Once There Were Sad Songs

by Velda Brotherton

  Birdsong mixed with the gentle lapping of water on the sandy shore. Ahead, the beach turned rocky, and he halted, lifted himself to perch on a blocky square. As if it were the most normal thing in the world, he held out a hand and pulled her up beside him. Warmth radiated from his bare thighs where they contacted hers, tickled at her libido and stirred something too long left to slumber.

  “Okay, I’ll start,” she finally said. “I’ll tell you what makes me angry, then you can tell me what makes you angry.”

  He actually laughed, and it was almost, not quite, pleasant to hear. “You sound like a head shrinker.”

  “Sorry. I took some courses. Probably made me more dangerous than anything. Sometimes helps me get inside the kids’ heads. Understand them.”

  “Well, I’m no grade-schooler, and believe me, you don’t want inside my head. Besides, I’m not very good at playing psycho-babble games.”

  “Then why did you come out here?”

  His breath caught, and he appeared to mull over her question, like he didn’t really have a reason and had to make one up. He finally did. “Because I always walk the beach in the morning, and just because you were out here didn’t mean I couldn’t. It’s public.”

  “You sound resentful and defensive.”

  “Why is it every time someone tries to give an honest answer to a question, they’re being defensive?”

  “Honest? You call that an honest answer? You came out here specifically to talk to me.”

  “Well, hell, if you’re so smart—and uppity, too, I might add—why don’t you just carry on both sides of this conversation and I can enjoy the view?”

  She chuckled. “How old are you?”

  “What? Why in hell do you want to know that? How old are you?”

  “I’ll tell, if you will.”

  “Tell,” he challenged.

  “I’m forty-four.”

  “Damn.”

  “Damn?”

  “Well, yes. Damn. I figured you might be thirty-eight. Forty-four? Shit, that is old. Lefty was right.”

  “I’m old? Lefty?” She spread a hand over her chest.

  “My friend yonder, the one watching us like a damn vulture on a fence post. And I was only yanking your chain about you being old. A bad habit of mine.”

  “Why is it I’m answering all your questions and you’re not answering one of mine? How old are you, Steven, and what makes you so angry?”

  “I’m thirty-two, and people who ask me why I’m angry is what makes me angry.” He slipped off the rock and trudged away from her.

  She watched him grow small in the distance, sat for a long time, swinging her legs and wondering all sorts of things about him. Most of all she wondered why she cared. Deprivation might cause him to demand something of her she couldn’t or wouldn’t give.

  Thirty-two? God, he was young. She’d have guessed him close to forty. Something in his eyes, in the way he held himself, as if he expected a felling blow at any moment.

  She’d seen men like him before, hanging around Chapel Hill. Dowdy wives and half-naked children in tow. Looking for an alternative lifestyle, running, always running from something. Hippies, everyone called them with derision. She’d always felt sorry for the kids, but today she experienced an unwelcome sorrow for this man Steven. That would certainly fuel his anger.

  ****

  “You know what I wish?” Steven popped the top on a small can of pork’n’beans and dipped into them with a plastic spoon.

  Lefty lifted an oily, dripping sardine with two fingers. “That they wouldn’t put that slimy piece of fat in there?”

  As if he hadn’t heard, Steven went on. “I wish I was home on the Red, casting a big gob of worms halfway across the river into the shallows. Feeding a big ol’ catfish and then letting him feed me.”

  Lefty chewed at the sardine, pointed toward their bikes nosed side by side against the log guardrail nearby. “It ain’t too far, is it? Get on that hog and ride. Ain’t nobody or nothin’ stopping you, is there?”

  “Just a lot of years, and memories.” Steven glanced up to see Shadow regarding him intently.

  “You got family left back there in Texas?”

  “Oklahoma. Texas is across the Red River. My dad died when I was nine. Mom, she went while we were in country. Funny, she was always scared I’d die over there, and then she goes and buys it.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that. Hard to figure, huh.” The beans tasted flat, but he ate another mouthful anyway.

  Odd, him talking about this after so much time together, each of them sticking to a pact not to go all sentimental. “Got a place, though, not far from the Red. I’ll go back there someday.”

  “Shit,” Lefty said and drank the sardine oil.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll show you shit.” Steven dropped the can and hooked one arm around Lefty’s neck, wrestling him to the ground, where they rolled around whooping and pummeling each other. The activity didn’t get rid of his feeling of inadequacy, of something missing.

  They went for a swim, and while they were horsing around in the water, he saw Mary Elizabeth start down toward the lake, spot them and go back to her campsite. Later, when they waded out, she was sitting in the shade reading Dead Zone.

  He wanted to go tell her the coast was clear, she could go swimming now, but resisted the urge. It was just another of his childish whims best left alone. Damn, why did he even think of her at all, one way or the other? Worse, she’d made him think of his mother for the first time in years. Dragging all that horseshit up out of his guts and spilling it in front of Lefty and Shadow.

  Go home? That would never happen.

  He tried not to watch her but couldn’t help himself when she strolled down to the lake, wearing a modest one-piece suit that made her look sexy as hell, and plunged into the water. Actually, he needed to keep an eye on her in case she decided to pull another stunt and try to drown herself again.

  But she didn’t, and after a while she came out of the water and went back to reading her book, without sparing him so much as a glance.

  He fell asleep and dreamed about his mother, and the house where he’d grown up, and how he’d burned it to the ground when he came home from ’Nam. Walked off and never looked back, not even once.

  ****

  Mary Elizabeth dug a can of Dinty Moore Stew from her supply box, lit the burner on the camp stove, and dumped the thick concoction into a small pot. The savory flavor of meat and gravy cooking soon filled the air.

  “Bread,” she murmured.

  There was none in the basket, and she remembered that she’d eaten the last two slices for lunch. Well, she needed ice, too, and the supply store was out at the highway. Maybe ten miles.

  Turning off the burner, she placed the pan inside the cooler, grabbed her bag, and headed for the car. Though the sun hadn’t set, evening shadows lay thick beneath the trees, so that she didn’t notice the man until he approached. Her heart kicked against her ribs, but she tried to remain outwardly calm.

  It was the ugly one, the one with hair like a rusted Brillo pad charged with electricity. Lefty, Steven called him.

  “Having a good time, you?” he asked.

  He had a thick accent and a funny way of speaking, and the feral expression in his eyes frightened her, so she kept walking. “Why, yes. I certainly am.”

  “Not scared, being out here by youself?” A threat colored the tone.

  Fear grew like a cold knot in her chest. “Why would I be? With three men like yourselves nearby to protect me?”

  “Plenty happen to women alone. Did you ever think a wild animal could come up on you? Grab you, just like that, ’fore any of us could stop it?” He snatched at her arm and she dodged away, fear choking her into nausea.

  Quickly she glanced toward the camp, hoping Steven was in sight. Why she should trust him to take her side, she didn’t know, but she did. He’d attempted to frighten her earlier but hadn’t succeeded. On the other hand, this one scared her to death. Even if he was playing
, his dark eyes held a deadly promise.

  Though she didn’t want to run, she broke into a trot and slipped through the opening in the guardrail to her car. Key in hand, she unlocked the door and swung it open.

  The man called Lefty leaped the rail and came up beside her. Close enough to hear the thundering of her heart.

  He smiled up at her, showing pointy gray teeth. That he was shorter than she was not much consolation.

  “Well, now, you take care, hear? Want we should watch your stuff while you’re gone?”

  Two swallows and she was able to croak out a reply. “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”

  Clambering inside the car, she pushed down the door lock. He smirked, saluted, and backed off.

  ’Fraidy cat, ’fraidy cat. Echoes of the catcalls from her youth had followed her into the darkness of an adult life with Reudell. An adult life that further stressed fear. Fear of God and his almighty vengeance should she stray from the narrow path. Such a life had molded her into a coward, and she was so sick of the feeling she wanted to leap from the car and chase that smart mouth down. Spit in his ugly little face.

  Instead, she inserted the key in the ignition and turned it with trembling fingers.

  Nothing happened. Not even a click.

  She twisted again and again, mouth going dry.

  No, not possible. How could something be wrong with the car? Still not believing, she laid her head on the wheel, counted four deep breaths, tried again. Still nothing.

  The boys in shop at school took care of the five-year-old Fairlane for her. She knew absolutely nothing about it except you turned on the key, shifted into drive, and pushed on the gas to go down the road.

  Afraid the terrible little fuzzy-haired man would see her trying to start the car, she hopped out and hurried back to camp. Suppose he had done something to the car? Silly. That’s silly. She shook her head, tried to push the fear away. With the weekend coming up, someone would come soon, a ranger or campers. She’d ask them for help. Thankfully, she saw no one at the men’s site and talked herself down from the fright. It would be all right, everything would be just fine in the morning.

  She picked at the reheated stew, and finally took it into the woods and dumped it for the critters. She lay in the tent a long time before dropping off to sleep, planning her flight on foot should those men come after her.

  A loud noise awoke her, or maybe it was the sweep of a bright light across the tent. Before realizing she wasn’t home in bed, she’d scrambled across the tent to hug the flap and peer through the zippered screen, temples throbbing with each beat of her heart.

  Dear God, what was going on out there?

  Tires squealed on pavement and shouts chased laughter through the trees. She huddled in the tent, wishing she were back home in her own bed listening to Reudell’s snores in the next room.

  More shouts. Car doors slamming.

  This attack was not coming from the three men, but rather from another source. She imagined the intruders bursting into the tent, dragging her out while her neighbors ignored her cries. Next week or next month someone would run across her body, bare bones gnawed by scavengers. She could see the headlines:

  LOCAL TEACHER KILLED

  WHILE CAMPING ALONE.

  A voice called out, “Jerk-off. Where’s the light?” Feet pounded.

  She scuttled backward, whimpered, and immediately felt disgust at her own fear. Frantically she searched for a weapon, anything to fight them off when they burst into the tent to ravage her. Flashlight? No, too small. A shoe? Don’t be ridiculous. What could a canvas tennis shoe do? She settled for wrapping up in a blanket and praying.

  The slight glow from the lantern she’d hung in a tree and left burning was extinguished. Through the screened door she saw it whirled round and round over someone’s head and turned loose. The glow sailed off like a fading star into the trees.

  A beam of light danced along the canvas dome, illuminating her luggage against one wall. Paralyzed with terror, she burrowed beneath the sleeping bag and coiled into a ball. Maybe they’d look in and think the tent was empty.

  Not a chance of that while she trembled so violently it looked like there was an earthquake underway.

  “Aw, come on, man,” someone whispered harshly just on the opposite side of the canvas.

  She squeezed both hands over her mouth to muffle a cry.

  Feet scuffled through grass, crashed over limbs. Something hit the tent wall and tumbled off, followed by shrieking laughter.

  “Try another, man. You’re fucking cross-eyed.”

  “Oh, yeah, asshole? Well, watch this.”

  Clearly, they all thought they were being quiet. Their words were sprinkled with exaggerated shushes, muffled exclamations, stifled laughter. If she remained quiet and didn’t challenge them, maybe they’d get tired of the game and go on their way.

  “Jesus, man. You scared the shit out of me,” a voice whispered practically on top of her. They must be just the other side of the canvas wall where she cowered.

  Dear Lord, she had to get out, take her chances and make a run for it. She crept across the floor. A flashlight beam knifed through the darkness like a disconnected sword, and through the door she saw four figures making for her table.

  Kids. Nothing but juveniles out having a good time. Furious at being so frightened by mere children, she fought the urge to shout at them as if they were her pupils. Rising from a crouch, she was about to confront them when out of the dark, a deafening blast cracked open the night. The explosion echoed off the surrounding mountains and bounced around in recurrent waves.

  Everyone screamed, including herself, a choir of terror that faded into garbled chatter.

  A voice cut above the babble. One she recognized as Steven’s.

  “You bastards like living, you’d best get gone. The next one’ll blow your friggin’ little heads off.”

  Bedlam erupted. The boys ran in circles, hollering like banshees, while Mary Elizabeth sprang from the tent, shrieking like some mad old witch.

  “Get out of here before he kills you.” She really thought he would, and despite the fright these boys had stirred in her, she certainly didn’t want to see them shot by a crazy savage.

  Spurred on by the gunshot and the added appearance of a wild woman in a white nightshirt, the boys scattered in all directions. Shouting, crashing, stumbling, and cursing. In what seemed only moments, engines revved to life, tires dug at pavement, and the ensuing uproar faded in the distance.

  In the darkness, Mary Elizabeth whirled to face the man with the gun, years of suppressed anger and resentment pouring from her like the eruption of a virgin volcano.

  Chapter Three

  Steven held the .357 down at his side and clicked on his flashlight, captured the woman in its beam. When the light hit her she blinked but continued to shake her raised fists.

  “What did you think you were going to do?” She didn’t exactly scream, but that might’ve been because her voice shook so. “Shoot those young boys?”

  “They were trashing your stuff.”

  “That’s no reason to shoot at them.”

  “I didn’t shoot at them.” Exasperation struck him, and he cleared his throat. “Are you all right?”

  She sucked in a quivery breath, fought for control. “Other than being thoroughly annoyed, yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Oh, man. She could grind rocks with her teeth.

  “Does that mean pissed off?”

  Without missing a beat, she came right back at him. “Precisely. That’s exactly what it means.”

  He smiled. Couldn’t help it. She was so damned prudish and so in control, even when furious. What would it take to break through that?

  A breeze lifted her hair, dropped it over one eye, and she brushed it back but appeared to take no further notice of her appearance. Casually, he played the beam over her body. She might as well have been naked. Her tits pointed right at him through the knit shirt. He didn’t think she was
glad to see him. A stirring in his groin sent shivers all the way to his toes.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he groaned.

  One hand went up to shield her eyes. “You have a foul mouth, unless you’re praying, which I doubt very much. Would you kindly take that light off me?”

  He swung the beam to the ground at his feet. She still didn’t get it, had no inkling how she was affecting him. Probably a damned good thing, too. She might’ve hesitated to go after those boys, but he didn’t think she’d stop short of lobbing him upside the head if she had any notion what images played through his mind at the moment.

  “Yeah, well, if you’re sure you’re all right, I’ll say good night.”

  “That would be a good idea.” Almost back to her tent, she stopped in mid-stride. “Do you think they’ll come back?”

  “Not after I shot this cannon at them.”

  “You actually fired a gun.” Accusation rose in her tone once more.

  Damned if she wasn’t about to light into him again. He beat her to it.

  “Well, hell, yes. What’d you think? And this ain’t no fuckin’ gun, it’s a weapon. Lucky for them little shits I can’t see too good in the dark. I mighta winged one of ’em.”

  “Do you have to talk that way?”

  He had her full attention again, and she had a bone to pick before she went back in that tent.

  “What way? You’re the one who talks weird, not me.”

  “I talk weird?” She laid the palm of one hand over her heart and only then seemed to notice that she had boobs and they were definitely on the point.

  Letting out a startled “Oh,” she hugged herself. “Turn off the light, please.”

  “What?” He’d damn well heard her, but this was the most fun he’d had in a long while.

  “I said, please turn off the light.”

  That pissed-off voice again. With some reluctance, he obeyed.

  “Thank you.”

  Damn, it was dark, except for trickles of light from the restrooms that barely penetrated the thick trees. But he could see her well enough. The white of the nightshirt hovered like a ghostly apparition. He thought he heard something scurrying through the underbrush and held his breath. Must’ve been a coon or skunk. Like a total idiot, he continued to stand there for a while longer, unable to come up with a halfway intelligent remark. She wasn’t going anywhere either, so he sensed this gab session was not at an end. He wasn’t about to call a halt, and he searched for a good reason to hang around her a while longer.