of them.
Angela sneaks around to the front just in case the door there is open. It’s a risk because the street light will give her away but she has to try. It, too, is locked. She trudges back to Dog, the dark weight creeping into the edge of her consciousness, trying to worm its way in again. Dog is pawing the same flower pot. “You can’t have that, boy,” says Angela. He whines, looks back at her. She decid
es to get a crowbar from the truck, starts to head back, but Dog stays put. “What is it, Boy? You got something?” She looks under the pot. Nothing.
He tips the pot over. Angela grabs it, turns it upside down and the plant comes out, the dirt held together by tiny white lines of root. At the bottom of the pot there’s a note and a key. The note says: Don’t forget the big cutters. He’ll be here around 11. Finish up before 10.
Angela put the note in her pocket. A message to Johnny. And a key. She gave him access to the house!
She puts the plant back in the pot and gives Dog a hug. “I should’ve asked you first,” she whispers in his ear.
The house is dark and quiet. She can barely make out the kitchen. Someone has pulled down all the blinds so even the grayness before sunrise or the light reflecting from the street lamp can’t come in. The silence gnaws at her, so she squats down next to Dog and listens to his short breaths. They sit there frozen for a moment, until the sound of a train rumbling down the trestle across the river rouses them.
She dials in a talk radio station stream on her phone, just barely audible, then uses the screen as a light. Boring ass, political discussion. Perfect. Two national pundits drone on. “…would suppress the blah blah blah in an effort to build a bi-partisan coalition…” Somehow hearing other human voices comforts her. And for the next few hours she crawls through each room searching for something, anything.
The kitchen had been cleaned up. The veggies left on the table would have gone bad by now anyway. Nothing Earth shattering in the fridge: milk two weeks out of date. Doggy snacks in the pantry. She puts one on the spotless tile floor and Dog slobbers, crunches and whimpers with joy.
She steps into the bedroom closet, closes the door and turns the light on. Everything goes white for a moment, a little orange silhouette of the light bulb in her field of vision, even though her eyes are closed. She stares at the floor and her eyes adjust. There’s a hammer next to the door. She checks the end for blood, then laughs at herself. Not that kind of murder. On the top shelf she finds a wooden box with an German-English dictionary. She flips through it and a photo slides out. It’s an old picture of a nurse and a skinny boy. The woman looks like Mrs. Kaufman. She pockets it and turns off the light.
It’s more gray than dark in the living room. She can almost see out to the river: the trees just black cut-outs with the river behind. Little details of the room start to emerge without having to use her cell phone light. She’s been through the house and pretty much found nothing except the picture and a bunch of old lady junk: hand-painted Japanese tea cups, spoiled milk, and doggy snacks. Most of the groceries are Publix generic. The Chickasaw Pic-N-Save not good enough for her?
Angela lays down on the old rug and stares up at the ceiling. The dog puts his head on her stomach. He’ll be asleep in a second. He’s home. She stares straight up, lighter shades of gray now as the sun starts to rise, and notices something—a thick metal ring bolted to the ceiling. She stands, waking Dog, touches the ring with the end of her rifle. It’s heavy. “Hey, Dog, that’s new isn’t it?” It’s shiny and there’s even some yellow paper stuck to the thick bolt: part of a price tag. “Dog, I believe the engineers of the world would call that little ring ‘load bearing’.”
Now what’s that doing in the center of the house? Did Johnny know about this? Who put it up there? I don’t think she did. I didn’t see a drill or any tools other than the hammer.
She sits back down and ponders what she’s found. The ME was right, it’s tough to prove it wasn’t a drowning. But what was I expecting to find? Even if there was a weapon involved, the murderer wouldn’t leave the bloody hammer in the closet. She closes her eyes and the black hole starts to spin again. This is hopeless. I’m sorry, Johnny.
But then the dog stands, tense and focused on the backyard, doing his low-down, junkyard-dog growl like he wants to eat whatever it is he’s growling at. Angela grabs the gun and sees him immediately. It’s Jesus, slithering back into the yard. “Quiet,” she whispers to the dog, stroking his head. “I got dibs on his ass.” The helpless feeling that had started to engulf her a second before fades. I have a target!
She waits for him to do something nefarious. Maybe he’s back to steal something, to dig a hole in the yard, uncovering the piece of evidence she needs to nail him. He sits down cross-legged next to a skinny little tree, puts both hands, yogi style, on his knees. He’s facing the river but she guesses his eyes are closed.
They wait for five minutes and he hasn’t moved. Too much time to think. Angela starts shifting her weight from one leg to another. Ten minutes later the dog is breathing slow and steady, head on the floor, dead asleep with one eye half open. Dog is happier and more content than I am.
She stares at the back of Jesus’s head. Even in the early morning light she can see his hair is messy. If he runs I’m going to shoot him. I won’t let the bad guy go this time.
The memory from eight months ago comes again. Quiet and dark in the big house right before bed. It was attentive, good-Walt that night. Sometimes he’d sit with his back to her, typing away on the computer, printouts on the desk and floor around him. “Do you want some tea?” she’d say. “What? Oh, I love you, too, Baby,” he’d mumble over the typing and mouse clicking and paper shuffling. His words monotone, his face lit up by the monitor.
But that night he’d brought up a bottle of port and two tumblers, the laptop at a safe distance on the closet shelf. And he’d given her a note in a small white envelope, blue flowers on the card. Let’s talk tonight, he’d written.
Then some little noise at the door downstairs and Walt smiled, said, “Do not fear, my queen, I will save you.” He thought it was Bo, or a raccoon, or the wind. He gave Angela a kiss and ran down the hall, then down the stairs. And she never saw him alive again.
A loud BANG tore through the house. And then fear and dread. Instinctively she grabbed the rifle leaning against the corner inside the closet, ran down to the big room, and Walt was on the floor, on his side, almost like he was sleeping. She slipped on some oil—there was oil everywhere. But it wasn’t oil. And Walt was gone and she knew it. And in the center of the red there was a shiny black pistol. But Walt didn’t own a gun, didn’t know how to use one. She couldn’t breathe and felt like her legs were going to give out.
But then she heard Mrs. Kaufman’s dog barking and looked out into the night—a dark figure under the street light running back down the alleyway. She brought the rifle up to her cheek and sighted the dark moving target, led him just a little, and then put the gun down.
At fifteen minutes she decides enough is enough.
“What are you up to you little weasel?” screams Angela, standing on the steps to Kaufman’s back door. She slowly moves around to face him, the end of the rifle pointed at his head the whole time. He’s still sitting in meditation position, back perfectly straight. “Please run,” she says. “Because this time I’m going to shoot your ass. I’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing. Johnny is in jail and they’re gonna pin a murder on him and it seems you’ve got the sheriff in your pocket.”
“Are you really trying to help the kid or is this part of your grieving process?” he says, still as a statue, slow breaths.
“Don’t you bring Walt into this,” Angela screams. He’s just baiting me, she thinks, then jabs the end of the rifle right up into his face, the muzzle moving up and down an inch from his nose with each heavy breath she takes.
And then she calms just a little. “You know, you are right, I am still grieving. But taking out some lying, half-naked murderer might speed up the recovery.” She pushes up the bolt handle, shoves it forward and chambers a round, then points the gun at his head. “I got nothing to lose. I’ll kill you. Then say I murdered Mrs. Kaufman. Johnny’ll be off the hook. And the world will be rid of you.”
He starts leaning back away from the rifle, his breathing faster. “What do you know?” Angela says.
“You won’t believe me,” he says. Chickasaw accent gon
e.
“Try me.” Tell me you feel sad because you killed her.
“I have to come here.”
“Why?”
“If I don’t I’ll die.”
“Bullshit,” she says, shaking with anger. She points the rifle down near his leg. “I’m just gonna wound your ass for now.” She squeezes the trigger and there’s a loud crack and an echo as the sound travels across the river. All of Chickasaw heard that. Dirt and grass fly up a few inches away from his crotch and he falls on his back. “Go ahead and run,” she says, then pulls back the bolt and loads another round, the empty shell flying off to her right.
“Tell me what you know!” she screams. He’s trying to slide away from her on his back, pushing with his legs. She fires again into the grass above his head and he stops moving and goes into a little ball. Another loud CRACK rips through the quiet morning and then the echos again as the sound travels outward in all directions.
“Sheriff’ll come if he hears the gun.”
“I DON’T CARE!” she yells. “The next one is gonna make you bleed!”
“What’s your name!”
And then it comes out. “Dave Barksdale. Please don’t shoot again.” He was in a little ball with his arms around his knees. “I was a PHD student a UF… then came here.”
“Why come here?”
“I’m gonna tell you the truth but please don’t shoot again.” He’s flinching and sweaty and she notices a vinegar smell in the air—a dark, wet spot at the front of his shorts.
“Five years ago I got sick. It was getting worse. But then I came to Chickasaw as part of a university team studying the water quality in the river. I’m a dissertation away from a PHD in plant biology.”
“So?”
“So I felt better when I came here. Please don’t shoot.” He holds his hands up and ducks his head. “I’m not lying. I’m better here. I can feel an energy here.”