by Alex Bledsoe
He drove way too fast out to Doyle’s trailer, and pounded on the door with more urgency that he’d intended. The porch light blinded him when it came on, and Berklee peered through the safety chain gap. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Hey, there, Robby-bobby,” she said. “What are you doing up this early? Or have you not been to bed yet?”
“Is Doyle here?”
“Naw, he went in early. Probably stopped to pick up his dad, too.” She belched softly; the smell was rank and vivid.
Rob felt real sadness that such a beautiful and fiery woman seemed determined to dive so thoroughly into alcoholism. He wondered what she was like completely sober; he’d never actually seen her that way.
“Why don’t y’all come on in and have a drink with me?” She undid the chain and opened the door all the way. She wore a robe cinched far too loosely. “I can be late to work. My boss couldn’t care less.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll try to track down Doyle.” He didn’t want to be alone with Berklee; a drunk woman with something to prove was more than he could manage, and Doyle was big enough to use him for a chamois cloth if he got the wrong idea.
He met Doyle’s truck at the end of the driveway. They each rolled down their windows. “Hey,” Doyle said with an edge of suspicion. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Berklee said you went to work.”
“Forgot my lunch. So much for getting an early start.”
“Can I talk to you?”
“Sure. Just back on up and—”
“No offense, but your wife’s still half-lit, and this is serious. Can we go somewhere else?”
Doyle chewed on the ends of his mustache. “Yeah, I reckon,” he said at last.
* * *
Berklee finished her morning beer as she watched Doyle’s truck and Rob’s car drive off into the gray predawn. She carefully placed the can in the recycle bin. Then she went into the bathroom, leaned on the sink, and studied her face in the mirror.
A harsh image gazed back from the glass. Even with the flattering effects of the vanity lights, she knew she looked awful. Without her “face,” or the fake cheerfulness that got her through work, she appeared forty years old even though she wasn’t yet thirty. The bags under her eyes could carry groceries, and the corners of her lips sagged in a perpetual frown. Even her forehead, once smooth and unblemished, was creased with lines from the perpetual nagging sense that she was incomplete, that something essential was missing. No, not missing: taken.
After nearly eight years, it still felt as if it had happened the day before. The way he’d rolled off her after bringing her to the greatest, most sublime climax she’d ever known, then sat on the edge of the bed and fished for his clothes on the floor. She could barely breathe or move for long moments afterwards, and then she felt only this craving, an irresistible desire to touch or be touched by him, something that took her over in those postcoital moments and had not lessened a bit in the time since. That stormy afternoon she’d reached for him, for his strong broad back and tousled ebony hair, only to have him shrug away and mutter, “Stop it, will ya? Dang.” She felt the reproach like a knife to her belly, and withdrew her trembling hands. He stood, his magnificent form lit in the gray light from outside as he pulled on his shirt. “I gotta go. Your parents’ll be home soon, and your ma don’t like me.”
Her mother …
The day her mother took her outside to the front porch and gave her “the talk” had been scorchingly hot. Her mother wore a thin cotton dress and no shoes, and the porch swing squeaked as they sat. Yellow jackets buzzed around the flowers. There had been a breeze, hot and steaming, appropriate for the subject matter. Berklee had been fifteen years old.
The talk included a lot of religion, a smattering of practical advice on birth control, and the solemn warning every non-Tufa mother gave her daughters in Needsville: “Now, them real Tufa boys will make you feel everything a woman’s supposed to feel when she’s with a man, but if you don’t make the sign, they’ll own you. You’ll never be able to feel anything with any other man, and if they don’t want you—and them true-blood Tufas never want you twice—it’ll just build and build until you can’t bear it no more. These hills are filled with the bones of girls like that; don’t you be one of ’em.” Then her mother had taught her the hand gesture that would allow her to dance with these devils and not pay the piper.
But that rainy afternoon with Stoney, a little high and a lot amazed that anyone so gorgeous would bother with her, she’d forgotten the warning. She wanted to get back at Doyle, who’d gone off to college and left her alone in Needsville. So she brought the big Tufa to her bedroom in her family’s house, and in Stoney’s arms, beneath his dominating weight, she felt utterly beautiful for those few moments, as if his attention had somehow erased every bit of self-doubt she’d ever known.
Fifteen minutes of ecstasy. And now a lifetime of aching, unfulfilled need.
As he’d left her that day, she begged him to stay with her, promised obscene acts and utter devotion. Her family’s empty house felt tomblike the moment the screen door slammed, and as his pickup drove away, she’d screamed in torment because her mother had been horrifyingly, utterly right: She could imagine no other man touching her, ever. And even though she’d allowed Doyle to claim his husbandly prerogative when she could find no way to avoid it, each time was private, thorough agony. And he knew she hated it; they’d been celibate for the past two years.
Tears trickled down her face. Nothing could take it back; nothing could cure it. It was done. She was done. And yet she didn’t take the step so many other girls had taken when left in this state. There were two reasons for that: One was the forlorn but still present hope that Stoney might one day want her again, that she might experience that amazing sensation of being transcendently beautiful. And two—the most frightening of all—was that she wasn’t sure this addiction wouldn’t also follow her to the other side. Perhaps Stoney was surrounded by the haints of girls like her, all still tied to him and aching for corporeal pleasures they could never again experience. She would sometimes lie awake at night, wide-eyed, contemplating that.
* * *
Rob and Doyle sat across from each other at the Waffle House near the interstate, outside a town called Unicorn. It had taken half an hour to reach it, but Rob didn’t feel comfortable talking anywhere near Needsville. He wanted to be completely off the Tufa radar until he decided how much he could really trust Doyle.
When they parked, he’d noticed a bumper sticker on another truck: IF IT AIN’T KING JAMES, IT AIN’T BIBLE. The presence of this sign of normal Southern Fundamentalism filled him with relief.
The waitress, attractive except for a ton of blue eye shadow, left two empty cups and a carafe on the table. Doyle said, “Alsie, you mean you ain’t even gonna bring us coffee that’s been saucered and blowed? What if I burn myself?”
Alsie gave him a pretend scowl. “Doyle Collins, I am not your momma. I figure you’re smart enough not to scald your pretty little tongue.” As she walked to the next customer, Rob wondered if her hips were doing an authentic Southern sashay.
Alsie stopped at the only other occupied booth, where a tired-looking woman sat with a six-year-old boy. She had the long straight hair and denim skirt that marked a Pentecostal believer.
The boy loudly sneezed. “Cover your face when you do that,” his mother admonished.
“You don’t want to spread your germs everywhere,” Alsie added.
“Germs and Jesus, that’s all I ever hear about,” the boy said in a voice too weary for his age. “Germs and Jesus. And you know something? You can’t see neither one of ’em.”
Doyle grinned, poured coffee in his cup, and asked Rob, “So what’s the big secret?”
Rob nodded toward the waitress and asked softly, “Is she Tufa?”
“Alsie? Nah. Well, maybe a smidgen. No more than I am, at any rate. Why?”
Rob paused, then decided to plow ahead. “Did you hear about that
woman who disappeared in town yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
Rob drank his coffee and made a face. “This tastes like mud.”
“Well, it was fresh ground this morning,” Doyle deadpanned.
Rob ignored him. “I didn’t see germs or Jesus, but I did see that girl last night at this barn dance Bliss took me to. And some weird shit happened there, man.”
Doyle sipped his coffee. “Like what?”
“You’ll think I’m nuts if I tell you.”
Doyle sat expectantly.
“Well … Bliss told me some stuff about the Tufas. And while it’s loopy, I gotta tell you, I halfway believe it. Especially after meeting her baby sister.”
“Who?”
“Her sister, Curnen.”
Doyle looked puzzled. “Bliss doesn’t have a sister.”
Rob was silent for a moment before saying, “Really?”
“Yeah, I’ve known her all my life, she’s an only child. Her mom got that thing, endometriosis, right after she was born. Couldn’t have any more children.”
“So … you don’t know anyone named Curnen Overbay?”
“’Fraid not.”
Rob looked down at the greasy coffee in his cup. Now he wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Well … do you know a guy named Stoney?”
“Stoney Hicks? Big guy, looks like a Chippendale? Oh, yeah, I know him.”
Rob leaned closer. “I need your word that this doesn’t go any farther. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Last night, this Stoney guy was dragging around that woman who disappeared yesterday. She looked like she’d been awake for a week. Do you know where he hangs out?”
Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I need to talk to that girl. Let her know her husband’s all torn up about the way she’s treating him. I tried last night, but there were too many people around.”
Doyle shook his head. “I wouldn’t go poking around, trying to find him. His uncle’s that old guy you had the run-in with at the post office, Rockhouse Hicks. Between the two of them, they’ve got some mean family and friends.” He looked out the window at the sunrise, and his tone changed. “Besides, I ain’t never known Stoney to have to make a girl come with him. They just kind of drop their panties if he nods at ’em. Don’t matter what promises they’ve made to someone else.”
It took Rob a moment. “Wait, you mean him and Berklee?”
Doyle nodded. Rob never imagined such a common gesture could encompass so much sadness and regret.
“Wow,” Rob said.
“Yeah,” Doyle agreed.
Rob pressed on. “I’m sorry to hear about that, really. But I need to find this girl and talk to her. Her husband’s not a bad guy, and he doesn’t deserve the hassle he’s getting from the cops over this. If she’s where she wants to be, that’s fine. I’ll pass along the word and everyone can get on with their lives.”
“I wish I could help you, but honestly, I ain’t seen Stoney myself in probably six months. And anyway…” He seemed to want to say more.
“What?” Rob prompted.
Doyle thought it over. “This is going to sound kind of strange. You see … Stoney likes to use the fact that he’s real good-looking to get girls to do things for him. Nothing, like, mean or anything, he doesn’t hit ’em, he just kind of … I don’t know, uses ’em up. Wears ’em out. Lots of the girls he’s dated died within a couple of years after he broke up with ’em. From just kind of giving up on things.”
“Giving up,” Rob repeated.
“Yeah. They don’t eat, they don’t go to school or work, they just … quit. Quit life. Some even kill themselves. Happened to two girls I personally knew back in high school. Damndest thing.”
“And nobody thought this was weird?”
“Weird’s relative around here. Our most famous local murder was over a spelling bee.”
Rob just looked at him.
“I’m not making it up. Back in 18-something-or-other. A schoolmaster and his student who won the big county-wide spelling bee got ambushed by the head of another school who was jealous ’cause they won. True story.” He drank some coffee, then followed it with water to wash down the taste. “Y’all may think this is silly, but there’s stuff in this valley that … well, it goes back a long ways. Most folks outside of here consider it superstition and bullshit like that, but around here, it works. It’s for real. Now, I ain’t saying I believe in it or anything, but I am saying that I’d be stupid not to, given everything I’ve seen over the years. And on top of that, the girls all have their own special secrets that the boys don’t never know.”
“That’s true everywhere.”
“Not like it is here with the Tufa girls.”
Rob could only nod in agreement to that. “So you’re saying that I should just forget about finding Stella Kizer?”
“I’m saying that if Stoney’s got his hooks in her, it won’t change anything if she goes back to her husband.” He leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “I saw one girl’s suicide note, man. Jillie Rae Keene. She said it was like Stoney took part of her soul away, and without him, she could never be a whole person again. It was downright spooky.”
“But Berklee got away from him.”
He took on a depth of sadness Rob had never imagined. “Sure, she did. And now she drinks herself to sleep every night. She’s right, if I hadn’t gone off to college, everything would be different. But I did, and Stoney was still here, and … I think she’s just taking the slow road instead of the interstate like some of the others did. But she’s going to end up in the same place.”
“I have to try, man. I can’t really explain it, but I have to. Nobody, and I mean nobody, tried to help me when I needed it. They were all hyenas, snapping around for scraps, or just ignored it like it didn’t matter to them. I can’t let myself become one of those people.”
Doyle looked at him seriously. “It ain’t your problem. Live and let live. Respect boundaries, like they say on Oprah.”
“I can’t,” he said sadly. “Not this time.”
20
Bliss climbed the trail, her back sweaty despite the cool breeze. The path wound through the woods, so well hidden that only someone with her background could follow it. Here the trees had never been cut, no fires ever thinned their ranks, and once anchored firmly into the soil, they were as immovable as the mountain they crowned. She heard deer scamper away in the shadows, the smaller movements of more phlegmatic raccoons and possums, and felt the presence of other things that lived only around the Tufa’s sacred places. She wished she had time to bask in it, to reconnect with that huge tug in her belly that led ultimately into the heart of the night wind itself. But this was First Daughter business, and the hike alone had taken an hour and a half. She’d started just before sunrise, after dropping off her note for Rob, and it would be past noon before she reached her truck again. Worse, she was almost entirely sure this would be pointless. But unless she tried, whatever she did next would be misinterpreted and scorned.
Despite a lifetime in the mountains, she found this climb so arduous, her calves burned, and she wanted nothing more than to sit down, catch her breath, and then descend. But she recognized that urge as part of this spot’s defenses, and while she couldn’t ignore it, she used the annoyance it generated to urge her on. She didn’t have to walk, of course; the Tufa had much faster and easier ways to get around. But the meeting she sought needed to be arranged in the proper way.
At last, through the final grove of trees, she saw the bare top of the mountain. Smoke curled into the sky from a stone chimney that emerged straight from the ground. In a few minutes, she stood before the rock wall built into the side of the hill, with its gray, ancient wooden door. Railroad ties provided steps for the last few yards, and planks made a crude porch. Music played softly from a cheap radio. She knocked.
“Whozat?” a man’s voice demanded.
“You know goddam well who it is,” Bliss said. “L
et me in.”
The door opened, and Rockhouse Hicks peered out. In the shadowy interior, he seemed bulkier and more threatening, but of course she knew the secret of that. “What do you want?” he muttered when he saw her.
“Shouldn’t you be on your way to the P.O.?”
“So? You ain’t my keeper.”
“That’s lucky for you. I figured you might have quite a head, drunk as you were last night.”
“Don’t remember much about it.”
“Convenient. But we need to hash out what to do about Curnen and Stoney.”
“You do what you want, they ain’t nothing to me,” he said, and started to shut the door.
She blocked it open. “I don’t want to be in your damn hobbit hole any more than you want me here. So stop being a jackass and work with me.”
“You ain’t my equal, Bliss, so don’t take that tone with me. Mandalay wants to talk, she can bring herself up here, just like you did.”
“I carry Mandalay’s song, you know that. Stop stalling.”
He looked at her. The smug superiority he showed in town was completely gone, and he now appeared as a weak, tired old man. His overalls were stained with mud, and his beard held crumbs and bits of food. When he turned just so, the light revealed two long, untended hairs protruding from one ear. He said, “I ain’t got nothing to do with that retarded sister of yours no more.”
“She’s not retarded, you self-righteous bastard,” Bliss hissed. In her head, she added, She’s cursed. By you. She followed him inside.
The dwelling consisted of one room with a fireplace, a table with two straight-backed chairs, a rocking chair, and a bed. The walls were stone, sealed with mortar that had crumbled in places and allowed gray lichen and mold to grow along the seepage stains. It made the place smell like an untended armpit. All the furniture was handmade, squared off and crude. The blankets on the bed were tattered and faded. Only the five banjos in their stands gave evidence of any recent attention. The heat and light from the hearth fire were overwhelming when the door closed behind her.
“And she’s not just my sister,” Bliss continued as she unzipped her jacket. “She’s your daughter.”