by Alex Bledsoe
“He does if she tries to work on a Sunday. She had a black eye for a week the last time she tried to. That’s why we all pitch in for this.” She sighed with disgust as she plopped beside him on the couch. “Baptists.”
He leaned over and kissed her. “Good thing we’re Methodists, then.” He resumed noodling a blues lick as he adjusted the tuning pegs, but took the time to write down a lyric that came to him. He hummed as he wrote:
He beats her to show her the way
Because she can’t find it on her own
He’s sure she’ll always stay
This bed of pain is her home
Satisfied, he began strumming chord progressions, seeking a melody.
“Honey, please,” Suzie said, annoyed. “It’s been a bad day already, and finding Blind Lemon Jefferson on my couch just makes it worse.”
Without changing expression, he strummed the opening bars of “Rocky Top.”
“Oh, stop it.” She leaned her head back on the cushion and closed her eyes. “I don’t feel like cooking tonight, do you want to go out somewhere? Maybe the buffet over in Sturgeonville?”
He put the guitar aside and said casually, “I was thinking we might drive out to the barn dance in Cloud County.”
She opened one skeptical eye. “What barn dance?”
“The one they have every Sunday night. Thought it might be fun, maybe dance a little, sit in with the players and such.”
She opened both eyes. “You mean you want to play in public? You haven’t done that since college, have you?”
He shrugged. “No. But it might be fun to get back into it.”
“Are you still good enough?”
“If I’m not, I’ll just keep rhythm.”
“Do you know any of those people?”
“Won’t know until I get there.”
“Who told you about it?”
He started to answer, but then realized he had no idea. Someone must’ve mentioned it, because it was firmly fixed in his head, so much so that he could even see the route clearly even though he’d never been there. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Must’ve been a notice in the paper or something. Anyway, what do you think?”
She closed her eyes again. “I think I’ve been vomited on by a drunk redneck once already today and do not feel like dancing with a bunch of Cloud County hillbillies who would probably say ‘konitchy-wa’ and shout at me because they think I don’t speak Engrish. You go if you want to.”
He knew better than to take that last statement at face value. And truthfully, even though she was exhausted, Susie inspired a sudden amorous urge in him that momentarily overrode all thoughts of music. He leaned close, brushed her hair aside, and kissed the curve of her ear. “On second thought, I think I’d like to stay in. We can order pizza or something.”
She opened one eye and looked at him. “Don, I’m really tired.”
He ran his fingers lightly along her jawline. “Give me five minutes, and if I haven’t gotten your attention, I’ll quit.”
“I’ll give you two minutes.”
“Three.”
“Two and a half.”
“Done.” And with that he crawled off the couch, knelt on the floor at her feet, and slid her scrub pants slowly off, all the while humming low and deep.
She giggled, her eyes closed once more.
* * *
Chloe, Deacon, and Aiden stood at the front door. “Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?” Deacon asked. “One of us can stay if you want.”
Bronwyn, from her pillow-packed spot on the couch, held up a small black device. “I can call you if there’s any problem.”
“That’s the TV remote,” Chloe pointed out.
Bronwyn sighed, put down the remote, and picked up her phone. “Okay, now I can call you if there’s any problem.”
“Maybe I should stay with her,” Aiden said.
Bronwyn looked at them. They were silhouetted against the last of the day’s sunlight, each carrying a musical instrument in a well-worn case. Deacon had his fiddle tucked under his arm, Aiden’s guitar case barely cleared the floor as it waved in his hand, and Chloe held her autoharp close to her chest. Bronwyn felt entirely left out. “Will you—all of you—get on out of here? I don’t want any pity company. Tell everyone at the barn dance I’ll see ’em soon, okay?”
“Come on, everybody into the truck,” Deacon said. He was the last one out the door, and glanced back at his daughter. “Normally I’d tell you not to have a wild party while we were gone.”
She smiled. “Normally I’d say I wouldn’t, then I would.”
The screen door slammed. Bronwyn sat on the couch and stared at the dark TV screen until she heard the truck’s engine fade into the distance. The silence unique to the mountains settled in around her, broken only when the refrigerator’s compressor kicked on.
She turned on the TV and began flipping channels, careful to avoid any news. She stopped when she got to some horrid science fiction movie about a half man, half mosquito. For ten minutes she laughed at the inanity. Then, as darkness settled in outside, she fell asleep.
In her dreams she saw, as if flying above it, the supply convoy rumbling down the highway to Basra. The sun blazed through the dust and sand. She banked to the left, changing direction as easily as a bird, and watched the scurrying insurgents, black against the bright sand, take position for their ambush. Their gun barrels waved like insects’ antennae.
She was not alone. She felt the presence of her haint Sally Olds beside her on the wind. Bronwyn did not turn to look.
Then she snapped awake as a car horn blared the first bars of “Dixie” from right outside the door.
She started to jump up, then remembered her leg. She wrapped the plastic cast around it and fastened the Velcro straps. She got to her feet just as someone pounded heavily on the door. A tall figure stood outlined in the glare from headlights. She flicked on the porch light, knowing who it would reveal.
Dwayne Gitterman stood there, his hands insolently on the top of the doorframe. The pose displayed his muscular body to great effect, and his smile beneath his cowboy hat was the same knowing leer it always was. His eyes were red from dope and drink, but everything else was as attractive as she remembered it. Behind him his truck was parked in the front yard, its headlights cutting through the night. Insects danced in the horizontal shafts.
“Hey, baby,” he said. “Home alone?”
“I ain’t your baby,” she said through the screen. “Go away, Dwayne.”
“Aw, you don’t mean that.” He picked up a twelve-pack box of Budweiser and waved it back and forth. “You ain’t gonna send me out to drink this all alone, are you?”
Bronwyn was caught between two equally unexpected reactions. One was purely physical: Dwayne would always be someone whose mere presence got her blood racing and juices flowing. She remembered one night when he’d bent her roughly over the dropped tailgate of that very same truck, hiked up her denim skirt and gone at her with a ferocity that put bruises across the tops of her thighs. She’d never thought she could feel that kind of desire again, and having it strike so unexpectedly disoriented her a bit.
The other response was pure loathing. This was Dwayne, the boyfriend who’d spent six solid months trying to get her into a threesome, who’d abandoned her topless on a gravel road after an argument, who’d forgotten to take the condom off after drunkenly coupling with another girl just before he picked her up, and who generally treated her like a convenient piece of meat most of their time together. Now he showed up unannounced, no doubt after hiding and watching everyone else leave for the dance, certain that his lazy smile and country-boy charm would have Bronwyn’s panties on the floor in no time.
“Dwayne, so help me I’ll get the shotgun and blow new holes in you if you don’t get out of here,” she warned.
“You couldn’t hurt me, Bronwyn,” he said smoothly. “There’s too much history between us.”
“Yeah, just like between Iran and Iraq.”
>
He held up a plastic bag. “I’ve got something to take the edge off that pissy mood.”
She sighed. “Dwayne, please. I had surgery yesterday, I’m really not in the mood. Call me later this week and we’ll see.”
“We’ll see? That’s not a no.”
“Boy, nothing gets past you, does it?”
“Nothing as hot as the Bronwynator, baby.”
Something flared deep in her chest at the use of that nickname, and she slapped the wall beside the door so hard, the impact rippled in her aching leg bones. She could almost feel his throat crushing between her hands, and was grateful for the screen separating them. She hissed, “Get the fuck out of here, Dwayne. Now! Don’t say another goddamn word.”
“Okay, I’m going, jeez.” He stumbled down the porch steps to his truck. “Goddamn, must be on the rag or something,” he muttered as he fumbled into the cab. The engine roared to life, and she felt the thump of the truck’s bass playing some hip-hop tune. Things rattled on shelves throughout the house. He turned sharply, cut deep ruts in the yard, and roared off down the driveway.
She stayed looking into the darkness for a long moment, letting her emotions sort themselves out. At some point she realized tears had run down her face, but she hadn’t noticed until she tasted the salt on her lips. She switched off the porch light, turned, and nearly screamed.
Sally the haint stood between her and the TV. In the bright light, the gaping wound in her side was even clearer. The broken ends of the ribs showed white through the red meat of her flesh, and the tattered dregs of multicolored organs dangled in space.
“Y’all did the right thing,” she said. Then she vanished.
Bronwyn stared at the space Sally had just occupied; she was close to hyperventilating. She managed to hop to the couch, where she pressed herself back into a corner, a pillow clutched to her chest. She stared at the TV, where a tall actress hawked cell phones.
A line popped into her head:
Shall the sycamore branch bend for you?
She sat up straight. That wasn’t a song she remembered; that was something new. She found a pencil and scrawled the lyric along the edge of the TV Guide cover.
* * *
She was asleep when Deacon, Chloe, and a very tired Aiden returned home at 2 A.M. Aiden mumbled, “G’night,” and slumped off to bed. Chloe draped a blanket over Bronwyn and tucked it in around her shoulders.
“Want me to carry her to her room?” Deacon asked softly.
Chloe shook her head. “Let her sleep here. I need to wash her sheets tomorrow anyway.”
He nodded. “I’m going to check the weather for in the morning. I’ll be along in a bit.”
Chloe kissed Deacon and went off to the bedroom. He settled on the other end of the couch and muted the TV, putting on the closed-captioning so he wouldn’t wake Bronwyn. He watched the Weather Channel until he, too, nodded off.
Bronwyn awoke around three and lay very still so as not to disturb her father. Her leg ached from being in one position for so long, and she desperately needed to pee, but she didn’t want to move.
In the changing light from the TV, she studied Deacon’s face. He was a handsome man; he was, in fact, her standard of handsome. His jaw was firm, his eyes steady without being cruel, and his mouth settled into a nice neutral line when he wasn’t actively smiling. He wore his hair longer than most men his age, which also made him look younger. In her sleep-fuzzed mind, she realized that if he wasn’t her father, she’d definitely find him attractive and probably let him know. The thought woke her all the way, and she blinked hard to dislodge the idea.
And yet he was, always, her father. From her earliest memories he’d been the strong, steady influence that she both craved and rebelled against. He was fair but unafraid to be tough, and whenever he’d taken the belt to her backside, she knew she deserved it. She’d never forget the time he’d whipped her for nearly setting the house on fire with a bottle rocket; she found him later sitting under a tree, looking sadly at her baby picture in his wallet. No amount of blows to her ass could ever make her feel as bad as that tableau.
She carefully changed position so she could rest her head in his lap. When she was a little girl they used to watch car races and football this way, Deacon stroking her hair and explaining the intricacies of the sport to her. She wanted to be a football player and a race car driver then, so he’d be proud of her. He never told her she couldn’t.
His breathing was steady and deep, and he smelled of hay from the barn dance and the old-fashioned aftershave he always wore. The fabric of his jeans, warm from his body, pressed into her cheek. She closed her eyes and tried to remember how safe and happy she felt here, with her daddy in front of the TV. But the emotion hovered just out of reach.
Then she felt his hand lift and gently run down the length of her hair. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Worried about your mama?” he asked sleepily.
“Worried about everything.”
“That’s a big plateful. Maybe you shouldn’t get everything from the buffet all at once.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
He shifted a little as he stretched and yawned. “You know, I suppose I am. But honey, the song goes on. The music carries on the night wind. If your mom goes, I’ll still hear her again when my time comes.”
She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “I’ve seen people die, Daddy. I may have even killed some. It’s not pretty like you taught us. There was no song, no night wind.”
“That was them. This is us.”
“And what if I never learn the song? What if—?”
He lightly pinched her cheek and said, with mock sternness, “What if I turn you over my knee and smack you? I know that no-account Gitterman boy was out here tonight. He tore up the front yard with that big truck of his. You ain’t never too big for me to spank, you know.”
She smiled. She didn’t have to tell him that she’d sent Dwayne packing. “Yes, sir, I know.”
He twirled one strand of her hair around his finger. “We’re the Tufa, honey. Our songs go on, just like they did in the Green Country, just like they have since we got here. You’ll learn your mama’s song.” After a moment he added, “And you need to get well enough to come to the dance. You need to stretch your wings.”
“I know it, Daddy,” she agreed.
17
Dwayne popped open a fresh beer and took a long swallow. He closed his eyes to savor it, then heard the rippling buzz that meant he’d drifted onto the warning ridges at the shoulder of the highway. He overcompensated and swerved into the other lane. Luckily there was no traffic, and he managed to get back on his side of the road. The yellow and white lines in his headlights grew hazy and split into multiples the farther they were from his truck.
He had an erection that ached. All he could think about were the times he’d had Bronwyn Hyatt. In the two years she’d been gone, no other girl had come close to turning him on the way the Bronwynator did. He needed to fuck her again, to muscle and slam that wiry, strong little body until he found release as deep within her as he could manage. He needed to hear her scream and moan, to feel her retaliatory blows as he hurt her.
Seeing her had been awful. He shouldn’t have gotten stoned first, he realized as he inhaled the smoke from the joint. That was his mistake. It always dulled the edge of his charm. He should’ve watched patiently until her family departed, then maybe taken a few tokes for luck. He definitely shouldn’t have smoked a joint and a half, as well as shotgunned three beers, as he waited for the Hyatts to leave.
Yes, if he’d been straight, she would’ve dropped to her knees and sucked him off before even saying hello. He was certain of that. He recalled the many times he’d looked down at the top of her head, her wide bare shoulders visible below her tangled black hair as she willingly serviced him, and the ache only intensified. God, he had to fuck her again, and soon. His balls would explode if he didn’t.
He almost missed the curve where the road
turned toward Needsville. Low branches slapped his windshield as he came close to the ditch.
He took another drink and tried to form a plan. If he could get Bronwyn alone, he could have her; there was no way she could physically overpower him, and he wasn’t above tying her down if she gave him any trouble. In fact, he remembered times when she’d enjoyed that. But the opportunity to do that was twenty minutes ago, when he’d stood outside her door. Just a simple yank to open the screen, then a few slaps to show her how much he needed it. He’d make it up to her later, after his urges had been sated. Her cast might be a problem, since it meant she couldn’t wrap those thighs around him. He could always turn her facedown, he supposed, and take her that way. He was sure Chloe Hyatt kept some Crisco in the kitchen that would do in a pinch to ease things along.
But she’s a First Daughter, the seldom-heard voice of his conscience managed to say. Just like her mom.
He was so lost in the sudden fantasy of a threesome with Bronwyn and her mother that he didn’t notice the blue lights pull out of the roadside darkness and onto the blacktop behind him. By the time he spotted them, the state trooper was almost on his bumper.
“Fuck!” he yelled, tossed the roach into the open beer, and threw the can out the window. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor.
* * *
Bob Pafford didn’t need to run the license plate of the truck in his headlights, especially when he saw the beer can fly out the window and bounce into the dark. He knew it at once, and he smiled grimly at the thought of who was inside. Would he be lucky enough to catch Bronwyn Hyatt as well as Dwayne Gitterman? Or would it just be the redneck thug alone? Perhaps some other girl was with him, one willing to do anything to keep from getting a police record.…
He thanked whatever urge sent him off the interstate and onto the Cloud County secondary roads. Normally there would be so little traffic on a Sunday night that he might not see another car at all, let alone one he could pull over and ticket. But on this night, the Cop God had smiled on him.